Aranya
Author: Marc Secchia
Date: 2014-06-12 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; dragons; Young Adult; Romance; Paranormal; Shapeshifters; Magic; Epic Fantasy; Adventure; Paranormal Romance
Description: Chained to a rock and tossed off a cliff by her boyfriend, Aranya is executed for high treason against the Sylakian Empire. Falling a league into the deadly Cloudlands is not a fate she ever envisaged. But what if she did not die? What if she could spread her wings and fly? Long ago, Dragons ruled the Island-World above the Cloudlands. But their Human slaves cast off the chains of Dragonish tyranny. Humans spread across the Islands in their flying Dragonships, colonising, building and warring. Now, the all-conquering Sylakians have defeated the last bastion of freedom–the Island-Kingdom of Imm
Publisher: Kindle

Aranya Treasury

The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series Books 1-4

By Marc Secchia

Copyright © 2014 onward Marc Secchia

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

www.marcsecchia.com

Map by Joshua Smolders

Copyright © 2014 onward Marc Secchia & Joshua Smolders
smojos@gmail.com

Dedication

To Angela in memoriam,

Who flew to the heavens far too soon,

Hers was a spirit that soared.

Table of Contents

Aranya Treasury

Dedication

Table of Contents

Map of the Island-World

Book 1: Aranya

Book 2: Shadow Dragon

Book 3: Song of the Storm Dragon

Book 4: Beautiful Fury

Fly Higher!

The Dragon Librarian – Excerpt

About the Author

Appendix

Map of the Island-World

Larger size available at www.marcsecchia.com

Book 1: Aranya

By Marc Secchia

Chained to a rock and tossed off a cliff. What if she did not die? What if she could spread her wings and fly?

Long ago, Dragons ruled the Island-World above the Cloudlands. But their Human slaves cast off the chains of Dragonish tyranny. Humans spread across the Islands in their flying Dragonships, colonising, building and warring. Now, the all-conquering Sylakians have defeated the last bastion of freedom – the Island-Kingdom of Immadia, Aranya's beloved homeland.

One will stand against. One will defy the fates until her last breath. Evil has a new enemy. Aranya, Princess of Immadia. Dragon Shapeshifter.

Chapter 1: Exiled

Aranya observed the impending destruction of her kingdom.

Slow, curiously beautiful, backlit by the splendour of a perfect dawn over the endless cloudscapes hanging above and below her position on the battlements of Immadia castle’s highest tower, the approaching dots promised destruction nonetheless.

Inevitable, overwhelming destruction.

They looked like a line of children’s paper balloons hanging out there in the great void, balloons which the children lit and sent heavenward every Iridith Day, the day of the winter solstice – only these would soon loom much larger. Aranya had lost count over the sixty mark. So many! A full-scale invasion. A force the Kingdom of Immadia could not hope to withstand. Annihilation was assured, unless Aranya, Princess of Immadia, bound herself into exile in the land of the barbarous Sylakians, her one life in exchange for many.

Her quick ears caught a stealthy footstep on the stones behind her. She knew that tread. Her father had come.

“Sparky,” he said, using his favourite nickname for her, yet it rang through her being as a single dolorous note struck upon sorrow’s gong. “You shouldn’t be standing out here in the cold.”

“I don’t feel cold.”

The King’s hands settled a warm ralti-wool cloak upon her shoulders. “You never feel the cold, do you, Aranya? Just like your mother. Now, what’s so important it merits me leaping out of my warm bed to face the dawn?”

Aranya felt his hands hesitate before leaving her shoulders. Her tone softened. “Thank you for coming, Dad. I appreciate it more than you know.”

There was a lingering silence between them that spoke of years of misunderstandings, of clashes and remonstrations, of duty and pain and loss, but most of all, of a love held soul-deep. King Beran’s sigh, as he came to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his tall, sixteen summers-old daughter, spoke of all this and more.

At length, with a fluid gesture, Aranya directed her father’s gaze to the south-eastern horizon, to the line of dots traversing the vast, pockmarked face of the yellow moon called Iridith, just above the roiling, grey-green soup of the deathly Cloudlands. A soft gasp escaped her father’s lips; a tremor shook his frame. Unconsciously, the King shifted closer to her. When she glanced at him, Aranya was startled to see a tear trickling down her father’s bearded cheek.

He never cried.

“The day has come,” she said. Her heart bled for Immadia, but even more so for him. Her fate was trivial compared to what might yet be. “Father, the people will need all of your strength now.”

“I grieve for you, daughter. Do I have your permission – ?”

“You’re asking my will in this?” Aranya tried and failed to keep the surprise out of her voice. “I know my duty, Father. The one life –”

“For the many, aye,” Beran said, his voice taut with emotion, “and an end to a conflict which has bled Immadia dry these past twelve summers. How many Dragonships, Sparky? Eighty? A hundred? Each carries fifty warriors. Thousands of Sylakian warriors. Ever since our ally Rolodia Island fell and many of our Dragonships with her, we knew this day would come. How did you know? Did you … sense it?”

“I woke early.”

“We both know the truth of that.” Suddenly he clasped her close, a hug as unexpected as it was welcome. “Aye, I’m asking, because I regret neglecting you so much of late. I understand the anger burning within you. I beg your forgiveness.”

He’d been wrapped up in his new marriage to Silha, lately Princess of Yaloi Island and now Queen of Immadia, and the twin boys who had soon followed, the new heirs to the realm, which passed through the male succession. Silha was pregnant again. Aranya felt a stab of shame. “And I was jealous, utterly beastly to you all – I love my little brothers, Dad, truly I do. It’s just that I miss Mom so … I’m sorry I made it so hard for you. I won’t make this hard, I promise.”

The King held her at arm’s length now. There was an unshuttered quality in his gaze that struck her with a depth of vulnerability and pride she had never seen in him before. Suddenly, she was afraid of what he was thinking. She realised that her gaze was almost level with his, now. Her father was not a short man. How had she not noticed?

“This used to be your mother’s favourite hideout,” he said. “Izariela loved heights, too. Always the heights. Many mornings, I’d find her up here on this tower I named for her, clad in just a thin shift no matter how bitter the cold. She’d be watching the Cloudlands, writing her poetry. I never understood how she could find toxic clouds so inspirational. She once told me she dreamed of flying out there; flying as wild and free as a Dragon. She loved Dragons, like someone else I know.”

Aranya gave a tiny snort of amusement.

“Sparky was her nickname for you. She said you were born with fire inside of you, even though you’re a Northerner.”

“I’m sorry I burned your tapestry last week, Dad.”

“I know you are. Your mother once burned half my beard off. That took some explaining to the court.” The King sighed deeply. “I never told you, but she was assassinated – poisoned. I’m sorry you were the one to find her.”

“The scaly lizard-skin, the bleeding … I was only little, but it’s burned in my memory.”

“Aye. A poison so uncommon it was never identified, nor did we ever discover the truth of the matter, Aranya. Your mother was murdered. That’s all we know.”

He had never told her. She had always believed the story about a rare sickness; she should have known. Aranya realised what her father was saying. His words marked her as an adult, an equal. She was ready to hear these things. As the armada of dirigible Dragonships waxed against Iridith’s sallow immensity, the moon called Jade peeking from behind it like a shy child clutching its mother’s skirts, and dawn’s light burnished Immadia town’s speckled-granite walls and towers into searing glory, Aranya saw her fate blazoned there too. Portents filled the world.

Today, everything would change. Whether for good or for ill, no-one could know. But ill would come first.

“You miss her, too.”

“Aye,” he said again, very softly. “You nearly killed yourself trying to heal her. That was the first time I realised you had powers, Sparky.”

She said, bitterly, “Your daughter’s sorry she’s an enchant –”

“Nonsense.” The King seemed surprised he had shaken her so hard. But he rushed on, “This Island-World might be hostile to magic, Aranya, but let’s not you or I ever deny your gifts. Even the fire is a gift.”

Was it? Aranya was not so certain.

Beran said, “If you need permission, and if it is mine to give – I grant you that permission now. Be who you are, daughter. Find your destiny; grasp it with both hands. Denial can only lead to pain.”

“But all an enchantress will earn out there, is death.”

“Unless she finds a better, nobler path,” he counselled, wisely. “And if you crisp a few Sylakian beards in the doing, will I not rejoice?”

Aranya laughed.

“Come. I’ve a thousand orders to issue before those dirigibles arrive. We’ll seal your paintings in the secret caverns, together with the great treasures of Immadia Island.”

“My paintings are hardly a great treasure, Dad.”

“I’m the King; I get to decide.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I don’t say it enough, Sparky, but I’m so proud of you, I’m surprised my heart doesn’t puff up and fly off over the Cloudlands of its own accord.”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

“I’m your father; I get to decide.” Putting his arm around her shoulders, the King led her back to the narrow staircase which led down into the castle. “You’re the fair image of your mother, Aranya. You take after her in beauty – definitely not your father.”

“But if I could summon half of your courage, Dad …”

“I’ll have to take down the Immadian flag,” said the King, glancing at the twenty-foot flagpole gracing the southern edge of Izariela’s Tower. “Sylakian red will fly there, tomorrow. Blood red.”

As one, they looked back at the suns-rise, as the crowns of the twin suns made their dazzling appearance almost simultaneously over the eastern Cloudlands. The Dragonships were visibly larger, taking form and shape as they beat against the prevailing wind toward the Island of Immadia, one of the most northerly Islands in the Island-World. In the courtyard far below, a soldier began to strike the warning gong with ferocious blows.

Dong! Dong! Dong!

Again and again, he pounded the great brass gong, waking the people of Immadia to their new future.

The King said, “This is a terrible day for our people, Aranya. But all I can think is that nothing will ever fill the hole your loss will tear in my heart.”

* * * *

Toward noon of the same day, fifty-strong Hammers of Sylakian warriors began to file into the castle’s courtyard with a heavy tread. Rank after rank of red-robed, helmeted warriors, armed with the two-handed Sylakian war hammers they favoured, marched in with a show of discipline that was as rigid as it was chilling. In her mind’s eye, Aranya had pictured smoke and looting and smirking warriors hauling Immadian women into dark doorways; children screaming and hammers rising and falling as they dealt death, death, death.

There was none of that.

The great dirigibles, called Dragonships, shaded the castle with their oblong shadows. One hundred and fifty feet long, the huge, multi-segmented hydrogen sacks, surrounded by netting, supported a pod beneath for cargo or warriors – up to fifty men in ships as large as these. A Hammer per ship – that was the rule. Gantries ran the length of the starboard and port sides of the cabin. The fore and aft gantries usually held one or more war crossbows, huge weapons capable of shooting a six-foot quarrel accurately over distances of two hundred feet and more. The head of a screaming windroc, the symbol of Sylakia, was stitched upon their bulging sides, and adorned the breastplate of every Sylakian warrior. Archers bristled on the gantries overhead. The massive war crossbows were fully drawn, ready to rain burning missiles on the city at the slightest hint of resistance.

Aranya stood at her father’s right hand, a step to the rear, beside the huge green flag of surrender stretched out in the courtyard, where it could not be missed from the air. Darron, Commander of the Castle and the most senior ranking officer of the Immadian forces, stood to her father’s left. His grey eyes missed nothing. Aranya had known the grizzled Commander since she could remember. He glanced at her now and nodded, seeming to say, ‘Strength, Princess.’ She nodded back.

Green flags fluttered above the battlements. The Sylakians would respect those flags. Surrender meant life. Rolodia Island had chosen to fight. The Sylakian squads had butchered every last man, woman and child. They slaughtered the cattle and herds, and poisoned the terraced lakes. Then they burned everything. Nothing remained of Rolodia but ashes on the wind.

Everyone in the Island-World knew how the Sylakians had conquered the Islands above the Cloudlands. Only Herimor, a huge cluster of Island-Kingdoms south of the emptiness called the Rift, held out. No-one dared to invade Herimor. Spits of rock frequented by men said to fly the untameable windrocs, mad enchanters, dozens of active volcanoes, and Islands that changed position with the moons – far more fable than fact surrounded Herimor. There were other Islands above the Cloudlands, she reminded herself, others north even of Immadia, and far toward the eastern suns-rise, which were too small and poor to attract conquest. After all, the meriatite rock they burned to produce hydrogen to float the Dragonships was rare and expensive. Invasion was a costly business.

Meriatite was why the Sylakians were here.

The warriors marched into position until they surrounded the square on all four sides. Suddenly, they crashed to one knee. They beat the hafts of their war hammers against the flagstones, a brisk cadence forming a single great drumbeat. The clear, sweet trump of Sylakian war horns rang through the din. The crescendo rolled thunderously around the square.

Suddenly, silence descended like a shout.

“Ignathion, First War-Hammer of Sylakia!” bellowed one of the warriors.

“IGNATHION!” A thousand mailed fists struck armoured breastplates.

A bear of a man strode into the square. Well over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, the deliberate tramp of his boots seemed to shake the ground – although Aranya knew that was impossible. He looked about, briefly, dark of skin and darker of eye, before marching right up to the green flag. He frowned at the King of Immadia.

With a rustling of feet and garments the King of Immadia, his Queen, Princess Aranya and every non-Sylakian person present prostrated themselves, arms outflung, in the posture of abject surrender. The silence became as thick as blood.

The man said, “I am Ignathion, First War-Hammer of Sylakia, conqueror of a thousand Islands.” He hardly needed to raise his voice to fill the courtyard. “I see that Immadia has chosen the path of wisdom this day. In the name of the Supreme Commander of Sylakia, I accept the surrender of Immadia Island.”

Aranya felt the War-Hammer’s gaze as a crushing weight. She dared not breathe.

“Let it be known that your treacherous alliance with Rolodia Island will not be forgotten, nor forgiven,” Ignathion growled. “For that you will pay dearly, I assure you. Arise, King Beran. Your service to Sylakia has begun.”

Her father rose. Aranya stood, too.

“Who do you offer of your household, King Beran?”

Beran cleared his throat. “In accordance with the customs of war, I offer my daughter, the Princess Aranya of Immadia, to be your hostage, First War-Hammer.”

Only she knew what that cost her father.

As she stepped forward, Ignathion looked her over with a curl of his lip, as though she were nothing more than chattels amongst the loot of his conquest. Aranya masked her anxiety and vexation. She knew he would see a tall, slender young woman, garbed in a flowing violet dress of Helyon silk, the colour of the Immadian royal household, with her braided hair wrestled into a hairnet beneath the obligatory, face-framing headscarf that hid every last strand from public view. Her dress was proper, typical of all women of the Islands, but perhaps finer than most, for the public show of a woman’s hair was seen as unseemly. He could find no fault in her appearance, that much was certain.

But her hair was another matter she had not mentioned to her father, along with the fact that her powers were growing – growing to the point of being uncontrollable. Aranya withheld a grimace. Crazy hair; crazy powers. The Sylakians had no idea what kind of hostage she might prove to be.

It was scant comfort.

“A pretty trophy for my trophy room,” boomed Ignathion. “Take her away. Chain her in my Dragonship.”

Fury speared into Aranya at his choice of words. A trophy? Another animal’s head to stuff and mount on his wall? Fire crackled across her vision. As always, her anger made heat ignite within her body, a fiery windstorm that she must at all costs restrain … Aranya glanced to the skies as she shuddered, fighting to damp her rage.

She saw a dozen dirigibles anchored above the city. Many more, well over a hundred Dragonships, bobbed outside the walls. Most had been emptied of their cargo of warriors, who had taken strategic positions in and around the city. But one Dragonship caught her attention. It flew the banner of the Crimson Hammers, Sylakia’s famously brutal first regiment; legendary warriors who were said to drink the blood of their victims in battle. Quicker than thought, a curl of fire slipped beyond her control.

BRAAAAOOOOMM!

The Dragonship detonated in a ball of fire.

Burning cloth and bits of rope and wood rained down on the city. Echo upon echo rolled back from the frozen mountains flanking Immadia’s capital city to the north and west.

Aranya staggered. It was all she could do to remain standing. Just as when she had attempted to heal her dead mother, using the power drained her of strength. From the corner of her eye she noticed how the King glanced at her. He knew. She raised her definite chin and kept her gaze to the fore.

Ignathion’s eyes narrowed as he tilted his head to survey the wreckage. He could not have seen the fire rocket upward, Aranya told herself. It had been invisible. She wanted to vomit. So many men, dead …

“Huh,” snorted Ignathion. “Some pipe-smoking fool got too near the hydrogen.” His flint-grey gaze returned to Aranya. “Take the hostage away. Beran, let’s go broach the best of your beer kegs while we sign the terms of your surrender. I will depart for Sylakia before suns-set. The Supreme Commander of the Island-World will want to know of his latest triumph.” His massive chest swelled as his fist crashed against his breastplate. “All glory to Sylakia!”

“GLORY TO SYLAKIA!” roared his soldiers.

* * * *

Aside from the manacles sheathing her wrists and ankles, the Sylakians treated Aranya courteously. The War-Hammer’s Dragonship was brought low enough for her to board without need to climb a rope ladder. Neither the straight blade at her left hip, nor her Immadian forked daggers were taken from her immediately – perhaps this was the Sylakian honour-code she had learned about? More likely, they thought a woman little use with a blade against the brace of burly Sylakian Crimson Hammers who guarded her with the alert ease of veteran warriors. Aranya scowled. Even unchained, she would not have fought them. She had given her word.

Besides, she had the almighty mother of all headaches.

She perched on the chair provided for her in a tiny, bare cabin, and waited. Shortly, a servitor appeared to offer her refreshment. Aranya chose a prekki-fruit juice. The juice would hopefully sate her raging hunger, and its tart sweetness would clear her head. She gazed out of the single porthole above the bunk and watched the suns migrate westward. Aranya willed herself not to show any outward sign of weakness. She desperately wanted to cry.

Much later, an elderly Immadian maidservant called Beri appeared to inform her that she had been assigned to see to Aranya’s comfort during the fifteen-day journey to Sylakia Island. Aranya knew Beri mostly by her reputation of unshakeable honesty and integrity. She brought aboard several trunks of clothing, and a leather carrying-case containing Aranya’s precious brushes, pencils and painting tools.

“Couldn’t bring your paints, Princess,” Beri apologised.

“I could kiss you, Beri.”

“Most improper,” huffed the servant, but a pinch of rose entered her wrinkled cheeks.

As the twin suns lowered in the sky, glorious and golden, and Aranya yearned to scream just to break the boredom, commands suddenly began to be barked outside of the Dragonship. Moments later, she heard a man declare that the First War-Hammer was aboard.

“Cast off,” came the shout. “Up anchor. Start the turbines.”

At once, the door of the small metal furnace squeaked open. Aranya knew the process. She had flown numerous times by Dragonship. When she was younger, she had pestered her father to explain everything to her. The stoker would throw chunks of crushed meriatite into the furnace, neither too much nor too quickly. The rock then melted and ran off into a secondary chamber, dumping the red-hot element into an acid bath. This reaction produced the hydrogen which was essential to fuelling a Dragonship, used both for flotation in the air and for propelling the great turbines which drove the dirigible forward. If meriatite was in short supply, which was often, ten warriors at a time could be assigned to manually drive the turbines, usually by pedalling a contraption fondly called the back-breaker, housed in the warriors’ common area.

A loud knock made Aranya jerk against her chains. A warrior entered and bowed curtly. He said, “War-Hammer’s orders, Princess of Immadia. You may observe the departure from the aft gantry.”

“I am … grateful.”

Her guards directed her astern. Opening a small, lightweight door, they squeezed out onto the aft gantry, a little behind and below the six turbines which drove the Dragonship. Aranya noticed they took a firm grip of her manacled wrists. Her wry smile was met with firm headshakes. No jumping allowed.

The ground receded in that silence which had always surprised her about Dragonships. No, there were tiny noises – the groan of the hydrogen-sack bulging against its containing netting, the creak of stays taking up the strain, the puffing of the furnace and a squeal of protest as the stabilising wings, which gave the dirigibles their fanciful name, extended. The wings were adjusted to catch the breeze more than to stabilise the Dragonship. How ironic, Aranya thought, that in a Sylakian culture which apparently hated and despised Dragons so greatly that their mere mention was tantamount to courting death, that the main means of transport between the Islands should be called Dragonships.

Steadily, Immadia Island revealed itself to her. Grey slate-tiled roofs huddled four-square around the traditional central courtyard of its houses. The bright awnings of the marketplace beckoned her notice, and then the handsome towers and turrets of the castle which had always been her home. Her eyes traced the crenellated battlements and mobile catapult emplacements with a defiant, possessive hunger. She would return. This was not forever-farewell.

Aranya caught sight of King Beran and Queen Silha, each holding one of her twin infant brothers, standing atop Izariela’s Tower. Symbolic. Her heart lurched in her chest as they raised their arms, palms upturned to the sky, in a gesture of sending-in-love. She would have replied, but could not raise her chained arms.

A mistiness fogged her vision. Aranya blinked until it receded.

The Dragonship rose more quickly now, gaining purchase on the breeze, the land unfurling beneath her as her family shrank into dots on a faraway castle. The snow-crowned mountains flanking the city formed a spectacular, gleaming rampart to a land tan in the cold season, broken by the white dots of the giant ralti sheep searching for a nibble of anaemic brown grass, before the brief spring rains brought green to every field and rocky crevice. At the edge of the Island were the ubiquitous terraced lakes, buttressed by great seamless stone walls built by the ancients to capture the inadequate rainfall of these harsh lands. Immadia had three levels of terrace lakes. Other Islands had many more.

Below the terrace lakes, washing up against the sheer cliffs half a league tall – but perhaps far taller, for no-one knew how deep the Cloudlands truly extended – were the ever-present, never-ending cloudscapes of noxious gases that stretched to the horizon and beyond, white and grey and turquoise in places, an ever-changing tapestry which hid what many Islanders believed to be a land of demons and monsters, or a bottomless pit of hell. Oh, there were stories about the monsters that crawled up out of the Cloudlands, many stories, but the truth was that no-one knew, for nothing and no-one could survive the poisons in that atmosphere.

The Dragonship’s bow pointed almost directly eastward, bound for the Island cluster of Gemalka, famed for its garnet and diamond mines, and for the delectable rainbow trout found in its terrace lakes. They traversed the shadow of Immadia Island, grown many leagues long at this hour of the evening.

But Aranya kept her gaze fixed on Immadia Island until her home was just a speck on the horizon; until the Cloudlands swallowed the setting suns and her guards, shivering, bade her to return to the cabin’s warmth.

Aranya’s body was not cold. But her heart was ice.

Chapter 2: The Windroc

At the precise strike of the last hour of the afternoon, measured by the hourglass on the wall, on the eve of their third day out of Immadia, the Sylakian servitor delivered the First War-Hammer’s third invitation to dinner with his customary ramrod-formal efficiency. Beri, answering the door for the third time, replied that the Princess politely declined due to ill health.

The man, unable to resist a smirk, added, “The War-Hammer wishes to convey to the daughter of the honoured King Beran that he commands her attendance by the hour of suns-set.”

Beri nodded. “The Princess will attend.”

The servitor withdrew with the slightest of bows.

Aranya flung her wooden goblet against the wall of her tiny cabin, wishing it were made of fine crystal rather than exquisitely carved wood. It bounced straight back at her and cannoned off her cheek.

She touched her bruised cheekbone. “Ouch! He commands? Filthy Sylakian barbarian, threatening me – and how dare you accept –”

“Huh,” Beri sniffed. “I changed your wet-cloths when you were a child, girl. Don’t you cheek me. He’ll drag you up there with or without your precious dignity. Thrice refused? An insult. He’s a proud man; as proud as your stubborn stick of a father. You were sick the first evening, granted. And abed yesterday morning. But just now? That was pure spite and beneath the woman you are. Don’t make me do that again.”

Aranya threw aside the fine-spun ralti-wool bedcovers and surged to her feet. But her anger only made pain flower behind her temples. She sat back with a groan.

“Princess? Aranya?”

“Beri – oh, ralti droppings, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Aye, I’m right.” But Beri tempered her growl with a smile that wrinkled her cheeks all the way up to her eyes. “He willingly exchanged your weapons for an easing of your chains. That’s not the conduct of a Sylakian brute.”

Aranya eyed her elderly maidservant, feeling six rather than sixteen, vexed at being put in her place. Beri had ever been one to speak her mind, but her wisdom was said to be as wide as the Cloudlands and sharper than an Immadian forked dagger. She had served four generations of the Immadian royal family. Her father had chosen well. Would they allow her to keep Beri in Sylakia, in her exile? How much did Beri know about her?

“Beri, how should I conduct myself with this man Ignathion? What would you advise?”

“That you wear something more appropriate than a sleeping-shift,” she replied tartly. “Hurry up and change, girl.”

Hurriedly sponged down with a cloth dipped in a basin of cool water, changed, perfumed and attired in her Helyon silk dress, Aranya inspected her appearance in the tiny mirror Beri had smuggled in with her effects. The matching violet headscarf accentuated the amethyst depths of her eyes – anxious eyes, she thought, wishing she appeared more confident and in control of her circumstances, not bullied about by … now there was a fair-day joke worthy of any jester. Confident? In control of what, exactly? This wind that buffeted her as though her life were chaff blown off at the tossing of the harvest, the unwanted husks of a realm that did not need a Princess in the succession?

Hostage-taking was a ridiculous formality.

She touched her new bruise. Hollow cheekbones, Beri had just been complaining. She had eaten little since leaving Immadia’s shores. The prospect of dinner made her stomach growl like a starving mountain lynx. The Sylakians apparently kept cats far larger than the Immadian lynx, cats called rajals …

“Hustle now.” Beri spun her toward the door, breaking the drift of her thoughts. “Enough primping – not that you ever primp. Don’t keep Ignathion waiting.”

Her dour-as-mud captors fell in with her, one before and one behind, to conduct the Princess of Immadia to the Dragonship’s beautifully-appointed forward cabin – the navigation room. The door stood ajar. Through it she saw the First War-Hammer of Sylakia, conqueror of her homeland, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring with a brooding mien out of the floor-to-ceiling crysglass windows over an Island she realised belatedly must be Gemalka. His stature was so imposing, his short-cropped hair nearly brushed the ceiling.

Aranya’s throat bobbed. Straightening her back, she crept in, soft-footed on the thick pile rug. As he did not turn immediately, she stole several glances about Ignathion’s quarters. Her gaze took in the navigational charts and instruments, the ruler-neat stacks of logbooks and almanacs so necessary to navigating correctly and reading the air-currents and weather, the moon-charts detailing every aspect of the complex interactions of the five moons, and a further library of hand-bound books on the shelf opposite. She realised that if all this belonged to him, Ignathion must be a well-educated and intelligent man. A well-educated brute. Her eyes tripped over to the table, set for two, appreciating the artistic perfection of a spray of white wildflowers gracing each setting. White for friendship, she noted. How unexpected. Plates of the finest, most delicate porcelain, fluted glasses of workmanship her father’s table would have been proud of – the artist in her perceived the tiniest details.

The warriors withdrew. To her further surprise, Aranya heard their footsteps recede down the narrow corridor which led aft. Not protecting their commander? Or did he need no protection from the likes of her?

“Aranya, Princess of Immadia,” he rumbled, turning. His movements were lithe for a huge man, but circumscribed as though he were constantly aware of his great size.

Aranya’s right hand extended automatically. Placing his left palm beneath her proffered hand, Ignathion raised it aloft, blew once upon her fingers to signify no ill intent on his part, made a circle of peace with his right forefinger twice before his grave, bearded face, and then he kissed the precise centre of her palm, between her life-lines, thrice.

Above his scarred cheekbones, mutilated in the manner of Sylakia’s warrior elite with the hard-earned symbol of the windroc, Ignathion’s eyes were as grey as a storm brewing over the Cloudlands.

He said, “It accords me great pleasure to finally make acquaintance with the daughter of my most honoured and greatest opponent, King Beran.”

Arching her eyebrows ever so slightly, Aranya replied, “First War-Hammer, I am honoured by your invitation even in this time of grief and loss for the Kingdom of Immadia.”

“Even so,” he said. With perfect courtesy, he seated her himself. “Call me Ignathion, please.”

“And for me, Aranya will suffice.”

Aranya had been trained in the minutiae of courtesies and courtly behaviour common to the Island-World, and spent time in several other Courts and Governing Houses, so she read the signals easily – and was thus disconcerted. Why treat her as an equal? Why show such honour and respect to one younger than him in years; moreover, to his captive, soon to be mouldering in the infamous Tower of Sylakia, the comfortable prison palace where Sylakia incarcerated its political hostages? A fair number of hostages, she understood, given their rash of recent successful conquests. Why was King Beran his ‘most honoured’ opponent? Surely, Immadia Island was as the miserable dust crushed beneath his conquering boots? Although, she smiled to herself, King Beran had led Ignathion a merry chase for twelve summers and caused untold vexation to the Sylakian Supreme Commander, Thoralian.

Ha! Her Dad might be honourable, but he was also wily. So was his daughter.

So she schooled her features, and fenced and probed and circled Ignathion’s polite questions throughout the first five courses of a superb dinner, which she partook of heartily, until he laid down his eating-tine and cutter, smiled broadly at her across the table, and said, “You, Aranya, remind me most forcibly of a woman I once courted. In those days I was but a lowly Third War-Hammer, commanding a scant three Dragonships and a Hammer of two hundred warriors. This young beauty was the toast of a faraway Island realm, courted by kings and princes and the nobles of a rising power called Sylakia, which comprised but six Islands at the time. She would have enjoyed the rainbow trout, as you. Another helping?”

Aranya, startled to find her plate empty, accepted with a nod. Ignathion served her deftly. Leaning back in his seat with that infuriating, even smug, smile creasing his features, he added, “This beauty hailed from Fra’anior. Perhaps you knew her?”

Aranya’s tine slipped and she shot a chunk of the buttered, herb-encrusted fish onto the pristine tablecloth.

“We had become close,” he said, rescuing the fugitive piece of fish and setting it aside, “when a wily cliff fox filched the incomparable Izariela of Fra’anior from beneath all of our noses and whisked her off to his Northern stronghold. It was an enormous scandal; perhaps the only disreputable act Beran has ever perpetrated – a daring kidnapping from within a guarded fortress, an open invitation to war with Fra’anior and a lunatic getaway evading the Dragonships of twenty Islands – all for a love which burned brighter than a Dragonship’s furnace. Aranya, your father is a rogue and a pirate.”

For the first time in four days, a genuine smile curved her lips.

Ignathion aimed his tine across the table at her. “There. That’s the smile I remember. But it pains me to see King Beran brought to heel, Aranya. Twelve years! No other Island lasted even two summers campaigning against me, but – he’s an old cliff fox, that man. A slippery trout with the highest integrity and the battle instincts of a Dragon. He was only brought down because Rolodia betrayed him – you didn’t know?”

Aranya shook her head. Her thoughts were still reeling at hearing her father being compared to a trout, a cliff fox and a Dragon in the same breath. Betrayed? By his oldest friend, the King of Rolodia Island? How that must have crushed him.

“I was deeply troubled to learn of your mother’s death, Aranya.”

“She was poisoned.”

“I know. I make it my business to understand my foes. I know how beards come to be singed. Tapestries, too.”

This time, Aranya had to lay her wrist on the table to quell her hand’s shaking. Burn him beneath the Cloudlands, was there nothing this beast did not know about her? She felt sick. He knew! He knew something, or suspected it at the very least. Why was he toying with her – threatening? Bribing? Turning her into a hare trapped by the neck in his hunter’s snare, gaining her life in the bargain? Why? What could he possibly want of his captive? She dropped her gaze, hoping that her sudden terror had not shown too starkly.

Ignathion stirred restlessly as the servitor appeared with the dishes for the sixth course, a mildly curried breast of fowl served on a bed of saffron rice. The aroma of curry made her mouth water.

When the servant had departed, Ignathion served her once more and refilled her crystal goblet with thick, purple prekki-juice.

The silence between them stretched unbearably thin.

Desperate to throw Ignathion off the scent, Aranya said, “Do you know why my mother was murdered, First War-Hammer? Was it a Sylakian plot?”

“No,” he snarled. “Don’t you dare accuse me –” Ignathion pulled up with an effort. His white-knuckled grip on his tine relaxed. “Very well, I earned that rebuke. Aranya, your mother was a rare woman. Poison is the hallmark of Herimor – and a few other Islands I could name, admittedly. What I meant to convey is … by the Sign of Sylakia, this is hard to say. I spoke harshly to Beran in public so that all Sylakians would know that I treated even an old Prince-Apprentice friend no differently than any other of my foes.”

Aranya narrowed her eyes. So, her father and Ignathion had once been Apprenticed to a foreign Court together? So many strands interwoven; so many lives. What game was Ignathion playing? What was he telling her, the threads half-hidden beneath their conversation? Was he implying that even though he had made such a spectacle of Beran, he felt differently in his heart?

“Some Sylakians mistrust foreign Princesses, Aranya, and would see them sink into oblivion. Sylakians are a superstitious people. They mistrust foreigners, particularly those with unusual eyes.”

Eyes? That tiny stress meant abilities, didn’t it? If this was meant as an offer of truce, or even a secret friendship for her parents’ sake, she dared not refuse – did she? Because he had articulated the alternative with perfect clarity. Exposure. A denouncement. A few well-placed words would cause one suspected enchantress’ head to permanently part ways with her shoulders.

After wetting her parched throat, Aranya offered, “Trust is always a thorny issue, Ignathion. But I do approve of the flowers you chose for the table.”

Ignathion raised his goblet. “Indeed. Your likeness to your mother is truly amazing, Aranya. Let us salute Izariela of Fra’anior’s memory … together.”

Thus she took a perilous step into her future, Aranya reflected. She sipped her juice. The First War-Hammer would want something of her. He was not a frivolous man. Ignathion was a master of long-term strategy, her father had warned her. Did he truly hold her parents in high regard? Why did he hint at the difference between friendship and duty? A thought struck her: he already had the traditional two consorts. Sylakian custom allowed no more, so he should not be seeking her person. Might it be for one of his sons that he prepared this subtle snare about an exiled Princess? Her pulse leaped fitfully in her throat as Aranya considered the hegemony of this man over her life. But his sense of duty must surely direct him to deliver her safe to Sylakia. Therefore, why the veiled warnings? Were there other, subtler dangers skulking in Sylakia? Dangers particular to one with unusual eyes?

She had much to ponder.

Aranya smiled at him over the rim of her goblet, trying to ignore how masterfully he had played his courtly game. “Ignathion, when the First War-Hammer of Sylakia has conquered the whole world above the Cloudlands, where next does he cast his noble eye? Past the Rift?”

“North of the Rift is but one quarter of the known world,” he said.

“New territories; new conquests?”

“Sometimes I wish for an end to all war. A bite more of the fowl?” A glimpse within the man, ever so swiftly cut off again. And a non-answer to Sylakia’s plans. Shrewd. “Permit me to share with you my memories of that Cloudlands pirate who presumes to call himself a king.”

Aranya quirked an eyebrow at him. “Surprise me.”

* * * *

Overnight, the eighty remaining Dragonships of the Sylakian flotilla rode out a menacing storm, anchored by sturdy hawsers as close to the ground as was safe. Lightning was always a danger to dirigibles. But with very few metal parts exposed to the atmosphere, the main peril was usually wind. Wind-shear could tumble a hapless vessel deep into the Cloudlands, killing all on board within a few breaths. Rabid windrocs, too, were a nuisance, tearing holes in a Dragonship’s sack to release precious hydrogen. If a Dragonship was caught too far from safe harbour, or ran low on meriatite, a quick death was assured.

Aranya slept poorly, chained to her bed beneath the unsleeping gaze of two warriors. Evidently, Ignathion’s trust did not extend far when they bobbed fifteen feet or so above Gemalka’s sturdy massif. She dreamed of finding her mother; of a dead Izariela sitting up, bloodied of skin, staring accusingly at her daughter. Come morning, Beri accepted the key and unlocked her charge.

Not even an hour later, as she breakfasted upon fresh fruits and a Gemalkan sourdough roll, Aranya felt the Dragonship lurch into motion. Off on the long southward run to Sylakia, she thought, past many small Islands and large, all Sylakian territory. Leaning her nose against the porthole’s crysglass, Aranya noted several groups of dirigibles peeling away to the east and southeast. So the Sylakians were redistributing their forces? She glanced to the signal flags on their tall poles in the field receding below. Evidently, Ignathion intended to make the most of a brisk following breeze and the fifteen hours of daylight.

Exile beckoned.

Where had his other thirty-five Dragonships disappeared to? She pondered this as she dressed herself. Had they stayed behind on Immadia Island to ensure King Beran’s obedience? Or moved on to the far western Isles, a five-day crossing in the best weather?

When she exited her cabin, the Sylakian warriors met her with manacles for her wrists and ankles. If she were a Dragon, she would gladly have bitten their heads off. She smiled at them as she imagined a Dragon might smile.

The days of travel quickly fell into a pattern. Aranya whiled away most of her time in the navigation cabin, which she had mistaken for Ignathion’s quarters. She read through his entire collection of books while the War-Hammer busied himself with the thousand scrolls of command. She had thought it just a saying; now she saw the truth. Reading message scrolls and penning responses occupied many hours of his time. The War-Hammer sometimes vanished elsewhere on the Dragonship to confer with his Second- and Third-Hammers, making no apology for what was not meant for her ears. Equally, Aranya restrained herself from any impulse to snoop or pry. She suspected Ignathion would know or find out. He was remarkably perceptive to begin with. Though she saw her beloved forked daggers set aside on his shelf, she refrained from touching them.

When Aranya asked her twentieth question about navigation, the War-Hammer displayed the first sign of irritation he had shown toward her. “You chatter like a parakeet,” he muttered, signing his name to a scroll with a fierce flourish. “Steersman! Fetch the steersman!”

When the man arrived, Ignathion ordered him to instruct the Princess for as long as she desired.

Ignathion dined with her every second evening. He treated her with unflagging courtesy. While Aranya waited patiently for his intentions to become clear, they never did. Instead, he complimented her on the questions she had asked the steersman.

“Beran’s daughter through and through,” he opined, appearing oddly pleased.

The fleet stopped often to exchange message scrolls with Sylakian garrisons and to take on small quantities of supplies; first at Helyon, the long, low island famed for its silks, at Ferial, merely a cluster of spires jutting out of the Cloudlands, producer of the best ropes and natural fibres, and later at Yorbik, the largest Island of all, measuring thirty-one leagues from north to south, and a jaw-dropping one hundred and nine leagues in breadth. Aranya marvelled at the scale of its terrace lakes and the extent of its hardwood forests, the main source of Yorbik’s exports. Immadia was all sheer cliffs, but Yorbik’s gentle slopes merged deceptively into the Cloudlands’ eternal mists. The lower slopes were entirely devoid of greenery, as though an acid wash had stripped away any trace of plant life.

Beyond Yorbik lay a gentle sprinkling of Island kingdoms, collectively named the Twenty-Seven Sisters, each lusher than the last. Flying vervet monkeys festooned the liana-traced sandstone cliffs in enormous numbers, feasting on the myriad rodents and insects which loved the rich hanging ferns and flower-dense foliage. Aranya had never seen a place as verdant as this. She spent ages gazing out of the crysglass forward window. From the air she spied giant ralti sheep of a size she could barely credit – shaggy ambulatory huts, these were.

Would she ever see anything like this again?

But all too soon the scenery changed again, as though a knife had sliced a jagged portion away from the soft greenery. The morning following their departure from the last of the Sisters, called Si’oon, their Dragonships moved into a forest of dark, ragged stone spires, locally called the Spits. The First War-Hammer ordered archers to be set on the gantries and above and around the dirigibles to guard against windrocs. The flotilla, now reduced to twenty-five Dragonships as smaller groups had steadily peeled away on their mysterious business, had to proceed slowly through the maze, for the towering Spits clustered together like the serrated edges of wicked Sylakian daggers, reaching heights dangerous for Dragonships due to the swirling, unpredictable air currents above.

It should be four days’ travel through the Spits to Sylakia, Aranya told herself, watching a rock face roll by. How she’d love to paint this desolate place. What black-toothed spires these were, making her imagine the upturned fangs of a vast, ancient Dragon! Four days. Ignathion would deliver her to the infamous Tower. The inescapable Tower; the graveyard of Sylakia, she’d heard it called. It doubled as a place to execute Sylakia’s convicts. They were forced to leap off a jutting battlement called the Last Walk, falling to their deaths somewhere in the Cloudlands a league below. Four days.

She had never been further from home. Already, she sensed the chains of exile binding her spirit, the hopelessness and despair that gnawed and the deep resignation that dulled her senses. Aranya resolved to fight. She would make of this what she could, or die trying.

“Windroc!” shouted the watch. Aranya jumped.

A massive bird rose before the War-Hammer’s Dragonship.

Men bellowed. Boots pounded the gantries. Doors slammed; Aranya’s ear caught the groan of overstressed wood as the war crossbows were wound up to a fighting tension.

The bird opened its cruel, hooked beak to scream at the Dragonship. Aranya’s heart stopped in her throat. Magnificent! She willed herself to take up the business of breathing again. Fully fifteen feet from wingtip to wingtip, with creamy plumage in the belly area rising to a dark brown in the flight primaries, the windroc screamed its defiance at a pitch that made the crysglass before her sing in response.

Rising from his desk, the War-Hammer turned to watch from the window, too. “That’s a young one,” he noted. “He won’t bother us.”

She barely heard him.

To their right, a Dragonship came under attack from three windrocs. Their huge talons flashed in the sunlight, driving in at the archers as a spray of arrows rose from the beleaguered ship. The windrocs would circle above, out of range, before suddenly furling their wings and plummeting in toward the Dragonship at breathtaking speeds. The hydrogen sack bulged and rippled as a bird struck hard, slashing with its claws. A windroc nosedived past their window, speared through the heart by a javelin. Aranya saw an unfortunate archer, unseated from his position, tumbling through the sky – but before he fell far, windrocs converged upon him and tore the man limb from limb.

“This won’t last,” Ignathion grunted, apparently unmoved by the soldier’s ghastly fate. “This isn’t the season. A taste of our arrows should soon scare them off.”

Even as he spoke, Aranya saw the windrocs break off the attack on the other vessel. Other birds circled about ahead, but they appeared more cautious. Their own vessel jolted. Faint cries sounded from above. The crossbows twanged viciously.

Ignathion glanced at the ceiling. “A hit upon us. Look, there he goes. Quarrel through the eye. That’s sharp shooting.”

Aranya’s gaze followed the stricken windroc as it slewed away from their Dragonship. Its own fellows shadowed the bird with menacing intent.

“Man overboard! Get him up! Get him up!”

A man dangled from a safety rope right in front of their position, not ten feet ahead of the crysglass windows, right beneath the Dragonship’s nose.

“Ignathion, will they get him –”

“Watch out!”

The impact of the hard point of Ignathion’s shoulder cut off Aranya’s cry as he rammed her away from the window. She tripped over her manacles and went sprawling into an explosion of crysglass. Suddenly, there was a howl of wind. Shards tinkled around her; a flapping, shrieking, monstrous presence filled the cabin, scrabbling against the walls and smashing her down with the hard leading edge of its wing, rending the War-Hammer’s back with its talons, striking at his head with its beak, a windroc!

Ignathion bellowed in pain. “Get out,” he shouted at Aranya.

He drew his dagger and slashed blindly. Aranya cowered beside the door for a moment, shaking her head, before she realised that the bird, starting to fight its way free of the smashed window, intended to drag the War-Hammer along with it. Something within her snapped. A red haze descended upon her vision.

Before she knew what she was doing, she stooped in and grabbed his boot. “Oh no, you don’t.”

The bird hacked at Ignathion’s head, aiming for the eyes. The windroc was stuck against the bent struts of the crysglass window, shrieking its rage from a wickedly-hooked beak. Ignathion had both arms up, trying to protect his face. Aranya instinctively felt at her waist for her daggers. Nothing. She remembered. She fought across the cabin to the wall, howling at her encumbering chains. The shelf was empty. The floor! Aranya slapped her hand down on the daggers. Ignathion reversed his blade, trying to stab backward into the windroc’s body while it rattled him against the floor with its talons. The wings beat up a storm of message scrolls as the bird struggled to escape with its prey.

Aranya raised her weapons. Time to make the beast pay. The fire seared through her, incandescent, a just anger, burning in her and through her in a wave that consumed all rational thought.

She jerked across the short space separating her from the combatants, collected a blow in the teeth, and fell upon the windroc from behind, stabbing two-handed with demented passion, blow after blow, as deep as she could drive the slender blades into its body. Aranya gasped as the bird slammed her backward into the shattered crysglass panels. It pecked Ignathion’s head again. White bone flashed through the welling blood. A sound like a low, grating growl issued from her mouth as she flung the chain linking her wrists over the great feathery head and, twisting the forked daggers upward into the soft hollow of its throat beneath the great beak, stabbed with every ounce of her fury for the windroc’s brain.

The bird slumped.

The feathered torso collapsed, dragged backward and downward by Aranya’s weight dangling from its neck. Her lower legs snagged between the shattered edge of the crysglass pane and the windroc’s body. She tried desperately to hold her muscles rigid as she lay half-in and half-out of the window frame, but felt herself slipping. Daggers of glass ripped into her calves. The windroc’s claws seized up one final time and then released their hold on the First War-Hammer. Feathers and flesh avalanched over her and past her, a crushing weight, bending her backward over the edge.

Slowly, the splayed wings gave up their fight against the dangling weight. They ripped free of the cabin. The dead windroc’s descent accelerated, lolling across her chest, a slow-motion cartwheel as she swung from her calves beneath the Dragonship’s ruined cabin. Her dress fluttered freely in the wind.

With her wrists chained together, Aranya was unable to release her embrace around the windroc’s neck. An enormous weight yanked her arms downward. Her legs slipped free.

She experienced an inexplicable sense of release.

Now, she would fly.

Chapter 3: The Tower of Sylakia

Aranya dreamed the flying dream.

She had dreamed it ever since she was a child. She would be soaring over the Cloudlands, not far above the greenish, puffy cloud-tops. Endlessly flying – just that.

On this occasion, Aranya dreamed many times in succession. She was aware of being fed, of an unfamiliar but gentle hand dressing wounds on her back, and a male voice saying, “She slept a whole day? No more serum.” She slept again. Now the Cloudlands of her dreams had new colours, azure and cobalt, gold and ochre, like the endlessly changing cloudscapes which had mesmerised her throughout the journey, rolling away beneath the Dragonship. She had never known the Cloudlands contained so many subtle tints.

Aranya snapped awake to the smell of curried fowl tantalising her nostrils.

“I’m hungry,” she announced.

“Feeling better, Princess?” asked Beri.

“I feel like I ran into a windroc.”

“You did, you foolish girl. The physician’s here.”

After speaking to the physician about the cuts on her back and legs, and having the wound-dressings changed, Aranya dozed off again. The medicine made her head feel foggy. But then she remembered the smell of curry. Her stomach growled insistently.

“Beri?” she called.

Beri leaned over her. “You’ve a visitor, Princess. Try to sit up.” Beri, with a wiry strength that belied her age, helped Aranya to sit up against the cabin bulkhead. She arranged a cushion behind Aranya’s back and fussed with the covers, drawing them up beneath her chin. “Dinner’s coming.”

Aranya heard a murmuring of voices. The cabin door clicked shut.

“You can’t tease me with that smell,” she called. “First War-Hammer? Is that you?” Her hand touched her hair, relieved to find it covered.

“I was not made to juggle bowls on a tray,” rumbled Ignathion. “Beri!”

Shortly, with a snort that apprised the War-Hammer of exactly who was boss in the Princess’ cabin, Beri had the tray neatly arranged on Aranya’s lap. Once more, she withdrew. Aranya could have sworn she detected a twinkle in her maidservant’s eyes.

Ignathion arranged his mighty frame gingerly on the tiny stool drawn up to her bedside. He placed a pitcher of water on her bedside shelf. “Physician’s orders,” he said, indicating the water. “You’re to drink it all. That Beri. By the Islands, she has my most seasoned warriors skipping about like lambs to fulfil her every request.”

“Sounds exactly like Beri,” Aranya mumbled around a mouthful. “Excuse my manners.”

“I’ll excuse a great deal from the woman who saved my life,” said Ignathion. “For which, despite the embarrassment it will cause me evermore, I most gratefully thank you, Princess of Immadia.”

Aranya eyed his bandaged head sympathetically. “If I recall rightly, it was you who took the brunt of the windroc’s attack – thank you. You saved me. How fare your wounds? How come I didn’t fall from the Dragonship?”

He inclined his head graciously. “My wounds? They fare passably. I’ve the thickest skull in the Island-World, I’m told. Go easy with the purple beans. They’re furnace-blast spicy.”

“I’m glad the bird didn’t peck out your brains. How’s your back?”

Ignathion was scrutinising her with a quizzical expression that made Aranya wonder if he had ever stopped loving Izariela of Fra’anior. She disguised her discomfort by tucking into the fowl, again a succulent and irresistible dish. Flattering attention, yes – but for her dead mother’s sake? Creepy.

Ignathion said, “The armour saved my worst blushes. It’s an old soldier’s habit – never taking off one’s armour. Smelly, but it’s saved my life twice from assassins and once from a disgruntled soldier. I lost some skin on top, but I’ll live.” Fresh crimson was seeping through the bandages above his right temple. “The steersman says the windroc saw its own reflection in the cabin crysglass and attacked, thinking it was another bird. Perhaps that dangling soldier – Gurathion, one of my best – was the bait.”

Aranya asked, “Are windrocs always so aggressive?”

Ignathion grunted his displeasure. “A concentrated attack this late in the season is unusual.”

Still puzzling over what she remembered, she asked, “But … why didn’t I fall? I don’t understand.”

“Your ankle chain snagged on a strut.” Ignathion had the grace to look shamefaced as he said this. “Before the strut bent, I got a paw on the chain, too. My men pulled you up.”

“So, your two saves beat my one?” chuckled Aranya, punning on the common card game called ‘Staves’.

“Who’s counting? We’re both alive.” But his grizzled face split into a grin. “What measure of courage makes a Princess of Immadia leap on a windroc like some maddened rajal?”

“A brand of foolishness I –”

Ignathion shook his head. “You’ll get the better of the stories. I will earn sniggers. Now, what of Immadia’s wounds?”

“The crysglass cuts on my back are the deepest,” said Aranya, “but the physician is happy with those. The right calf muscle also heals well. The glass nicked the tendon but apparently did not sever it.”

“Bravely said, for a woman who has over a hundred stitches in her body.”

“I’ll live.”

She would, but she hurt all over despite her brave words and a bellyful of pain-killing herbs or serum, whatever the physician had prescribed her. Ignathion’s eyes told her that he did not buy her show of bravado. He said, “Aye, we both cheated the Cloudlands that day.”

“A pox upon the Cloudlands,” she echoed, responding appropriately to his use of the old saying.

The First War-Hammer leaned forward on the stool, his gaze suddenly so intense that Aranya found herself unable to look away. He whispered, “Aranya, I knew from the moment our paths crossed, that our fates were twisted together. That incident, now three days past, only proves that presentiment. I cannot pretend to understand the future. But I will say this: I have a trusted man at the Tower of Sylakia – Nelthion by name. If you ever need to get me a message, he will aid you. A First War-Hammer has little influence in the Tower of Sylakia, but I promise to help as I can.”

He raised his right hand, palm held toward her. Aranya matched her slender fingers to his calloused, blunt-fingered paw, sealing an accord between them.

He said, “Tomorrow afternoon, we arrive in Sylakia.”

She trembled.

* * * *

The Dragonships climbed to surmount the looming massif of northern Sylakia Island, a league or more of bare, vertical granite cliffs rising sheer from the rust-tinged Cloudlands that lapped at their base. From there they cut for hours across a land of jumbled hills and tangled wilderness. There was not a single sign of Human habitation.

“Rajal country,” said Ignathion, without looking up from his scroll.

Aranya declined to display her ignorance by asking how large or what colour rajals were.

By late morning they had traversed many leagues southward. On the map Sylakia measured forty-one leagues north to south, and twenty-eight across its midsection. Aranya had not realised how much was uninhabitable. But after they crested the latest line of low hills, the land smoothed out. Farmlands appeared, dotted amongst thick bands of forest, a rash of small villages, even a sizeable town. The engines thrust them now to the southwest, until a great cleft appeared in the land; a place that split the Island apart like the deep cut of a dagger into a fruit. On the lip of this extraordinary canyon, Aranya saw crimson flags waving over Sylakia Town, the capital city of the Island-World north of the Rift.

Ignathion’s Dragonship angled for the western tip of this town.

A sense of dread and doom enveloped her. Aranya fought it, forcing herself to stand still and show no sign of the war within her.

Viewed from above as the Dragonship descended, the Tower of Sylakia was a wide, round building set squarely atop a forbidding spit of rock separated from the main city of Sylakia – ten times larger than Immadia’s city and considerably uglier, in her admittedly biased opinion – by two hundred horizontal feet and a vertical league of sheer cliffs. As they approached, Aranya’s keen eye made out a kind of moat around the building, right on the edge of the cliff. There were animals in that dry moat, she realised. Prowling felines, the largest cats she had ever seen, so dark they resembled lumps of coal scattered around the palace’s edge.

Rajals? She imagined they might reduce anyone’s desire to go exploring.

A truculent breeze buffeted the Dragonship as men on the ground below secured the moorings. She noticed a group of well-dressed people watching from beside the small landing-field. Her fellow exiles? She hoped to find friends among them.

But first, she had to suffer the indignity of being lowered to the ground in a basket. A Sylakian warrior helped her alight.

Aranya, cane in hand, hobbled toward the Tower of Sylakia, the palace of exiles.

The Tower was austere and heavily built, quite the opposite of the airy, open colonnades of Immadia’s castle. She disliked the low ceilings and dull interior décor at once. There was scant welcome for a Princess of Immadia, which irked her – not that she expected trumpets and flag-waving multitudes. A couple of half-hearted hands raised by the group alongside the field was the best part. A pinch of recognition would have served, she fumed, not some tongue-tied dunce of a junior servant who managed to lose his way twice on the way to her new quarters. By the time they entered the assigned rooms, poor Beri was puffed out and Aranya in such pain that she sank into the nearest chair with a deep groan.

The servant dumped her belongings on the bed and bolted as though he had spied a windroc in the room. That was wise.

“Miserable hovel!” Aranya exploded. “Beri – sit down. Catch your breath.”

“Princess –”

“Not a shred of common decency. Unbelievable. Are there even windows in this room? Islands’ sakes. Who chooses drab khaki drapes? Sit down, I said. You don’t look well.”

Beri perched on the bed. “Maybe just a few breaths.”

But they both looked up in surprise as a girl of about her own age appeared from an as-yet unseen alcove behind the hangings. She was small, almost elfin, with dainty features and vivid blue eyes, but there was a quickness and sureness in her movements, and what Aranya took for a swagger in her walk.

“Welcome to paradise,” she said, drolly. “You must be the new girl.”

“Aranya, Princess of Immadia.”

“Airs and graces don’t serve us well here, Princess.” Aranya was so taken aback at her tone that she simply stared. “Now, do you like your chambers? I prepared them myself.”

“You … prepared them?”

“Fluffed up the pillows fit for a Princess who can afford her own maid, turned down the bed, even opened a window or two. Unbearably dusty in here. And stinky.”

The wretched girl was so direct – did she have any manners at all? She had not even bothered to introduce herself. Dragging a civil reply out of her storehouse of those very airs and graces, Aranya began, “I’d thank you to –”

“You really brought your own maid?” interrupted the girl. “Don’t they teach you to dress yourself in Immadia? I mean, it’s hardly the hub of the Islands, but honestly, can anyone be more spoiled?” Riding right over Aranya’s splutters of outrage, she added, “So I’ll be looking after you, Princess of the northern end of beyond – showing you around this little hovel, as you put it. When would you like to start?”

Aranya never found out what she might have said, because at that moment, Beri screamed. “Snake!”

She flicked her right hand. A small, thin reptile smacked the wall. Leaping to her feet, Aranya stamped instinctively on its head.

“Beri?”

“Oh – I think I’ve been bitten.”

“Where? On your hand?” Aranya’s gaze leaped to the girl. “You! You prepared the room? You prepared it?”

“I-I –” stammered the girl, shrinking back as the much taller Princess of Immadia advanced upon her, eyes blazing. “B-But I didn’t –”

“Oh, I feel queer,” said Beri, putting her hand to her heart. “Was that … a copperhead?”

Aranya drew breath and screamed, “You prepared the room? Get out. You lying piece of slug vomit – out!”

She swung the wooden cane, striking the girl a glancing blow on her shoulder as she dodged. Feeling the fire, the terrible fire, rising up into her throat along with her gorge, Aranya could only spit, “Out! Out!” and as the terrified girl bolted, she flung the cane so that it thwacked the back of her head.

Panting, she turned to Beri.

She saw blue lips in a pale, straining face. The elderly maidservant struggled for breath. She tore off her headscarf and wrapped it around Beri’s upper arm, yanked it tight … but she knew. A copperhead was one of the deadlier vipers of the Islands. She held Beri to her bosom, stroking her cheek.

“Oh … Aranyi … darling,” whispered Beri, changing her name to the diminutive, most cherished form. “I’m so cold.”

“Don’t … Beri, please. I’ll hold you. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

But the blue of her lips shocked Aranya. She had never seen a person deteriorate so fast. Two thin trails of blood marked the back of her right hand, rising from the base of her little finger. Beri had sat near the pillow. Exactly where that girl must have hidden the viper. The sheer audacity of that little wretch, to lie in wait to see the Princess of Immadia perish. She shook her head.

Beri vomited weakly.

Abruptly, she remembered what she had tried to do for her mother.

She whispered, “Yes.”

As carefully as though she were dream-walking, she laid Beri back on the bed. She placed her hands on Beri’s chest. Aranya closed her eyes, clearing her mind, seeking to summon up that feeling, so long denied and buried, the way it had been … and suddenly, there it was, a mysterious potential blooming within her mind, drawn from an unfamiliar place that she knew was other and yet part of her, a sense of welling power contained behind the terrace lake barriers of her mind. Deliberately, she gave herself over to it. She poured herself out for Beri’s sake. She gave her all, expecting nothing in return.

Aranya collapsed beside Beri on the bed. The coverings felt unbelievably soft, as though she had pillowed her head on the cotton-puff billows of the Cloudlands.

Her eyes, lacking the strength even to shutter themselves, watched her maidservant sit up, patting first her chest and then her hand in apparent disbelief. She must be dreaming. Beri was dead. She was dead, looking back from the next life at the activities of the living. The bed moved. Shortly, a hand appeared beneath her nose. Aranya tried to squint, but her muscles were so enervated that they refused to focus.

A scent of jasmine and reloidik oil wafted by her nostrils.

Strange – a glowing person stood in the corner of the room? She saw her mother, garbed in one of those flowing Fra’aniorian lace-gowns with their extravagant ten-foot trains. She was smiling.

Aranya drew breath. Oily scents exploded as colours in her brain.

She gasped.

“Come back, Aranyi. Come back,” Beri muttered. She slapped Aranya’s cheek gently. “You’ve living yet to do, Princess.”

“I … see my mother. Izariela.”

Startled, Beri glanced over her shoulder. “There’s no-one there, petal.”

Aranya could not understand. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She perceived the world at a level of detail she had never appreciated before. Dust motes, highlighted in a sunbeam creeping through a tiny tear in the drapes, individually impressed their presence on her senses. Beri’s wrinkled cheek became a fantastical landscape. She saw life wriggling and pulsing and struggling within the teardrop that sparkled in the corner of Beri’s eye.

“Princess? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“Because I see love written in every crease of your face – didn’t you know?”

The old woman’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. The teardrop filled, expanded, spilled over the corner of her eye and tracked down her cheek.

“You’ve gone soft in the head, Princess,” she said, gruffly. “Your mother used to say things like that. I’m going to find us some food in this mausoleum. You need to eat. Then I’ll find out how we get a few nice things in here.”

“And a bed for you.”

Beri nodded. “Rest. If you move so much as one inch from this bed I’ll whack you harder than you did that fool girl, Princess or none.”

“Will you check the bed first, Beri?”

As the servant carefully turned over the pillow-rolls and bedding, Aranya silently thanked her father for sending Beri, and Beri for being willing to accompany her, and traced the warmth of gratitude within her soul for the life that still flowed through her old friend’s veins.

“All’s clear.”

Aranya lay on the bed and watched the motes dancing, infinitesimal golden Dragons frolicking in the golden suns-light, whirling and swooping in glorious flight.

* * * *

Aranya and Beri hibernated for five days after the snakebite incident. By day three, Aranya had tossed her cane into a corner and was feeling fit enough to start climbing the walls. Beri turned her own mysterious magic on the Tower staff. There was a moderately successful shopping trip to Sylakia Town – for Beri, because she apparently could wangle privileges her captive Princess would never gain – and then a day where a bevy of workmen appeared a dozen an hour to replace the drapes, carry in a bed and various dressers, deposit mounds of mysterious boxes and packages around the room, setup a changing screen, fill in the ‘extra aeration features’ around the ancient crysglass windows, replace the door locks, and fix the minor flood her first attempt to bathe had occasioned in the bathroom.

By the ninth and last day of the week, they had a bedroom that looked like a bedroom – nothing fancy, but it was serviceable. Aranya had commandeered a corner for her painting and spent all her hours churning out canvases. She knew she was being a hermit, but found herself unable to contemplate taking on life in the Tower of Sylakia in all its dubious glory.

“Ha!” Beri congratulated herself for at least the fifteenth time, eying up the new drapes she had ordered. “Brightens the whole room, wouldn’t you agree?”

Aranya set down her paintbrush. “Beri, you’re a marvel. I don’t say it often enough.”

“Oh, you’re just humouring me.”

“I am. But you are a marvel. How did you find canvas? And paper – isn’t that ridiculously expensive? Just look at the quality of these paints …”

“Girl, what’re you painting that’s got your head floating in an Island suns-set?”

Aranya beckoned her around the easel. “Come on, Beri. You’ve been itching to take a look.”

“I’m itchier than a bowl full of prek-brush fluff. Which, may I remind you, you stuffed inside my mattress not too long ago.”

Aranya groaned. “These things seem funny when you’re eleven summers old, Beri.”

Beri tilted her head critically as she studied the painting. “It’s all wrong. No, don’t hiss between your teeth at me. That’s not how it happened – not according to the man in your painting, anyhow. This outline will be you, here? I love the windroc – so fierce. The expression on Ignathion’s face is stunning, riveting … but he’s protecting you?”

“It’s more dramatic this way,” she hedged. “His face took me two days to paint.”

“I hope this doesn’t signify your pangs of romantic love for the First War-Hammer, Aranya.”

“Beri! Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Girls your age tend to get funny notions into their heads,” Beri returned, with a testy snort better suited to a grumpy mountain goat, in Aranya’s opinion. “Funnier ones, even. Believe me, I was your age once.” She soothed, “Well, I did swaddle your grandfather when he was an infant, but still. This work will be one of your finest. The War-Hammer and the Windroc. I love it. And this one?”

“Life inside a teardrop,” said Aranya.

“Why don’t you paint a few canvases to go up on these horrible, bare walls?”

Aranya smiled. “At once, o great commander. I’ll need more easels, however.”

“Aranyi … I’ve been meaning to tell you something that I learned today.” Beri grimaced as she stretched her back uneasily. “Everything we bought, everything we eat – everything – is charged back to Immadia.”

“But …”

“I didn’t know. The room costs money. Even our share of the guards and the administration of this place – it all comes from Immadian taxes, as if they aren’t burdensome enough.”

“That’s … evil. We’ve got to send these things back.”

Beri sighed. “Petal, your father wouldn’t begrudge you bread on your table, or a few paints. He doesn’t want you pining away in exile. But let’s not leap off the Dragonship. Why don’t you finish that scroll-letter to him? I’ll have the censor read it and get it sealed and sent.”

Aranya stepped away from the easel before she succumbed to the temptation to start throwing her costly paints across the room. Her voice rose. “There’s a censor?”

“A nasty little viper of a man,” said Beri, who was not usually so quick to dismiss someone. He must be terrible, Aranya thought. “But before we talk about how things work around here, there’s something else I want to discuss with you. Something important.”

Taken aback by her tone, the Princess of Immadia immediately swallowed her anger and raised her hand in an interrogative gesture.

Beri lowered her voice. “I’ve seen your hair.”

“You saw what?”

Her question was barely more than a wheeze. Beri, of all the staff to the Immadian royal family, knew about the absolute ban King Beran had placed on servants invading the Princess’ privacy. Since her tenth summer, no-one else, not even the King himself, had seen her hair.

Aranya stormed across to the bathroom and slammed the door so hard that dust and grit rained down on her head.

After a few moments, a quiet knock came. She thumped her head against the wooden panels and said, “Go away, Beri, please.”

“You have your mother’s hair.”

That comment was dry tinder tossed upon a bonfire. Aranya raged, “Why does everything have to be about her? I’m … me! Aranya! Princess of Immadia! Not my mother. The War-Hammer of all stupid Sylakia is still in love with my mother. I don’t feel the cold, just like my mother. I’ve pointy Fra’aniorian ears – thanks, Mom. I love Dragons, just like my mother. Everywhere I turn I’m just like my mother. I hate it! Hate it, do you hear?”

“Well, you are her daughter,” Beri replied. “Right down to the pointy ears. Funny, that.”

Aranya punched the door so hard her fist went right through the thin wood.

“With her temper, might I add.”

She could not help it; a treacherous chuckle escaped her lips. “Oh, Beri.”

“Let me in, Aranyi.”

The door handle twisted. Beri looked kindly upon her charge – so kindly, it broke her. “Why did she have to die, Beri? Why?”

She put her head on the old maidservant’s shoulder, and wept.

After a time, she heard, “You tore off your headscarf to bind my arm, Aranya. Part of the hairnet came with it. I couldn’t help but see. I’m sorry, petal. But you do have her hair, in all its wild glory. White, gold, emerald, black, aquamarine –”

“Freaky hair,” said Aranya.

“Hair like the Cloudlands,” Beri returned, stunning her into silence. “May I see it properly?”

Aranya nodded. It was all she could manage just then.

In a moment, she stood in front of her new mirror – one neither cracked nor inhabited by twenty spiders – as Beri gently untucked her headscarf from beneath her chin. She slid the thin material back from her forehead before unclipping the opaque hairnet from the braid coiled beneath it. Aranya shivered. She was fully clothed, but felt naked. Now the thick braid, liberated from its pins, tumbled down past the small of her back.

“By the mountains of Immadia, there’s a sight,” Beri said.

Aranya shivered as Beri pushed back her hair to reveal her left ear. “Aye, Fra’anior right there, petal. Ears of the seven enchanted Isles, they call these. Anyways, who cares about ears? They’re always covered up. Beran loved your mother, pointy ears and all. Risked his life to kidnap her. Someday, some man’s going to fall in love with these ears and this multi-coloured waterfall of hair.”

“Beri! You’re making me blush.”

Aranya had always thought of Fra’anior as one Island, but in reality there were seven Islands clustered together like jewels on a bracelet – the seven points of an ancient volcanic peak, she had read. Her mother was not from the main Island of Fra’anior itself, but from another in the cluster called Ha’athior. The caldera between the Islands was active, sometimes covered in Cloudlands mists, sometimes not. Her mother’s land had a strange reputation, legends of magic and Dragons and strange happenings. Perhaps that came along with living in the edge of an active volcano, and apparently making a national sport of kidnapping women for marriage. King Beran had beaten them at their own game.

She wished she had asked him to tell that story before she left. She had so many questions.

Beri combed Aranya’s braid out with her fingers, saying, “Where I come from there’s a story – I grew up in a village called Reayho, which lies right on the northern tip of Immadia Island, beyond the mountains – well, this story was old when I was a child. And that’s old.” Aranya smiled at her in the mirror. “It’s about an enchantress who could change her shape into whatever animal she desired. ‘And strange hair she had, the Lady of Immadia, hair shaded as the rainbows that grace the Cloudlands. This is the hair of an enchantress, a magic most rare.’ Of course, the enchantress in the story is as beautiful as the suns-rise, as wise as the hills –”

“Anyone here?” called a voice from the doorway to Aranya’s chamber.

Beri moved faster than Aranya could credit, for an old woman. Slamming the bathroom door behind her, she confronted the girl – the same wretch from several days before, Aranya realised, peeking through the hole she had made in the door. She quickly moved back out of sight.

“You dare return?”

“I-I’m sorry, I knocked. But the snake … it wasn’t me,” the girl stammered. “You have to believe me. I would never … please. I don’t know what happened.”

Aranya’s fingers moved rapidly upon her hair, reworking the customary braid. She pulled the mass of tresses over her shoulder and worked down toward her waist, drawing together the many-coloured strands of her hair. There was some unintelligible conversation out there, before she heard Beri growl:

“I can speak for myself, but not for the Princess of Immadia.”

“I have to be her guide. I’m assigned.”

The girl made it sound like a life-or-death matter. Aranya frowned, slipping in her pins with practised skill. So, she thought one little justification would make up for a slew of insults, did she? That girl had the manners of a mountain goat.

Shortly, having covered her hair, she emerged from the bathroom.

Beri said, “Aranya, I would like to introduce you to Zuziana, Princess of Remoy.”

“My friends call me Zip. Short for Zuziana, Princess. Get it? People seem to think it’s cute. Then again, when you’re my height and not some giant like you, every guy thinks you’re just so cute – it’s maddening.”

Aranya moved forward to touch fingertips with her, thinking: Oh no. She hated people who had no idea what was going to spill out of their mouths before it did. She had beaten a Princess of another Island – wherever Remoy was – with a stick. She had thought her a servant. Another day her temper might have started a war, had Remoy and Immadia not both been brought under Sylakian rule. And – Zip? Who chose a nickname like that?

Princess Zuziana had offered not a word of apology.

Very well, she was about to learn just how frosty the tips of the Immadian mountains could be.

* * * *

The Tower of Sylakia was a mausoleum. The dull, dusty corridors echoed with years of neglect. Only two levels were inhabited – one by the exiles, and the other by the servants and guards. The outside was little better. Most of the open space around the building was paved in a grey granite stone that quickly became treacherous as the cold season made its storms felt. The landing field, the only green space, was often cordoned off so that the exiles could not approach the arriving and departing supply vessels. The Sylakian guards had no sense of humour. Apparently a posting to the Tower was considered a kind of punishment – at best.

The whole operation was run with clockwork precision by Third War-Hammer Nelthion, Ignathion’s ‘trusted man’, who had lost an eye and the better part of his right leg in an unfortunate Dragonship collision right above Sylakia itself, years before.

Aranya came to love watching the rajals stalking about in their wide moat. Each evening, they gathered beneath the Last Walk, pacing, rumbling and growling, as they waited for hunks of meat to be thrown down to them. Often their roaring would split the night; the great males, standing shoulder-high to her, she estimated, would ruff up their black manes and indulge in contests of ear-splitting volume. She decided to paint a rajal just as soon as she finished the final touches to her gift for Ignathion.

Once, Aranya dared to set foot upon the Last Walk. She tiptoed over the stone bridge to the edge of the battlements, and peered down. The Cloudlands were so far below it was hard to see any detail – much farther than at Immadia, she realised. The jutting peninsula of rock that housed the Tower split off from the main Island far, far below, but from where she stood, it was a straight drop into the Cloudlands. It turned her stomach to think of the prisoners who must have been forced to step off the edge.

Out over the void, a three-moon conjunction cast a partial eclipse of the twin suns upon the slowly roiling clouds. She wondered what effect the five moons must have – pulling the poisonous vapours this way and that, as the scholars claimed, or affecting peoples’ behaviour as the mystics would have it. The Cloudlands changed colour and character with the hues radiating from above.

Silently, she recited:

Iridith the Yellow, a very rotund fellow,

Jade the Green, who likes to go unseen,

A hint of White to light the night, Nightship she is called,

Consort to the great avenging Dragon, deathly Blue,

Last the Mystic, the mysterious changer of hue.

Then a soldier came to shout at her. She was not allowed on the Last Walk. After that, a warrior was permanently stationed there.

She had a nightmare about leaping off the Last Walk.

Aranya knew that she needed to make friends, or face a lonely exile. There were only so many days she could spend painting before she went mad. Beri was fine company, but Aranya longed to connect with her fellow-exiles, many of whom were her own age or a little older.

But she soon discovered why so few returned her overtures.

Chapter 4: A Minor War

The exiles were divided into three groups. Two older men, hailing from two of the Twenty-Seven Sisters, had been in exile for over a decade. They were hermits. Aranya saw one of them, once, passing by in a corridor. Then there was the wealthy group, the sons and daughters of privilege, who ordered hundred summer-old vintages by the Dragonship-full and threw extravagant parties in their rooms. Several had live-in mistresses. Aranya might have won a kind of acceptance among them because of her looks – that much was lewdly made clear to her, early on. She declined with thinly-veiled disgust. The last group hailed from a couple of dozen Islands scattered to the four points of the compass, from dark warlike Westerners to herself, a pale Northerner, to the small, lithe denizens of the southern Islands, like the Princess of Remoy.

Aranya developed a feud with Zuziana. Matters only progressed downhill after their disastrous first meeting. She did not want to feud, but soon realised that many of the petty squabbles or liaisons between the exiles developed out of boredom. Zip turned the core of the third group against her, leaving Aranya to find company among misfits like herself.

Brooding over this, she stoked her inner fires. Aranya took out her anger in paintings of rajals and Cloudland storms and a wild, fire-breathing Dragon, which, Beri declared, was so realistic that the canvas practically smoked at the edges.

It was also illegal.

A month after her arrival, on a day of rainfall so heavy she could hear the thundering torrents even within the Tower of Sylakia, Beri brought her to Nelthion’s office. Between its great racks of scrolls and musty logbooks and purchasing records, his desk was spotlessly clean. Nelthion rose on his crutch, greeting her cordially.

“I have a favour to ask,” she said, after exchanging greetings with him. “I’ve made a gift for the First War-Hammer Ignathion. Could you arrange to have it sent to him?”

“A painting?” asked Nelthion. “I heard you’ve been busy. May I see it?”

Aranya unwrapped the heavy sacking, uncovering a fine cheesecloth bag within. She loosened the drawstring, pushed back the cloth and tilted the framed painting toward the lamps in Nelthion’s office.

He stared at it for so long that Aranya began to wonder if she had committed an unforgivable breach of protocol.

“Well,” he said, finally. “I will comply, on one condition. Two conditions.”

Beri said, “Nelthion, you promised.”

“Don’t start with me, woman,” he growled. “By the five moons, you’ve turned me into a greybeard overnight. Two conditions, Princess. One, you paint me a teensy something to brighten this office. Two – my brother owns an art gallery in Sylakia Town. Would you be willing to have him display a few of your works, if there are others?”

“Great mounds,” said Beri.

Aranya shot her a withering glare. “This is my finest, Nelthion.”

“I’m no judge of art,” he said. “But my brother is. This would sell for a princely sum, I daresay. As you may know, your home Island Immadia suffers under the tax burden levied on Sylakia’s newest demesne. We like to make Islands pay for their wars. Your King Beran was a legend, Princess. I believe he turned the word ‘Immadia’ into a swear word in the Commander’s presence.”

With a swift sideways glance, Aranya caught the slightest of smirks on Beri’s face as the maidservant straightened her lips.

Ha! A plan unmasked!

“So I’ll contribute a hailstone in a thunderstorm to Immadia’s aid?”

“Do you see any other of my merry inmates doing as much?” asked Nelthion, his voice dripping with disapproval. “This came from Immadia today.”

Aranya accepted the message scroll. “Nelthion – how can I ever thank you?”

“That space between the shelves. Fill it with a windroc. And keep your maidservant from turning me into a greybeard.”

She laughed.

On the way back, Aranya said to Beri, “You’re in trouble, you despicable plotter.”

“Even a woman of eighty-one summers has her wiles, Princess. Why don’t you join the others for dinner? It’ll be served very soon.”

The exiles were in the habit of gathering for their evening meal in the great dining hall on the servants’ level, even though they occupied but a fraction of the space. Coming from Nelthion’s office, Aranya found herself entering through a side entrance rather than the grand main doorway, three times her height and wide enough to accommodate ten of her side by side.

The group was smaller than usual. Another drunken party among the wealthy set, she assumed. Even amidst royalty and rulers, snobbery existed. She felt no vindication that none of these had been invited either.

Her approach was obscured by the towering marble columns lining either side of the vaulted hall, so Aranya had time to appreciate that Zuziana was holding court amongst the girls, while a group of Princes and two sons of Western Island War-Chiefs, who she was learning to know by name, occupied a table nearby. Not one of them was taller than her.

“– only three dresses,” she heard.

“Wait,” cried Zuziana. “Listen to this: which colour shall I wear today – the purple, the purple, or the purple? Oh, the one that flatters my eyes.”

The girls’ laughter echoed around the hall.

“I heard she’s an artist.”

“Oh, come now, how artistic do you think someone with her taste in dresses can be? She only knows one colour – purple. How many of us can afford our own maidservant?”

Aranya flushed to the roots of her hair. So this was why the others avoided her! Drawing herself up, she marched out from between the columns, making straight for the group.

Every lamp and candle in the room flared.

Affecting a silly, long-legged walk, the Princess of Remoy marched toward Aranya. She looked up, and stopped as though she had slammed into a wall. “Aranya!”

“Zuziana. Trying on a pair of shoes you’ll never fill?”

The Remoyan developed high spots of colour on her cheeks. Nevertheless, she said with saccharine spite, “I’m doing the stork-walk. We’ve named it after you.”

“We? You’re the one making a fool of herself.”

“Says the graceless yokel from Immadia?” Aranya had to pause to swallow down the fire, but Zuziana could not have known that. She took advantage of Aranya’s silence to add, “It must be unbearable for you that with two new brothers, you’ve lost the throne. Did you bring one dagger for each of them?”

Now the flames roared into life. Murder her brothers? “Says the little grey sparrow from a kingdom renowned only for the size of its families and the number of royal bastards?”

Ouch! Aranya had not meant to let that insult slip out, but weeks of sniggers and whispering had turned into a deep rot within her. She recognised that now, too late.

The colour drained out of Zuziana’s face. She spluttered, “Y-You take that back!”

“I don’t think so. You’ve been after me since I arrived. It’s time everyone in this room recognised what a poisonous little viper you are.”

Zuziana’s knuckles clenched white on the hilt of her sword. She said, dangerously, “Says she who paints Dragons?”

She had sneaked into her chambers! Aranya did not know how Zip had managed that, but that was an Island too far, as the saying went. “Dragonships,” she corrected, icily. “What do they teach you in Remoy? And, if you draw that sword, I’ll put one of these forked daggers in your forked tongue faster than I slew that windroc on the journey here.”

“There’s another nasty little lie from the Princess of liars.”

But Zip, who had begun to draw her weapon, stopped the motion with an effort. Aranya saw the guards around the room taking an interest in their altercation.

“I don’t lie.”

“Only with the First War-Hammer, I hear,” spat the Remoyan. “Fifteen days aboard his Dragonship. Now you’re painting him little love-pictures.”

“It’s the truth. Find out for yourself.” Fight the fire, keep it down. Only words, Aranya. Only words. She said, “What do you know about love? All you do is bleat about Barulak of Geban.” She bleated, exactly like a ralti sheep, “Ba-a-aa-rulak. I love you, Ba-a-aa-rulak. You don’t even dare talk to him. You’re a coward.”

Over at the Princes’ table Barulak and his fellows burst into nervous laughter.

“No Princess of Remoy is a coward.”

“Fine. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Aranya strode over toward Barulak, who stopped rocking on his chair and began to look rather alarmed. As she approached him, Aranya slowed, intentionally making her hips sway and pasting a seductive smile on her lips. Before he could move, she slipped onto his lap and twined her arms behind his neck.

“Hi, handsome Princes. Having a good time?”

“Now we are,” said Hamarath, the dark, muscular Warlord from the Ur-Yagga Island cluster, who had a love-affair with his mirror, everyone said. “How’re you doing, beautiful?”

“Fiery,” said Aranya, which was rather closer to the truth than she would have cared to admit. “I brought you a present all the way from Remoy, Barulak. Let’s Zip those lips.”

She kissed him on his mouth. Thoroughly.

Zuziana gave a small shriek of dismay. Barulak’s hands flapped helplessly. Hamarath whistled. The lamps in the room flared once more.

That was as much as she could stand – either of the kiss, or of her own ugly behaviour. Aranya released Barulak so suddenly that his chair toppled backward. He sprawled on the floor.

Her face utterly devoid of colour, the Princess of Remoy stormed toward her.

“You and I will finish this,” she hissed. “Tomorrow, the hour before dawn. I’ll find you.”

“A duel?”

Old-fashioned, but Remoy was renowned for its adherence to the old ways.

“Quivering in your pretty slippers, Princess? Should’ve thought of that before you called me a bastard.”

* * * *

Aranya awoke long before the appointed hour, before the pied warblers nesting outside her window stirred to chirp their greetings to the dawn. She could easily imagine a hundred ways yesterday’s confrontation with Zuziana could have gone better – starting with one hot-tempered Immadian not launching that Dragonship in the first place. Zip was irritating, granted. And spiteful. But was it worth a duel?

As the long-awaited tap sounded upon her door, Aranya crept out into the corridor.

Zuziana thrust a staff into her hand. “Follow me.”

Twin shadows ghosted through the Tower of Sylakia, avoiding the places they knew were guarded. One shadow was a head taller than the other, but they moved with equal stealth. Aranya silently thanked her father’s foresight in providing her training that might be regarded as somewhat unusual for Princesses of other Islands. No ‘she’s only a girl’ for him. Strategies of war, weapons training, code breaking and even lock-picking had featured in her past.

Ever the cunning cliff fox, King Beran.

She glanced at the staff. Ironwood? She had read about ironwood. Thin but heavy, the staff would easily break bones or skulls. Zuziana probably did not want to kill her – but the lesson she intended would be bruising at best.

Zip led her down six levels to the unused basement level of the Tower. She paused to light two torches. “You go that way.”

As they lit the lamps situated in sconces around the perimeter of the circular chamber, Aranya realised that she was in an underground arena. Ten levels of terraced seating led to a sandy centre below. The fighting area was cordoned off with ropes.

“You prepared this yesterday?”

Zip glared at her. “No vipers, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“I wasn’t insinuating –”

“Like your ‘size of their families’ comment? So I have sixteen brothers and sisters. I can see what you’re thinking – by the Cloudlands, she must have drawn the very shortest straw to be chosen as the worthless exile out of that lot.”

“Zip, I’m sorry –”

“Oh, shut your yapping muzzle, you mongrel! I’m through with words. I’m here to fight.”

Aranya bit her lip. She had to go through with this.

Silently, the two girls shucked their warm outer robes and stepped onto the cool, fire-lit sand. Zuziana, like her, had chosen a close fitting under-tunic and knee-length under-shorts, allowing a freedom of movement the traditional long dress for Island women would only obstruct.

Zip twirled the staff above her head, limbering up her back and shoulders. “Ready?”

Aranya stretched her back. Her crysglass cuts from the battle with the windroc had healed well, but still felt a little stiff, especially in the mornings. Beri said there was hardly a scar to be seen. She wondered if that was another effect of her healing power – perhaps when she poured strength into Beri after the snakebite? Another weirdness. She sighed inwardly.

The hard point of Zip’s staff thumped her chest. “Ready?”

She was so irritating!

The two girls circled, testing each other with sharp blows. As Aranya had suspected, Zip was fast – very fast – and capable. She handled her ironwood staff with ease, whirling it from attack to attack with hypnotising suppleness and speed. Aranya received a clout on her thumb and a thump on the bone atop her left shoulder. She speared Zuziana in the ribs in riposte. The staves fell into a click-clack rhythm, faster and faster, whirling through the cool, motionless air of the fighting arena to fall upon each other in thrust and parry. Aranya wondered if Sylakian warriors had once trained here, or if it had been a gladiator-pit. The Sylakians were ridiculously proud of their gladiators. There was one tournament where fights were to the death.

Her inattention earned her a bruising blow on her kneecap.

“Awake now?” Zip taunted her. “Warmed up? Ready for the real battle to commence?”

Aranya rested her staff in the sand for a moment, renewing her grip on the wood. The staff was as tall as she was. She could keep Zip at bay with her longer reach, but the wretched girl buzzed around her like a pesky wasp on a hot summer’s day.

Without further ado, Zuziana dove into the attack. No jest. That really had been the warm-up, for her. A scowl creased the petite little face as Zip’s staff picked up speed, blurring around her head and shoulders. Her own staff jerked this way and that, trapping the blows, skittering and rasping as she pushed Zuziana away, only to have her fingers thoroughly mashed for her trouble. Smack! Her knee collapsed and Aranya went down.

Zip stepped back. “Enough, your lady-ship?”

The pun was blatant; Zip comparing her to a Dragonship. Fire smouldered dangerously within her. Again, the torches around the room flickered as though a sudden breeze had entered that dead, forgotten chamber.

She leaped to her feet. “I thought you were through with the talking, sparrow?”

They clashed furiously, driving in hard, swinging the ironwood staves with intent to break fingers and snap ribs. Around and around they battled. Their breaths started to come in gasps. Aranya’s longer arms kept Zip ineffective for periods of time, but the smaller girl was a ferocious fighter and simply would not give up. Aranya launched a powerful overhead attack, beating Zuziana to her knees with a flurry of blows, but she wriggled free and riposted, deflecting Aranya’s staff into the sand before kicking her in the stomach.

“Oof!”

Zip leaped in; Aranya swept horizontally with her staff as she rolled head-over-heels across the sand. All she collected was a mouthful of dust. Zuziana thrashed her three times on the back of her legs. Aranya broke away quickly, coughing and spitting.

“Like … your spanking?” panted the smaller girl.

Aranya flung a handful of sand into her face.

“Hey!”

She pounded Zuziana in the ribs, but her follow-up blow missed. Aranya tripped her up by trapping her toes with the point of her staff, before throwing herself on her opponent, sinking her knee into her stomach, and forcing her staff downward, trying to stifle Zuziana’s counterattack. But the crafty girl punched her right in the eye.

They fell apart, groaning.

Aranya was the first to clamber to her feet. She wiped her eye. There was blood trickling from a cut. She blinked to clear her vision. She smelled smoke in her nostrils. There was so much anger in her, so much hurt and pain at having been exiled, that she was finding it almost impossible not to pour it out on her tormentor. But she knew somehow that that decision, once made, would change everything. She had to choose a better way.

Instead, lifting her staff, she chose to channel her anger into the wood. With that as a focus, she would not be tempted to kill the girl.

Maybe.

“Yeeeeaaah!” screamed Aranya.

The strength of her assault staggered Zuziana. Aranya tried to overpower her, to beat the staff out of her hands, to break the resistance of her arms with an overwhelming attack. Her breath hissed through her teeth like a hungry fire licking around dry wood. In quick succession she scored hits on her opponent’s elbow and right thigh, followed by a skull-rattling connection with the back of her head. Zip retreated, showing real concern for the first time. But she did not give up. Suddenly she rolled in underneath Aranya’s defence and tangled with her legs. Aranya howled as Zip bit her calf muscle.

“You wretch!”

She kicked Zip away. Aranya channelled her utmost fury into the ironwood grasped in her hands. Her staff whistled down, smoking through the air. It cracked Zuziana’s staff in twain.

Both girls stared. Ironwood, broken? Impossible.

With an animalistic growl, Aranya sprang atop of her opponent. Using her superior weight and strength, she forced her staff down across Zuziana’s throat. The girl writhed and fought like a crazed rajal, but Aranya ignored the blows to her face and chest. This was for her humiliation. This was for Immadia. This was for her dead mother.

Pinned to the sand by her neck, by the wild strength coursing through her opponent, Zuziana began to choke.

“Give up? Give up?”

“Never.”

“Ladies!”

Hands, rough hands, reached in and tore them apart. Three warriors wrenched Aranya off Zuziana; another two prevented the smaller girl, who was frothing and bleeding at the mouth, from throwing herself at Aranya again. Panting, bloodied and hurting, they faced each other.

Aranya shook off the warriors’ hands. The lamps were ablaze, so much so that several had cracked with the additional heat, but as her fury cooled, so did the lighting until Nelthion, Zuziana and all the warriors glanced about them in puzzlement. She said nothing. The thought of revealing her powers snuffed out her heatedness; it scared the living pith out of her.

“Ladies. Taking a little morning exercise?” Nelthion’s tone was scathing. “Duels are expressly forbidden in my Tower. Don’t want daddies descending on this place in full battle array demanding to know what happened to their precious little Princesses.”

Aranya uncurled her fingers from the ironwood staff. The wood was charred where she had gripped it. Charred!

“Now, my men will escort you back to your rooms. You two will patch each other up. You will report to my office in one hour, together, where I will assign your punishment. Don’t ever let me see stupidity of this magnitude again.”

A warrior scooped up the two halves of Zuziana’s staff and handed them to her. “How do you break ironwood, lady?”

“Ask the monster from Immadia,” sulked Zip.

Nelthion bellowed, “Enough!”

* * * *

Zip had a broken forefinger and a swollen, split lip. She had two lumps on her forehead that made her look surprised – or like she was growing horns – and a magnificent purpling bruise across her neck. Aranya sported a black eye that by evening had swelled completely shut, despite the generous application of cool cloths. She had a generous collection of bruises in a range of colours similar to her hair. Neither of them could walk properly for a week.

The punishment Nelthion determined was for the two Princesses to serve their compatriots dinner every evening for a month, and to wash dishes in the kitchen for the same period of time. The servants loved it. Aranya was convinced the dirty dishes multiplied by themselves overnight. Their fellow-exiles missed no opportunity to take advantage of them; the torment was merciless. Dinners were suddenly well attended and lasted twice as long as before. Aranya could cheerfully have throttled any of them – and Beri, too. She, even more than Nelthion, made it clear what she thought of the Princess’ behaviour.

Aranya and Zip formed a grudging partnership – not quite a friendship, though.

When the period of punishment had run its course, Aranya disappeared into a frenzy of windroc-painting. Nelthion’s brother had placed ten orders from prospective clients.

“Your teardrop sold for five hundred gold drals,” he said.

Aranya’s mouth hung open.

“Shut the gaping rabbit-hole, petal,” said Beri.

Nelthion inquired, “What shall I do with the money?”

“Put it to my supplies?”

Beri patted her arm in a way that made Aranya growl. “Let old Beri take care of it, alright? Before we all fall off an Island laughing at your ignorance of the real world.”

She was painting up a storm late that evening when Zuziana stopped by. One moment she was delicately finishing a cruel beak, the next, a face popped out from behind her easel. “Surprise!”

Aranya clucked crossly. “Look what you made me do.”

Zip cocked her head cheekily to one side. “Maybe he’s holding a leaf in his beak.”

“My friend, if you’d ever met one of these – and I have – you’d know that beak isn’t meant for anything but tearing strips off –”

“Your favourite War-Hammer of the Sylakian hordes?”

Aranya waved her paintbrush at Zip. “Shall I paint a beard on you? Ignathion is not my favourite … anything!”

“Oh, but you’re on first-name terms with him. I’m not.” Zip added archly, “There’s a rumour circulating in Sylakia Town that you saved him from a windroc. Smooth, Immadia. Very smooth.”

“If you’re just here to cause trouble …”

“Trouble? Me?” Zuziana plucked a message scroll out of her sleeve with a flourish. “I brought you a letter from King Your-Daddy – you know, leads an Island somewhere north of, well, anywhere? You’ve been ignoring your post, never mind everyone else. People will talk.”

Aranya sighed. “Alright, what’re they saying?”

“I received ten scrolls to your one. Just look at this mountain. Advantages of having a large family. Jealous?”

“No … yes.” She cracked the Sylakian wax seal on her scroll, which would have been placed by the censor, and unfurled it. “What was it, sixteen brothers and –”

“Seventeen, as of two weeks ago. There’s a new girl in the family, unnamed as yet. Look, they sent a little drawing of her. Isn’t she just too cute?”

“Even the boys in your family are cute, Zip.”

“If you say so,” she simpered. “To me they’re just irritating brothers. Say, did I tell you that Ignathion’s son is visiting tomorrow? His name is Yolathion. Eighteen summers old.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at Aranya. “Apparently, he’s over seven feet tall.”

Aranya snorted, “What are you hinting at, ever so subtly?”

Zip’s eyes danced in a way that made her feel decidedly hot under the collar. “Maybe you should wear heels?” She parodied looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, Yolathion, at last I’ve met a man who it would hurt my neck to kiss.”

“Zuziana of Remoy!”

“I’d have him, but I’d have to drag up a ladder every time I wanted to kiss –”

“You’re preposterous.”

But Zuziana’s face grew sterner. “He’s bringing the Supreme Commander’s son on an official visit – Garthion. Have you met him?”

“No.”

“Slime. I’ve met him twice.” Zip looked as though she wanted to spit. “Thinks he owns the Island-World. Definitely has an eye for the ladies. It’s open knowledge he ordered the massacre of Jeradia Island. Now, what news from faraway Immadia?”

Aranya scanned the rest of the text quickly. “Ugh, look, the censor’s been busy. Father thanks me for giving some relief from the tax burden, that’s nice. The twins got their first daggers. My Mom’s pregnancy is progressing well.”

“Aranya, how do you break ironwood?”

“Huh?” Zip’s changes of conversational direction were the thing that would give her a neck ache, Aranya thought crossly, not some overgrown – oh, Ignathion’s son. Was this the unfolding of a strategy he had hinted at during their journey together?

“Ironwood. It’s unbreakable.”

Aranya muttered, “With the power of my little finger?”

No way was Zuziana going to surprise that secret out of her.

Chapter 5: The Butcher of Jeradia

As the three Dragonships of the official delegation manoeuvred over the Tower of Sylakia’s landing field, Aranya found herself thinking back to Zuziana’s words about Garthion, the son of Sylakia’s Supreme Commander, and therefore one of the most powerful men in the world. His moniker was the ‘Butcher of Jeradia’. During the invasion of Jeradia, the mechanism of the town gates had broken down, leaving Garthion and his troops waiting outside for three hours before they could make their triumphal entry to accept Jeradia’s surrender.

Garthion had the entire town lined up before him. He ordered his troops to slay every second person as a punishment.

Aranya wore her Immadian forked daggers openly on her belt. Perhaps the story about the windroc would deter his attention. Her stomach churned. Aranya tried to tell herself that the sense that something unpleasant was about to happen, was just a bad feeling. Her inner fires stirred fitfully, troubled and capricious.

Zuziana ginned impishly up at her. “Are we wearing heels, o Princess of Tree?”

“Do you ever stop fomenting trouble?”

“Rarely. Keep your door locked tonight.”

Two of the Dragonships descended to disgorge a bevy of richly-dressed passengers and two troops of Crimson Hammers – one hundred picked warriors, members of Sylakia’s elite regiment. The third Dragonship hovered overhead. Aranya noted the war crossbows were drawn. A row of archers kept a beady eye on proceedings.

Clearly, where Garthion moved, his Hammers moved in force.

Zip elbowed Aranya excitedly. “Oh, eyes left! He’s leopard. Isn’t that just leopard?”

“Leopard? Where?”

“Him, you silly … as in, I’d like a chunky fillet of that, lightly grilled? As in, he floats my Dragonship around the twin suns?”

“I know that one,” said Aranya, smiling at Zip’s chattering.

As she smiled, the uniformed young giant who was the object of her attention happened to notice her regard. His fellow-officers, obviously perplexed by his distraction, whirled and stared at the two Princesses. One of them punched the tall one on the arm.

“Leopard,” Zip breathed, fanning herself discreetly. “Lean, lithe, luscious … leopard.” Aranya resisted an urge to slap her. “Oh mercy, he’s coming this way.”

He had to be Ignathion’s son. The likeness was unmistakable; he was a younger, slimmer version of his father, but broad-shouldered and muscular enough to be beyond the first growth of manhood. As he approached them, Yolathion removed his helm. He was clean-shaven and angular of cheek and jowl. His eyes smouldered darkly beneath a flip of black hair.

Aranya’s smile widened.

Intending to tuck his helmet beneath his arm, Yolathion dropped it instead, stumbled in scooping it up and came to a skidding halt before the two Princesses. His tan face flushed. “Your smile made me drop my … uh, Aranya? You must be Aranya of Immadia?”

“I am.” Aranya offered her right hand; the giant warrior seized it as though his life depended on it, blew upon her fingers, made the sign of the peace twice, and kissed her palm as though he wished to imprint his kisses upon her heart. The fire within her sighed. This was no flare, but more like a bank of coals glowing red-hot, spreading molten heat throughout her being.

“You’re beautiful,” she sighed. The sharp end of Zip’s elbow rapped her ribcage. “Uh, I mean Yolathion, son of Ignathion? I’m … pleased to meet you, at last. I am Immadia. Aranya, I mean. Princess.”

“Eloquent,” Zip muttered next to her elbow.

“Yolathion,” he rumbled. With endearing earnestness he added, “Princess, I’m eternally grateful to you for allowing the windroc to – ah – not rearrange more than my father’s hairstyle. Allow me to convey the appreciation of my family … my father’s consorts, my brothers, my sister and I. We thank you for your gift. It’s an extraordinary piece of artist. Artwork, I mean.” He reddened. “My tongue is as graceless as you are graceful, o Princess of Immadia.”

She had the impression he had practised this speech. Yolathion’s fingers nervously traced the seating of the red plume on his helm.

“Aranya,” she said. “Call me Aranya.”

Zip cleared her throat.

“Oh – sorry. Yolathion, may I introduce my friend Zuziana, the Princess of Remoy?”

Her friend? Aranya was surprised at herself. When had that happened?

Zuziana looked as though she were about to faint as he kissed her palm. Aranya was on the point of saying something sarcastic and most likely regrettable when Yolathion straightened up. By the mountains of Immadia, he was tall! Aranya was grateful for every inch of her height. And his voice! That bass of his did something inexplicable deep in her belly. She could spend hours just listening to him speak … Aranya shook herself mentally. This was crazy. She had only just met the man.

“You’re tall,” he blurted out. “For a woman, I mean.”

“Heels,” said Aranya.

“Oh.”

“But you’re taller.”

Aranya desperately wanted to string a few coherent sentences together. Why act like a dazed ralti sheep now? With her eyes, she begged Zip for help. Zuziana seemed to be bottling up a most enormous snort of laughter. Aranya’s cheeks coloured even further.

But before the awkward silence could develop further, Yolathion volunteered, “You must tell me how you slew the windroc, Aranya. Are those Immadian forked daggers? May I see them?”

“Her story was true?” Zuziana interjected. “She really killed a windroc?”

“With these,” said Yolathion, rotating the twin-bladed daggers in his fingers. Strengthened and sharpened by a secret forging process, the daggers were renowned throughout the Island-World. “My father said to inform you, my lady, that the heart is lower in the body, more toward a windroc’s stomach, than at the level of the chest where you first stabbed it. Are your wounds all healed?”

“Yes, thank you. The crysglass cuts were clean and healed fast.”

“Very fast, according to the physician,” he said. “You must tell me all about Immadia, Princess. And Remoy,” he added, although it was clear which one he meant. “Ah, here comes Garthion. Allow me to introduce you.”

Aranya, grateful for the change of topic from her healing powers, was nonetheless displeased at this interruption.

Garthion was stocky and swarthy, her height without the high heels but thrice her girth. Every movement of his body bespoke absolute, arrogant authority. His gaze, seen over her proffered hand, came from eyes of a pale, watered-down blue, which seemed to contain crystals of ice to her fire. Instead of kissing her palm, he licked it.

Licked it!

Aranya started to wipe her hand on her skirts, before stopping herself cold with a shudder.

“I see they’re making women in your size now, Yolathion,” he commented. “You’ll have to tell me what that’s like. I am Garthion, First War-Hammer of Sylakia, firstborn of the Supreme Commander himself. Look kindly upon me, ladies, and it shall go well with your kingdoms.”

He bowed slightly over Zuziana’s hand and repeated the vile palm-licking exercise. Aranya found herself wincing on Zip’s behalf. She could have slapped Garthion for his clumsy attempt at intimidation.

“Remoy,” he sneered. “You and I need to talk about taxes. Your family has reneged on my share of late.” He turned to Aranya with an unctuous smile. “I wish to view these famous artworks of yours. I will visit you in your chambers after dinner. Perhaps I can persuade you to paint my portrait?”

Aranya inclined her head graciously. “As you wish, First War-Hammer.”

“See you at dinner.”

To his departing back, Aranya murmured, “I’d rather paint a slug …”

At exactly the same moment, Zip spat, “I think I’m going to puke.”

“Ladies,” said Yolathion. “You must excuse me, but I have duties to perform, settling in the firstborn scion of the realm in a manner fitting to his station.”

But Aranya saw a wry smile touch his lips. The nuances in his delivery told her exactly what he thought of Garthion’s behaviour.

He clicked his boots together and made to depart.

“Wait!” Aranya blurted out. “Will you escort me – us, rather – to dinner, Yolathion?”

She wished the Cloudlands would rise and wreath her to cover her chagrin. A desperate reach for the moons, Princess of Immadia!

But Yolathion executed a military about-turn. With an engaging grin, he said, “You just saved me too, Princess.”

And he almost fumbled his helm a second time.

“That went nicely,” Zuziana cooed at Aranya, making a silly face.

“Don’t you say a word!”

“Dazzle him again with your smile and he’ll walk slap into a wall for you.”

“Zip, you’re a pocket Dragon, I swear.”

But, for the first time since her incarceration, Aranya felt light-hearted. What Beri or King Beran would say to a romance with a Sylakian officer, she could easily imagine. But Sylakians couldn’t be all bad – he wasn’t even Sylakian. She remembered Ignathion talking about his family’s roots on Jeradia Island, the same Island where Garthion had carried out his butchery. They had moved from Jeradia the previous century when Ignathion’s ancestor relocated to Sylakia to find work as a stonemason.

He was the enemy.

Her heart winged away over the Cloudlands regardless.

* * * *

A massive storm roared in and crashed around the Tower of Sylakia that evening, drowning out even the efforts of the rajals, who seemed strangely agitated. Forked lightning struck the Tower over and over, making Aranya glance nervously up at the vaulted stained glass windows of the dining hall, half expecting the storm to explode through. She did not know if it was the presence of a hundred red-robed Crimson Hammers around the perimeter of the hall, or Garthion and his brooding glances, that made her feel so jittery.

Aranya jumped as the lamps and candles flared around the room. Nerves, girl. Control the fire!

She apologised five times to Yolathion.

She danced the traditional fourth-course interlude with him, but felt clumsy because neither of them knew the other’s style – they danced it differently in Immadia. She wished he would have taken a stronger lead. Did he notice the heat radiating from her body? He kept looking at her a little askance. She picked half-heartedly at the different dishes. The food tasted like ash on her tongue. Her nerves and misgivings, combined with a sense of evil abroad and the feelings of her treacherous heart toward Yolathion, made a part of Aranya long for the evening to end soon.

Another part wished it would never end. Once he conquered his nerves, Yolathion was charming and not nearly as stern as she had imagined – an altogether sunnier personality than his father, she realised, when he allowed his true self to peek out from behind that military exterior. He had her and Zuziana in stitches over his description of a prank he had played on his father involving a pot of glue and Ignathion’s combat boots.

Later, Garthion sat for a preliminary sketch in her chambers and made snide innuendoes in her direction for the duration of the most teeth-grinding half-hour of her life. Aranya knew something was badly wrong when Beri pretended to trip to put out a fire brewing beneath the drapes with a pitcher of prekki-fruit juice.

“Clumsy fool,” sniffed Garthion.

Aranya’s inner response crisped the corners of her sketch paper.

Afterward, she excused herself and went straight to bed.

She dreamed of standing on the highest tower of Immadia’s castle, confronting the storm, her fire raging against the lightning, her screams defying the thunderclaps, a rebellious inferno seething up into her throat and spilling out … and felt Beri’s hand upon her shoulder, urgency in her voice, warning her about a fire blazing in an empty corner of her chambers. She slept. The storm changed, the great thunderheads morphing into a many-headed Black Dragon, as vast and wide as the sky. Its roaring shook her world to its foundations, shattering the cliffs of her Island and battering her mind until it drove her into shrieking insanity.

Beri shook her again. Fire crackled in the corners of the room.

After that, Aranya could not sleep.

“You’re burning up, petal,” said Beri.

“Do you think I’m going crazy, Beri?”

“I think you might be sick. Let me mix you some feverbane.”

Aranya sat on her bed, holding her knees. She rocked back and forth. Maybe she was sick. Maybe the power wasn’t trying to consume her from within. How, if a person held so much fire within her, did she not simply burn up?

She pictured the Black Dragon from her dream. She could never paint him. If she did, he might come alive off the canvas.

The feverbane helped. But Aranya forced herself to stay awake.

After breakfast, taken in her chambers, Yolathion appeared at her door to request that she accompany him for a morning stroll around the Tower. He wore his combat armour. The breastplate was immaculate and his boots polished to a spotless sheen. This time there was no incident with the helmet. He had left it behind.

Ignoring the dangerous glint in Beri’s eye, Aranya accepted his invitation with glee, even though she felt unwell.

Yolathion seemed to know his way around the Tower of Sylakia. Shortly, they exited the building just south of the Last Walk. Aranya had never been so grateful for crisp air upon her cheek. The morning had that unmatched freshness of a storm’s aftermath. The rajals growled and purred in their stone moat. Bald vultures picked busily at a carcass almost beneath the rajals’ noses. Cheeky hummingbirds darted around the massive, shallow stone planters that housed thousands of the red Sylakian fireflowers, which bloomed all year round.

Yolathion led her solicitously around the shattered roof tiles scattering the granite flagstones. He seemed concerned she might slip on a damp patch of rock. Telling herself it was only a pretence of need, Aranya leaned on his strong arm – too good an opportunity to miss. She could barely have kept on her feet otherwise.

“You seem recovered from last night,” he said, after they had chatted in inconsequentialities for a half-circuit of the Tower.

“Actually, I’m dosed up to the eyeballs with feverbane – and feeling faint,” said Aranya.

“Shall we sit awhile?”

Aranya eyed the walkway, which seemed to sway uneasily. She felt airsick – and she had never been airsick in her life. Whatever was the matter with her? She let Yolathion lead her to a stone bench. Aranya settled on the stone thinking she should simply lie down to try to absorb some of its coolness. His hand touched her brow.

“By the Islands!” he gasped. “Aranya … Princess!”

“Can I lay my head on your lap?”

She did not care if it was an unthinkable breach of protocol. Yolathion shifted to accommodate her. Lowering her head, Aranya’s stomach heaved. She lurched forward, vomiting her breakfast down his leg and all over his boots.

“Oh … oh, sorry.” Aranya moaned as her stomach clenched. More flooded out of her mouth. “Oh, Yolathion …”

“You’re ill. You’ve a raging fever,” he said, holding her gently. “Come. Back to your chambers, now, Immadia.”

“I don’t think –”

Her world lurched. “No problem.” Aranya realised he had lifted her with no apparent effort. She put her arms around his neck. Resting her head on his shoulder, she concentrated on not throwing up all over him again.

Halfway back around the outside of the Tower, Aranya groaned. Yolathion had the presence of mind to aim her at a nearby bush.

After an interminable time of bobbing against his shoulder, her nostrils filled with the redolence of a warrior’s leather and metal body armour, she heard knocking at a door.

“We’ve not said the promise banns yet,” she sighed.

Yolathion chuckled. “I’m not depositing you outside of your doorway, Princess. Straight into bed with you. We shall wink at tradition.”

“Oh. You’re a dreadful seducer …”

Beri said, “The Princess?”

“She’s ill. Delirious,” said Yolathion. “A high fever. Best get more feverwort into her. I’ll have ice fetched from the kitchens. They’ll have had nets out for the hail last night.”

“And several buckets,” said Beri.

Buckets? Buckets of water for the fires she might spark? Or for her rebellious stomach?

Aranya sighed as her head touched the cool pillow-roll. For a moment her fingers clung to the nape of Yolathion’s neck, before her hand flopped onto the bed.

She wept at the loss.

* * * *

By the evening of the third day after being taken ill, Aranya felt greatly improved. Anything was better than hanging wretchedly over a bucket while her intestines tried to turn themselves inside-out. She had even managed a little painting that afternoon.

As she walked down to the dining hall with Beri, she asked, for the tenth time, “Zip hasn’t been … she hasn’t called by?”

“No,” said Beri. “That little scrap’s probably just busy with her other friends. You know how fickle she is.”

But when everyone at dinner claimed not to have seen her for days, Aranya knew something was wrong. Badly wrong.

She ran.

“Get help!” she yelled over her shoulder, exiting the hall.

She rebuked herself for an idiot. All those feelings. All that uneasiness – it was as clear as crysglass to her, now. She sprinted upstairs and along the corridors. Her slippers smacked the floor, helter-skelter. She cannoned off a corner. Sobbing. Panting. Pumping her arms and legs as she flew along those endless, dingy corridors. Wildfire burned in her throat. Aranya sprinted on the wings of a conflagration. A curtained alcove ignited with a soft whomp! She sprinted by.

Selfish, Aranya, she screamed inwardly. The illness. All things Yolathion. Stupid, prekki-fruit mush-brain, what had she been thinking? An open threat about Remoy’s taxes. Garthion was the key. He had done something to her friend. Aranya’s gut twisted and knotted at her anguish. She careened around the final corner.

She skidded to a halt outside Zip’s door. It had been guarded that night. What had happened? Why had nobody else noticed?

Her hand hesitated on the door handle.

Pressing open the door, Aranya saw Zuziana lying abed. She lay terribly still. A stench pervaded the room. Death. All around Zip, the sheets were soaked with blood. There was so much blood, it had dripped through the mattress and marked a trail toward the doorway. Bloody boot-prints stamped the floor and rugs. She bit her knuckles. Her senses took in the details, but her mind was too numbed to process them. A man lay beside the bathroom door – a Tower guard, his head skewed at an impossible angle. Rats scattered at her approach. Zuziana lying so crumpled, so torn, her dress shredded across her torso, the crusted mess of blood-sodden cloth …

The girl moved. A moan issued from her lips.

Aranya gasped.

This was Garthion’s doing. It had to be. Garthion and his perverted palm-licking. Garthion’s vile whispers. Aranya knew she had to help Zuziana, but horror rooted her feet to the stone. She could not move. Zip must have lain here for three days. Much of the blood was dry; darkened. How could she still be alive? Poor, broken Zip.

Abruptly, as though tugged by an unseen leash, she jerked her legs into motion.

Leaning over the bed, Aranya laid her hand on Zuziana’s brow and gave what she had. It was little. Just strength, just a stirring of healing. She spoke to her, words she could not recall afterward. Suddenly Beri rushed into the room. Moments later, Nelthion arrived with a physician in tow, who took one look at the Princess’ condition and shook his head.

“It’ll take a miracle,” he said. But he bent to his work.

That evening, Aranya force-fed herself on sweet fruits and cake and then tried to heal Zuziana again. She was stronger, this time. But the effort drained her more. She wished she knew something, anything, about what she was doing, or even how. After Beri showed her how to work pulped fruit down Zuziana’s throat, she whiled away the hours – eleven hours of daylight and sixteen of night in this season – feeding her friend and encouraging her to fight. She tried to heal her whenever she had the strength. Was it helping? She despaired.

They arranged to move Zip into Aranya’s room to better take care of her.

Looking down at Zip’s ruined, bandaged body, Beri whispered, “A whipping like that, Aranya? I don’t know if she’ll make it. But the physician said – the only blessing, if any can be found in this – that there was no other abuse, only the whip.”

“He aimed to disfigure,” said Aranya, shaking. “I saw ribs through her skin, Beri! What kind of man, what evil …”

Her maidservant shook her head. “May he fall into a Cloudlands volcano and burn to ashes.”

“What about those nightmares Zip’s been having?” Aranya rubbed her eyes. Using so much healing power had made her so tired, she wobbled on her feet and had to hold the bedpost for support. “She’ll give me nightmares – screaming about burning red eyes – Beri, is it me? Is she afraid of me? My fire?”

“Could be, petal.” But Beri’s blunt honesty came tempered with a gentle hand on Aranya’s arm. “Don’t blame yourself. It’s more likely the torture.”

One person dreaming about Dragons and fire was enough. Aranya hoped she had not infected her friend, too.

The following day, when Aranya asked the physician why he had not stitched Zip’s wounds, he told her that there was not enough skin left to stitch together. Later, when Aranya laid her hands on Zuziana, she concentrated very hard on thinking about how the skin should regrow and heal over the trenches criss-crossing her chest and stomach.

She finished Garthion’s portrait that evening. Beri’s hand flew to her heart when she saw it. “You’ve captured the spirit of his cruelty, Aranya,” she said. “I’m not sure it’s wise to show that to anyone.”

Aranya scowled at the wall as though her gaze would melt the stone. “Beri, I dreamed about the Black Dragon again last night. Where do you think powers like mine come from? Do you think there was a connection between that dream, my illness and what happened to Zuziana? Am I growing unstable?”

“So that’s why you were talking in your sleep.”

“You put out a fire, Beri. I smelled it this morning.”

“I did, petal. That I did.” Beri shook her head. “I only wish your mother had told us more about herself, Aranyi. I’m afraid the guards here will start to talk. Nelthion runs a tight Dragonship, but all it takes is one word …”

Two days later, Zuziana opened her eyes for the first time. The physician, who was unwrapping the bandages from her chest, called Beri and Aranya over. Then he caught his breath.

“New skin,” he explained. “Look here, and here … amazing. I’ve never seen the like. But it’s good. Very good.”

“Where am I?” asked Zip.

“Here, in my room.”

She whispered something. Beri leaned in close to listen.

“What did she say?” asked Aranya.

“She asked if she still has breasts.” She stroked Zuziana’s cheek. “You’ll get better, petal. You’ll see.”

Tears spilled freely down Aranya’s cheeks.

From that day on, the Princess of Remoy began to recover – but the process was slow and painful, even though Aranya healed her repeatedly. The Zip who emerged was subdued and spoke little. She would say nothing about what she had endured. She did not weep, but there was a lingering sadness in her eyes that Aranya yearned to lift.

* * * *

“Ooh, Dragons,” said Zip, chewing thoughtfully on a chunk of dried haribol fruit as she peered at the painting Aranya was working on.

“Ooh, highly illegal,” said Aranya. “Don’t look.”

Zuziana started to snort, but a piece of the violently tart fruit – Aranya refused to eat haribol – stuck in her throat. Aranya swooped in and thwacked her on the back.

“Ouch! You’re stronger than you think, Immadia.”

“Sorry, Remoy,” Aranya wiped her brow, paintbrush in hand.

She wished the old fizz would return to Zuziana’s personality. Now, a month after her ordeal, the diminutive Princess just dropped her gaze and went back to chewing that gum-frazzling fruit with a blank expression on her face. Aranya wondered if she ate haribol to punish herself. How could she think that whipping was her fault? She had overheard Zip and Beri whispering one night after the Princess awoke, whimpering.

She had all sorts of nasty, creative thoughts about what she’d like to do to Garthion, given half a chance.

“Aranya,” Zuziana whispered. “Fire.”

Sighing, Aranya popped the paintbrush into her water-cup to put out the fire. It was ruined. Just one hot thought had ignited the brush. She tried to ignore how Zuziana shrank from her when the fire manifested.

Fire came to her all too easily, recently.

Zuziana said, “You’ll learn to control it, Aranya. I know you will. Maybe if you thought about Dragons less, the fire wouldn’t appear?”

She picked another paintbrush to chew on. “Hmm.”

“You have a thing for Dragons.”

“I’ve a thing for an enemy officer. I threw up all over him last I saw him, Zip. Now he’s off campaigning against pirates. He’ll be gone for months.”

“Meantime, this Princess I know spends ten hours getting a Dragon’s haunches exactly right. That, my friend, counts as a thing.”

Heat flared in Aranya’s cheeks. “You imp!” Reflexively, she dunked her paintbrush in the water. It sizzled. “I do not have a thing for Dragons. How’s your chest?”

“Not as fine as a Dragon’s mighty chest. But it’ll do – I’ve you to thank for that.”

“You don’t mind having a friend … a weird friend?”

Aranya thought she might make a joke, but Zip only said, very softly, “You were the one who came for me. That’s worth a million times weird.”

Aranya had to duck her head to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. “Uh – Beri said she’d never seen a Princess of Immadia lose her dignity so fast.” A deep, ragged breath steadied her inner fires. “Zip, what do you think happened to all the Dragons? They lived with us; lived among Humans until a hundred years ago. Then they just vanished. The stories were wiped out as thoroughly as the Dragons. All the Dragon lore-books and scrolls were banned and burned; the last Dragons driven away or killed. What happened? What went wrong?”

“I don’t know,” said Zuziana. She twisted her hands in her lap, but suddenly her blue eyes appeared to brighten. “But I do know Remoy would be the place to ask. We had the last Dragon. Remoy’s always loved the old ways. It was only when the Sylakians invaded that the old Green Dragon was found in the deep forests of the interior. It took two whole Hammers to defeat him. He killed thirty-two men. They thought it so glorious, Aranya. He was old, blind and could not fly.”

Aranya digested this for a long time before she asked, “Zip, the dates in my head don’t add up. How many summers have you spent here in the Tower?”

“Only two,” she said. “My older sister died here. Blood fever. I’m her substitute.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I wished I had died, too, Aranya. But then I realised they’d only demand another member of my family. Maybe it’s better this way.”

Aranya could think of nothing to say to this, so she resumed painting.

Zip was right. She packed away the Dragon. It would only end up roaring at her in her dreams.

Chapter 6: Changeling

With the arrival of spring, three months after the attack on Zuziana, Supreme Commander Thoralian organised a banquet to be held at the Tower of Sylakia in honour of his conquest of the Island-World north of the Rift. It was rumoured he intended to announce his impending invasion of Herimor, and to make a spectacle of two notorious pirates, forcing them to walk the Last Walk.

Aranya would unveil her portrait of his son Garthion at the banquet.

She dreamed vividly and often of the great Black Dragon, but could not understand what he was roaring at her. Every time she thought of Garthion’s impending arrival at the Tower, Aranya burned something – clothes, hangings, or one of her paintings. Often, small whirlwinds of fire developed in the corners of rooms she was in. She saw Beri and Zip watching her wide-eyed. But she had no choice. She could not escape. She would have to attend the Supreme Commander’s ball. Every exile who attended would be chained to a Sylakian warrior, so that escape was impossible. That was Nelthion’s command.

Only Zuziana was excused. Beri had negotiated her release from the evening on the grounds of ill health. Zip did not say it, but Aranya knew her friend would rather die than face Garthion again.

“Immadia was not invited,” Aranya groaned.

“But I’ve arranged a surprise for you.”

She gazed at Zuziana, eyebrows raised. “What? I thought you were going into hiding?”

“I am. Wear your new heels.”

“You haven’t stopped teasing me about Ignathion and Yolathion’s attendance, Zip. Is your family coming from Remoy?”

She shook her head, and withdrew like a mountain tortoise into her shell.

On the eve of the banquet, Aranya could not stop fidgeting. She wore a fine Helyon silk gown which matched the amethyst of her eyes, floor-length even over the stylish and no doubt outrageously expensive four-inch heels Zuziana had directed Beri to purchase, over Aranya’s protests. She positively towered over Beri and her friend – not that she could see them. To her great disquiet, Zip had blindfolded her.

“Wait here,” she had instructed.

Aranya fretted.

What luckless guard of Nelthion’s cohort would she draw for the evening? And what dancing could she manage, chained to a fully-armed escort?

The door opened and creaked shut.

Footsteps approached. Boots, she thought, swallowing down the fires of fear. Unseen hands fitted the prescribed chain about her waist and left wrist. She heard the clicking of oiled locks being snapped shut. Why the mystery? What had Zuziana arranged? Did she hear breathing above her? Above her height?

“Incomparable Immadia,” a voice whispered in her ear. Her right palm tingled at the customary three kisses. “We meet again.”

Aranya shivered right down to her toes. “Yolathion!”

She blinked as he removed the blindfold. “Aye,” he rumbled. “Will you consent to accompany me to this ball, Princess Aranya?”

A brilliant smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “What choice has this poor captive, o dread pirate?”

The deep tan of his skin made his grin flash unexpectedly. Aranya was grateful for that, because the way he overshadowed her was not entirely comforting. He said, “Nay, forsooth, for I hold thee chained aboard my Dragonship, o maiden most fair, bound for exotic Isles hid beyond the farthest horizons. Treacherous Remoy hath betrayed thee into my hand. As truly as I live, never again shall our ways be parted.”

“I tremble, thou monster.”

“I heard about Princess Zuziana,” he said. “Is she recovered enough to attend?”

“Not enough, but she’s much better. Thank you for asking.”

Yolathion tugged lightly on her chain. “Walk with me, Aranya. My father had you fifteen days in captivity. I have only just begun.”

Flame stole into her belly at his words. Were all Sylakians like this, she wondered, glorying in the subjugation of the Islands? He said it flippantly. But how much truth lay behind his smiles? How much had Ignathion primed him – because if she judged the father correctly, Yolathion would not have been left uninformed about the Princess of Immadia.

She could not expunge the image of Zuziana’s broken, bloodied body from her memory.

So the banquet and the dancing became a strange time for her. Aranya felt somehow a traitor to Immadia, to her father and brothers and the Immadian people. Her volatile feelings swung from the pleasure of being with Yolathion to utter despair. What future could a political exile have with a rising star of the Sylakian realm? Could she hope that the exiles would one day be freed? The system of hostage-taking was nothing more than an archaic, unnecessary affectation of the Sylakian overlords. What had they to fear save Herimor? And no-one expected an invasion from there.

She spent a pleasant hour reacquainting herself with First War-Hammer Ignathion. Did his eyes glitter when he saw Aranya chained to his son? Ignathion introduced her to his two heavily made-up consorts, who were wearing traditional Sylakian gowns in deep red. She was pleased to be half a head taller than either of them, for their evident jealousy seemed only a little mollified by Yolathion’s presence at her side. But at one point in the conversation, like a squall striking unexpectedly out of the Cloudlands, Ignathion said:

“There’s a rumour doing the rounds in Sylakia, Aranya, that no-one who paints like you can be of mortal stock. They’re saying you have powers. Some wonder who she is who resides in the Tower of Sylakia, who commands fire and lightning and storms.”

Aranya manufactured a laugh. “And I fly over the Cloudlands by night in the form of a monstrous bat?”

But the oil lanterns in the great hall flared in cadence with her words.

Ignathion’s consorts exchanged glances.

Later, just before she was to present the portrait, Aranya caught sight of the two women moving away from Garthion’s table. Had they spoken to him? About what – an Immadian enchantress? What did this portend? The fires churned afresh in her stomach.

Sparky. Trust her mother to choose such a fitting nickname. How could she have known?

All of the glittering notables of Sylakia were present at the Supreme Commander’s banquet. Few leaders, nobles and royalty from the other Islands had been invited. Reds and burgundies dominated the colour choices for the evening, from the ladies in their Sylakian evening gowns, flared from the waist into a wide train, to the hundred elite Crimson Hammers guarding the room in their black uniforms and red cloaks. Yolathion wore his dress uniform, highly polished black combat boots and black gloves. A ceremonial silver hammer hung from his belt. But his cloak was amethyst in keeping with her chosen colour for the evening. A brave choice, Aranya thought, wondering what it signified. Five medals of bravery and two of honour decorated Yolathion’s chest.

What passed for honour amongst Sylakians? Aranya held her head high. She was a Princess of Immadia.

The blast of a trump cut through the babble.

“Come,” said Yolathion. “It’s your turn.”

There had been speeches – mercifully brief speeches – between each of the courses of the magnificent banquet. Perhaps a long speech earned a hammer-blow to the toes. Aranya felt dizzy and grateful for Yolathion’s presence as he led her up to the small stage, which had been installed for the occasion. She eyed the large lampstands at the rear of the stage with trepidation. The lights beckoned her, seducing her senses, kindling the powers within her.

She had considered calling her work The Butcher of Jeradia. It would have been apt. Instead, she had left it untitled.

Garthion waited on stage. His father Thoralian sat in the seat of honour, front and centre. His dark eyes hinted at dark, unspoken emotions as she passed by. ‘Immadia’ she heard someone hiss. And, ‘enchantress.’ Clearly, little had been forgiven or forgotten. Aranya stiffened her back. She would represent Immadia with honour.

The herald, dressed in unrelenting crimson, looked like a blot of blood onstage. He raised his arms for silence.

A touch awkwardly, given the chain linking her to Yolathion’s right wrist, the Immadian Princess and her escort ascended to the platform.

Clearing her throat, Aranya pitched her voice to carry out into the hall. “I have not lived many summers upon the Island-World. Those I remember were consumed with the battle between the forces of Sylakia and Immadia,” she said, grateful that her voice remained clear and steady. “In the fall of last year, First War-Hammer Ignathion brought King Beran’s resistance to an end, thus completing Sylakia’s conquest of the realms north of Herimor and the Rift.”

A great roar of approval from the throng startled her into silence. The Sylakians stamped their boots and thundered their fists on the tables, making the fine porcelain leap about. A crystal glass shattered somewhere further back in the hall. At length, the herald beckoned for calm.

“I am honoured to represent the Kingdom of Immadia before you today –”

“Slave!” someone yelled.

A round of cruel laughter echoed amongst the rafters. Yolathion touched her elbow as if wishing to transfer strength to her.

“Without further ado,” she announced, bright of cheek and pulsating of heart, “I give you my portrait of Garthion, son of the Supreme Commander.”

She tugged the cover off the painting.

At exactly the same moment, driven to a fever pitch by her surging emotions, the two lamps behind the stage burst into flames. Everyone in the room gasped as one. Perhaps they thought it planned.

The painting was a half-length portrait of Garthion in his Hammers dress uniform, drawing back his arm to strike, but he held a whip in his hand rather than a Sylakian war hammer. Behind his head, deliberately drawn in a similar posture, was the head and body of a windroc striking with its claws, wings outspread, although their victim was off-canvas. She had blended the two torsos together, so that they seemed to belong to one creature.

“Extraordinary,” breathed Yolathion.

Garthion seemed taken aback. He stared at himself; after a time, however, Aranya saw a perverse smile creep around the edges of his mouth. He said, “I see authority and strength in this man. You’ve captured my power perfectly.”

What others saw as cruelty, the Sylakian viewed as strength and authority. Aranya exhaled. Now she knew she must go through with her plan.

The Supreme Commander began a slow boot-tramp of approval. The sound picked up in the hall until the rafters rang once more. Aranya bowed her head stiffly and held her palm upward to acknowledge the crowd’s approval.

Garthion drew unexpectedly close. He hissed, “So, this is what slavery means, Princess of Immadia. I see you have understood the lesson well.”

Aranya touched her tongue to her lips. “My lord, I haven’t told you how the painting was executed. You have probably noticed how deep and dark is the red of your robes. I used real blood mixed in with the red paint to create the precise effect. It will continue to darken with age.”

“Real blood? How innovative. You’ve produced a masterpiece.”

“My lord, all of the blood in this painting came from the Princess of Remoy. I hope you like it.”

Garthion’s whole body jolted, but his reply was cool. “I do indeed, Immadia.”

Aranya sensed that she had touched the core of something deep and abhorrent within the man; he indicated nothing outwardly, but his animosity was roused toward her. This challenge to his authority would not go unpunished.

She shuddered.

* * * *

“That was foolish,” Yolathion remonstrated with her. “You’ve made yourself a very powerful and dangerous enemy.”

Just outside the doors of the banqueting hall, chained to him, Aranya had no choice but to stand and listen. “How is what he did acceptable, Yolathion? Tell me that.”

“Aranya. You’ve a fever again. Please.”

“I’m mad, that’s what!”

“There are different rules for the son of the Supreme Commander.”

She almost choked. “You’re defending him? That sadistic –”

“Hush.” Yolathion covered her mouth with his hand. Aranya bit his finger, not gently, but he did not relent. He said, “Here he comes now. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll apologise.”

Her anger burned against Yolathion. But for Garthion, she knew only hatred.

“Yolathion,” said his superior, “a word with you concerning the security arrangements for this evening.”

They drew aside to an alcove, Aranya following like a chained pet. She heard a dull thud. Aranya froze.

Yolathion’s eyes rolled up in his head. He collapsed, dragging her down on top of him. She realised he had been struck with a hammer. Aranya kicked out and began to scream, but a warrior’s hand clapped a cloth over her mouth. A sickly sweet smell filled her nostrils; her head spun.

“Hurry.”

A posse of Crimson Hammers surrounded them. They were swiftly dragged onto a square of canvas. Strong hands gripped the edges. They jogged deeper into the Tower – not far, because the next thing Aranya knew, was they were in a room. There was a bare bed, no mattress. The door slammed. Aranya had no doubt a dozen Sylakian Hammers stood without, ready to repulse any curious guests from the Supreme Commander’s ball.

The warriors dumped Yolathion and Aranya together upon the floor.

“Strip her,” said Garthion. “I’m going to teach this Immadian wretch a lesson she’ll never forget. First the father, now the daughter. Will Immadia never learn?”

Aranya’s head cleared. She sensed this was a plan well executed. She lay on her Jeradian flame’s lap, still chained to him. But there were warriors all around her, burly men who knew how to grip her arms and legs so that she could not fight back. A dagger ripped the cloth of her sleeve. Another started on the hem of her long dress. She balled up her fists and tried to wrench her arms loose.

“Garthion,” groaned Yolathion. “What are you doing?”

“This Immadian whore is an enchantress,” he replied. “I intend to extract a confession out of her. She might be beautiful now, but she won’t be by the time I’m through with her.”

Yolathion was speaking next to her ear, but Aranya heard nothing over the crackling in her ears caused by Garthion’s words. Flames hissed into being, roused by the pitch of her dread and distress. A whirlwind of fire sprang to life and whirled briefly in the corner of the room.

“See?” Garthion shouted.

Beneath her, she felt the giant warrior’s body tense.

The perverse pleasure writ on Garthion’s face as he uncoiled the whip was unbearable. Aranya bucked, fighting the restraining hands and the chains, but they were too many and too strong. Her skin prickled unbearably as the fire fought to find a chink in her armour. She flailed; fabric ripped along her torso.

Yolathion bravely tried to raise his silver hammer. Would he defend her? “Aranya?” he asked. “Is this accusation true?”

He would not defend her.

Heat gathered within her as though superheated winds blew into her body from all directions, a furnace of white heat building in her torso, sparks spitting off her fingertips and from her eyes. One of the men holding her jerked back with a shout as his tunic burst into flame with a soft ‘whoosh.’ Aranya tried desperately to deny the blaze, but her fear for her life had fuelled its savage domination. Wildfire ravaged her being. Somewhere, the Black Dragon roared at her.

Garthion cracked the whip across her torso. “Take that!”

A weal of pain seared her body. The flames surged. Aranya realised she was roaring like that Dragon. Roaring her fury.

Yolathion. She’d kill Yolathion!

No!

Aranya rammed the fire outward.

The concussion blasted the bed up against the wall. It blew the door off its hinges. Garthion, sheathed in flame, was slammed into the opposite wall with appalling force. The warriors holding Aranya’s arms and legs fared even worse.

She faded.

Somewhere, far in the distance, she heard a voice say, “You melted my boots.”

* * * *

When Aranya’s eyes cracked open, it was to light upon the stars nestled between Jade’s crescent arms. A night bird flew by overhead. She saw that she wore the remains of her dress, and a mountain of chains.

For the first time in her life, she felt cold.

Torchlight flickered nearby. Drawn by the light, she turned her head on the cold stone. A grim throng rolled into view. Mostly Sylakians, they wore heavy red robes against the pre-dawn cold. She realised where she lay.

The Last Walk.

“We await the hour of judgement.”

Her eyes flicked to Yolathion. He stood ramrod-straight nearby; it was he who had spoken, but his voice had never sounded so devoid of life, Aranya thought. She could not speak. Her mouth was stuffed full of cloth. A rope tied it in place, pulling her lips back cruelly. They would not care for the comfort of a proven enchantress.

All she could do was watch and wait.

She would fly.

Now there was an irony.

Slowly, a perversely exquisite dawn fired the eastern sky. The stars became indistinct. The crowd stirred slightly to allow Beri, Zuziana and Nelthion through to the front. Aranya could not bear what she saw in their faces. She closed her eyes.

Her thoughts were choked with regrets. The dawn, her last dawn, had never seemed so evocative. She feared to watch it.

But when boots tapped the flagstones, approaching her, Aranya opened her eyes. From a distance of twenty feet or more, the Supreme Commander glared at her. It was a cold comfort that he kept such a distance for his safety. Aranya could not have summoned so much as a puff of smoke. Her inner fires were mute.

“My son lives,” he announced.

The crowd murmured. Aranya let out a breath she had not known she was holding.

The Sylakian spat, “But you burned him, Immadian enchantress. You cast the fires of your magic into his face and burned his sight from him. You killed four Sylakian Hammers.” The Supreme Commander addressed the crowd. “The penalty for an enchantress is death. The penalty for burning my son is death. Accordingly, I sentence you, Aranya, Princess of Immadia, to walk the Last Walk until your body is seen to fall into the Cloudlands. May there be nothing left for the vultures to pick over.”

Silently, Yolathion limped to her side. Aranya wondered how badly he was hurt. She had tried to protect him; trying to direct the fire outward while shielding him with her own person. Yolathion untied the rope and pulled the wadding of cloth out of her mouth. He helped her stand up. But he immediately put his dagger to her throat.

Yolathion proclaimed, “Let the last words of the condemned be heard.”

What could she say?

Aranya’s mouth was terribly dry. She rasped, “I regret not killing the Butcher of Jeradia as he so richly deserves.” Well, that certainly captured their attention. “Beri, you were a mother to me when I had none. Zip, a beautiful friend, when I had none. Take care of each other. Please tell my family –” she choked up. What could she tell them? “Tell them how much I love them, and how much I wished I could fly.”

She turned to face the Last Walk.

Yolathion put his hand on her shoulder. At the end of the walkway, Aranya saw a block of stone with a chain attached to it. They really wanted to be sure she’d drop straight into the Cloudlands, she thought. The old stories still held weight. No graceful dive off the edge for her. No enchantress transforming herself into a bird and flying away.

It should have been called the longest walk.

Ten Crimson Hammers processed with her and Yolathion. Perhaps they thought she’d make a break for the rajal pit. Her feet brought her alongside the block of stone. Her body and her mind seemed to belong on different Islands.

Yolathion knelt, clearly in some discomfort, to fit the manacle depending from the stone about her ankles, locking them together. “I’m sorry, Aranya,” he said, unexpectedly.

“Me too. I think I could have loved you, Yolathion. But your loyalty and your heart lie with Sylakia. I could never love that.”

Her words hurt him; she read it in his eyes. Just another regret she would shortly leave behind.

Yolathion lifted her in his arms. Two of his fellows hefted the block.

“On the count of three,” he said. “One … two … three.”

He tossed Aranya over the edge.

* * * *

The heavy block yanked her feet downward. The watching faces receded at an incredible speed. Suddenly Aranya was alone in the world, plummeting from the Island of Sylakia, bound for the Cloudlands far, far below. The air whistled in her ears. Her eyes watered with the wind’s buffeting.

The unending fall matched her fall from grace. Once, she had been a Princess of Immadia. Then, Ignathion’s captive, and later, a hostage in the Tower of Sylakia. Now she was captive to the physical forces of nature. She might live to find solid ground beneath the Cloudlands – at least, for the fraction of time she would have to realise she had struck rock or earth, before she died. She might not make it that far, choking to death long before she passed through the clouds. She might fall forever.

Her headscarf tore loose. The wind whipped her hair above her head. The rushing in her ears became louder and louder. Her dress, sliced apart by Garthion’s stooges, flapped upward behind her.

But she was free. She was flying.

Aranya had dreamed such a dream, only in those dreams she was flying across the Cloudlands, dodging the puffy white thunderheads and arcing gracefully around cloud towers and monuments and diving into cloud valleys, circling the moons at will and never falling like she was falling now.

She was free, because the world no longer mattered. Everyone thought she was dead. Her friends and family would mourn, for a time. Life would continue. She could not begrudge them that.

Her greatest regret was that she did not want to die. She had living to do, yet. At sixteen summers of age, Aranya of Immadia should be flirting with tall, handsome young men and attending balls and painting pictures, rather than falling forever from the Island perches of Humankind above the Cloudlands. It seemed an awful waste.

She wanted to run and leap and eat and sleep and love and cry and dance and fly.

She knew that the air was rushing past her speeding body, but somehow, the Cloudlands hung unmoving beneath her feet. It was a league from the Last Walk to the clouds. That was a long, long fall, she thought. Strangely, the air seemed to be growing thicker and warmer as she fell, as though it were reluctant to allow her past. The friction increased. Now that she was aware of it, Aranya became aware of a warm, almost foetal heat enveloping her body. She twisted to watch the cliffs blur by. Such speed! The motion hypnotised her senses, making her imagine she was flying toward the cliff.

A memory snuck into her mind, a sweet voice telling her that she should be flying. Freedom was flying.

It was the voice of her mother.

Mother? But what did Izariela mean, freedom was flying?

Aranya saw her mother’s face above her. She was lying in a child’s bed, beneath the Helyon silk hangings she remembered so well. “Fly away to the Isle of Slumber,” sang her mother. “Fly away, little one. You were born to fly.”

The heat enveloping her body became a blaze. The blaze became molten. There was power gathering around and in her now, a power drawn from the environment and from the Cloudlands quickly rising to meet her, although she knew she was the one who was falling. She shone like a meteor streaking across the night sky. Whatever her fate, it no longer mattered. Even the chains binding her body no longer mattered.

Aranya gave herself over to the dream.

She saw the Black Dragon tearing the storms apart with the thunder of his bellowing, crying, ‘It is time. It is time!’ She hearkened to the magic in his call.

She became one with the wind.

Cool grey closed over her head and around her. Aranya knew she had to stretch to fly, but she was constrained, bound in the metal of man. She sloughed those things away as her old life had been sloughed from her.

Suddenly, the rush slowed, as though she were a Dragonship which had snagged its anchor on a tree. A terrible pain flared in the muscles of her shoulders and arms. Aranya banked instinctively, easing the strain, still making a tremendous speed as she swooped through the endless realms of corrosive acid gases, holding her breath for an age without need for thought. Abruptly, she broke out into the suns-light, which reflected ferociously off the unbroken field of cobalt-hued clouds before her.

Now the dream consumed her. Nothing else existed. This was the flying above the Cloudlands Aranya had always dreamed of.

She spied a flight of windrocs, as yet leagues away, in detail that astounded her. She angled her dream-flight away from them. She perceived the golden light of the twin suns as beams of glorious energies that tingled against the foundations of the Island-World. She raised her eyes to the moons, and rejoiced in the wondrous rings surrounding the Blue moon, which she had never noticed before. She looked to the habitation of creatures known as men, far above her, a band of men who lived in caves halfway down the side of Sylakia Island. They climbed the vines with the agility of monkeys. She wondered if the men on the flat land above even knew about the cliff-dwelling men.

Endlessly, her dream stretched out before her. Time did not matter. The enormous shadow cast by Sylakia’s massif, stretching many leagues out over the Cloudlands, shortened steadily as the suns rose over the Island’s rim. Only the flying existed, nothing else, the endless flying through a realm as balmy as the womb she had imagined. She had no idea how long or far she had flown when it came to her mind that this dream had pain and fatigue, and the tearing of overstressed ligaments.

Aranya knew she had to rest. She had to let death take her. Surely that was what falling into the Cloudlands meant?

Again she changed the angle of attack, slowing as she soared upward instinctively, traversing the cliffs toward the sky. For the first time, she was truly able to manipulate the direction of her flight. Aranya struggled for an endless time, fighting the pain that threatened to overwhelm her, rising higher and higher, working not to stall and fall, tearing from herself every possible ounce of effort and reserve and even the fire that had filled her, to make it to the top.

It seemed impossibly far. But she knew that if she stopped now, she might never be able to fly again. At last, scraping her belly over a final, jutting set of rocks, Aranya hurtled onto level ground. She juddered to a halt.

She closed her eyes, and thought to die.

Chapter 7: Reborn

A great mountain of wool-covered meat wandered nearby. Starving, the creature flung itself upon the ralti sheep, rending it with tooth and claw.

Aranya bounced off the mildly startled giant ralti sheep. She had a mouthful of wool and a single thought in her mind that had to be even more sheepish than the sheep she had just assaulted: Huh? The sheep, taller than her by several feet, patiently cropped a patch of grass. Aranya had the distinct impression it was waiting for the crazed Human to stop trying to attack it with her bare teeth and start acting like the rest of her kind.

What? She was alive? Aranya lifted her arm to pinch herself, but that hurt – both the pinch and her abused shoulders. She groaned; tears sprang into her eyes. She felt as though a giant had dislocated her shoulders and carelessly screwed them back into their sockets.

She was supposed to be at the bottom of the Cloudlands.

Instead, Aranya found herself sitting in a pretty dell on the edge of an Island cliff. Steep, forest-covered hills bounded the dell to the back and sides, but the bit where she sat was lush sword-grass, named for its thick, pointed blades. A dozen or so ralti sheep grazed peaceably nearby. A vast, ancient prekki-fruit tree stood several paces from her right hand, its burgundy-leafed branches drooping with their load of purple fruit. A cheerful burbling of water came to her strangely sensitised ears.

Her head turned slowly until her neck popped. “Ouch. Ralti sheep droppings …”

The view was stunning. The twin suns blazed half-cut through by Iridith’s sphere, giving the dell a sunbeam-chased fairytale aspect.

“Leave my sheep alone!” came a querulous cry.

Aranya glanced up in alarm. A tiny, old man advanced upon her with startling speed, lifting his cane to thwack her with all of his strength.

She stared at him. He skidded to a halt, knee-deep in the grass. “Well, my pretty, where did you appear from to give old Nak the thrill of his life?” He beamed, having apparently forgotten all about hitting her. “Come, give us a kiss, my pretty petal.”

Aranya could not find her tongue. He had to be a hundred summers if he was a day, a wizened old stick of a man with two canes.

Nak grinned lasciviously. “Will you just look at those proud young breasts, and hair as unbound as the windrocs of the mighty sky?” Aranya covered herself instinctively. She was naked! Her cheeks burned furiously as he added, “And those legs, oh my fireflower petal, hast thou descended upon the sunbeams, my sun-angel, to delight my elder days with the lustrous beauty of thy flawless skin?”

“Nak,” she said, resolutely ignoring his descent into ancient poetic metre and evident appreciation of her nudity, “where am I? Who are you?”

“Give us a kiss, petal, but one itsy-bitsy little kiss, for which I’ll tell thee my heart’s deepest secrets.” He indicated his cheek. “Right here.”

Aranya stared at him a little longer, thinking: the old fraud! He was clearly moons-touched, but there was something innocent in his mien, as he stood there with cheeks screwed up like two wrinkled red flara-fruit, and in the dancing brightness of his eyes, that she simply … trusted. The joy of life ran deeply in him.

Was this some strange delusion of an afterlife? What harm could a kiss do?

Aranya pulled her feet beneath her, stood with another groan as a dozen hurts yammered for her attention, and stooped to kiss him. Scarcely had her lips touched his cheek when old Nak was off, capering across the grass and bounding over small berry-bushes, shouting a nonsensical song about love in the golden fields of Findaria. Before she could blink a second time, he appeared behind her and tweaked her backside with his fingers, crying, “Perfection itself!”

“Stop that.” Aranya whirled. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nay, thou art not, but I am,” said Nak, appearing in front of her again. “Let me pillow my head upon thy voluptuous hillocks, my –”

“Hands off!” she roared, shoving him away.

Nak chortled at her from where he had fallen. “Ah, thou art the feisty fire of the twin suns.” He bounced to his feet like a kitten chasing a bit of string and made a comical little bow. “O matchless beauty, my name is Nak. Thou art stood upon Sylakia Island’s good soil. And thou descended from heaven itself, thou didst, my petal.”

She tried to shake off a nagging sense of unreality.

“Nak,” a woman called.

“Ah, the toothless old rajal,” he said. “Hear her dulcet tones cut the wind as sharp as an Immadian dagger.”

“Nak, who’s shouting?”

Aranya saw a woman’s head and shoulders appear above what had to be a fold in the land she had not noticed. She was white of hair and bent with great age. She surveyed the scene with a ferocious scowl worthy of any rajal.

“Look!” cried Nak. “How could I resist? She’s a vision! The very suns upon my face; the breath in my lungs –”

“Petal, has my Nak been bothering you?”

The old woman seemed unbothered by her visitor’s lack of clothing. “He has been gallant indeed,” Aranya replied, “asking nought but a kiss.”

“You are far too kind to lie to an old woman like that,” said the woman, three parts sweetness and one part acid. “Come to me, petal. We’ve been expecting you. You’re quite the beauty, aren’t you? Those eyes; that hair! My name is Oyda. Nak – get thee to thy sheep, thou fool of a husband.”

“Mislaid her sense of humour fifty seasons ago, she did,” grumbled Nak. But he immediately walked off, calling to his sheep.

Aranya desperately wanted something to start making sense in her aching brain. “Oyda – I’m sorry, I must ask. This morning they tossed me off the edge of Sylakia. Am I dead? Am I dreaming?”

Oyda looked Aranya up and down with a kindly but astute air about her. Aranya had the impression that despite her great age, little passed her by. Oyda said, “You look mighty alive to me, petal. My Nak evidently thinks so, too. His old heart has run further this morn than at any time in the last fifty years. Come inside. Are you cold?”

“I never get cold,” Aranya said automatically.

Oyda said, “Indeed?”

With just one word, Aranya realised that Oyda knew far more than she was letting on.

The old woman showed Aranya to the door of a small, low-beamed hut built back into the hillside, so that the roof was simply grassy sod grown right across the top of it, making the interior seem more a burrow than Human habitation. The room within was small and homely, full of herbs and delicious smells and wooden furniture that had the look of heavy use by generations of a single family. A small fire blazed behind a grating. Two doors at the back of the main living area led apparently to further rooms, perhaps bedrooms or storage rooms.

Aranya whispered, “Please …”

“Sit down, petal,” she said. “All things become clear to those who, having fallen from the sky, show a modicum of patience. Redbush tea? The pot is just boiled. I made you a little breakfast. Hungry?”

Aranya saw a table set for three. Fear flickered in her inmost being. The fire flickered along with her. The old woman glanced at the fire, but seemed unconcerned.

“Oyda, can I trust you?”

“Petal, that’s for you to decide. What does your heart tell you?”

Her heart told her that absolute honesty would be best, Aranya thought in wonder. She wet her lips. Slowly, she said, “You’ll have to excuse me, Oyda, but I’m terribly confused. I’m supposed to be dead and here I am, hurting, and you’ve a table laid for breakfast. Forgive me if I find all this a little … peculiar.”

An expression of great kindness creased her eyes as Oyda smiled at Aranya. She seemed so grandmotherly, so chock-full of sympathy and love, that Aranya just wanted to throw her arms around her and pour out all her troubles. She bustled into one of the back rooms, calling over her shoulder:

“Petal, I’ll match you ten secrets for every one of yours. I have enough. But I usually find it better to start at the beginning, with a nice cup of tea in hand. Everything seems so much better after a cup of tea.” She emerged holding a blue, homespun blanket. “Here, cover yourself. You’ll find Nak more bearable thus.”

Aranya drew the blanket gingerly about her body. Even the soft material’s touch hurt her shoulders. “I should introduce myself. I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia, lately a hostage in the Tower of Sylakia.”

“Delighted to meet you, Aranya,” said Oyda, stumping over to the door. “I’m Oyda, as you know, wife to Nak. Nak! Breakfast! I will be one hundred and seventy-seven summers in a week’s time. Who am I? I am she who knows why flame burns within you. You look like you’ve had a hard day. Lynch mob?”

How old? Impossible. Aranya tried to school her expression into something less idiotic. That knowing air; that gentle flash of her dark brown eyes. How much was Oyda guessing and how much did she know already? This was insane. Surely, a crazy dream. She had been dreaming a great deal lately. She wet her lips. Oyda was waiting for her answer as if she was prepared to wait all summer long merely for the chance to speak with her visitor.

“Uh – well, I burned Garthion, son of the Supreme Commander of Sylakia, last night.”

“The Butcher of Jeradia? You didn’t kill him, by any chance?” Aranya shook her head, stunned. A hard day? Try being chained to a rock and dropped off a cliff, woman! “Aye, there’s a shame. I suppose our Sylakian overlords took it in a rather dim light?”

“Dim light?” said Nak, appearing in the doorway. “Mmm! Smell that! She’s been keeping it warm all morning. Not a jot of sympathy for me. Here I am, salivating over that smell worse than a ralti sheep dribbling a river.” His eyes lit upon Aranya. “Fie, fair damsel, now there’s a scandal. Why cover up such a surfeit of nubile pulchritude, I demand to know?”

Oyda snapped, “Sit, husband, before I beat thee black and blue with thy own cane.”

“A right Dragon I married,” said Nak. “Say, petal, you wouldn’t just slip the blanket down to show a little shoulder, would you?”

“Dragon Rider,” said Oyda.

“Why, I used to line up the wenches in my bedroom, four a night, and – ouch! Dash it all, woman, can a man not tell an honest story?”

“Not that one.”

“Four frolicsome wenches jumped into my bed,” sang Nak. Oyda clipped the back of his head with the flat of her hand.

“Dragon Rider?” Aranya blurted out, only just catching up with the conversation. Her day, having started in the worst possible way, was now taking a bent toward madness. Had her mind snapped? She wanted to scream, ‘What’s going on?’

Oyda sighed. “Why don’t I pour the tea? Tell us everything, Aranya.”

“And then you’ll –”

“We will,” the old people chorused.

Over breakfast, Aranya told Oyda and Nak her story. They listened closely and asked a few pertinent questions. Nak mostly behaved himself. The old man sniffed loudly at her description of Yolathion, praised Immadia to the heavens – evidently having visited her Island many years before – and was vocally unimpressed when she related how Yolathion had been the one to cast her off the Tower’s battlements.

“I was a great warrior in my day!” he cried, waving his bread-roll about dangerously. “Why, if I were a hundred summers younger, I’d show that young pup a thing or twenty-three! I’m no stripling myself!”

Oyda rolled her eyes. “All five feet and seven inches of him, but he was a magnificent swordsman in his day, I’ll grant. I’m so sorry your first lesson came so harshly, Aranya. How do your arms feel?”

“Tender.”

“Jolly lucky you didn’t tear them off after a fall like that,” Nak added. “Be gentle with yourself until you’ve learned to fly, says I.”

“I’ll mix up some liniment,” said Oyda, starting to select random bottles off of her shelves. “You must be exhausted after your first transformation.”

Aranya drew a breath right into the bottom of her lungs and, to her astonishment, shouted, “Will you both kindly stop talking in riddles?” Sparks blasted up the chimney at her words. Willing herself to calm down before their entire hut combusted, she pleaded, “How does a person fly? Why does the fire burn? Why am I not dead? Tell me in words of one syllable, so that I can understand! Please … Oyda, Nak, please. I’m scared.”

The two old people regarded her with such a depth of understanding that Aranya began to cry. She hated showing weakness, but it was all too overwhelming.

Nak spoke first. “People don’t fly,” he said. “Dragons do. You can fly because you’re a Dragon.”

Aranya’s eyes grew round. She shook her head, over and over.

“A Dragon and a person,” Oyda clarified. “Two forms. You’re still Aranya of Immadia, petal, but you’re able to shift into a Dragon form which is as alive and vital as you are sitting at my table right now. That’s where your fire comes from.”

“I … no. No! That’s –”

“Impossible?” she snorted. “Impossible for a Dragon to break a few chains and fly out of the Cloudlands? Don’t be silly, child.”

“I am not a silly child!” Flames roared out of her mouth and shot up the chimney. “They threw me off the cliff – don’t you get that? You try it sometime! Try saying farewell to everything you know because you know you’re going to die.”

Aranya leaped to her feet, intending to storm out of the door. The room spun around her.

“Easy there, rajal.” Nak’s hand, surprisingly firm for his age, steadied her.

“Ooh, I don’t feel good.”

“You won’t,” said Oyda. “Not for a few days, you won’t. Come lie down in the back. You can ask me all the questions you want. You’ve landed among good friends, petal. That’s all you need to know right now. We’re friends.”

* * * *

Instead of asking her million questions, Aranya fell asleep and dreamed terrible, chaotic dreams filled with fire and burning and endless falling. Yolathion and Garthion merged in her mind as they flagellated her with burning whips. She saw Garthion standing over Zuziana and could only scream impotently as he peeled the skin off her body.

She awoke shrieking, “Zip!”

Oyda appeared in the doorway with a taper to light the tallow candle in her room, her hands covered in flour and bread-dough. “You slept forty hours, Aranya. I was getting worried.”

“A day and a half? No wonder I feel – well, like I was tossed off a cliff.” Aranya laughed hollowly. She tried to reach up to muss her tangled hair, and gave up with a hiss of pain. “I probably don’t smell too good. I had a fever, didn’t I? Can I bathe in the stream?”

“Let me warm you some water and I’ll help, if you don’t object?”

Aranya tried to ease her shoulders. “Is it always this – oh, that kills – painful?”

“It’ll heal. I’ll give you something for the pain.” Oyda placed a wrap around her shoulders and led her to the kitchen table. “You tore a few ligaments – no surprise, having dropped nigh a league off the Last Walk into the Cloudlands. Nak and I spent a few hours yesterday figuring out what we know about Dragon Shapeshifters. That’s what you are, petal. There are Dragons, Humans, and those who are both – Shapeshifters. Sit.”

Oyda ladled porridge into a wooden bowl and set the kettle on a tripod above the fireplace to boil water for redbush tea. As Aranya ate, she returned to kneading her dough.

Aranya did not want to think about what Oyda had just said – she wasn’t even Human? Oyda dealt in riddles as though they were facts, as though she saw life differently to anyone else in the world. Ten seconds awake and that sense of unreality lurked in the corners of the room, but it was somehow held at bay by the strange magic of Oyda’s hands turning and kneading the dough. Simple bread baking, the stuff of life around the Islands; emblematic of a new life that bubbled exuberantly in Aranya’s veins, life that grew and yearned and hurt and hungered, yet remained anchored in the old-as-time movements of a pair of hands shaping bread.

Aranya spooned porridge into her mouth as though it were her last meal – or rather, her first after dying. Something within her had died down there in the Cloudlands.

“You’re in a remote area of Sylakia, twelve leagues and more from the capital,” Oyda said. “Back of us is a thick forest most folks wouldn’t brave. You are welcome stay as long as you need, petal. Can’t say as Nak and I have many visitors. Don’t you worry about food or clothes. I’ve been sewing you a little something, if only to keep old Nak from pawing you. He’s a good man, my Nak, but a fool where women are concerned.”

“Thank you, but I can’t stay long.”

“Petal, Nak and I are in no danger because of your presence,” she said, reading Aranya’s thoughts effortlessly. “You should stay as long as you need to heal up and figure out what’s next for your life.” Oyda cut the dough and began to roll it out for braided rolls. “Nak and I can help, some. We both used to be Dragon Riders. Nak wants to teach you to fly before you plough up more grass than you did with your first landing, or break your neck.”

“There are historical things you need to know. No Islander likes Dragons. It didn’t used to be that way. But neither Dragons nor Humans like Shapeshifters. Your kind were blamed for many of the problems that arose between Dragons and Humans. When we were young, Nak and I knew a lovely little Shapeshifter, an Onyx Pygmy Dragon called Pip.”

“A Pygmy Dragon?” Aranya echoed.

“Remind me later. I’ll tell you her story.”

Without being asked, she filled Aranya’s bowl a second time and deposited a healthy dollop of rich yellow honey right in the middle of her porridge. “Something sweet for a treat,” she said. “It’ll put a pinch of colour in those hollow cheeks. Tea?” Aranya nodded. “Of course. Now, rule number one. Listen well. You need to feed both your forms. Dragons don’t eat often. My Amber Dragon, who was called Emblazon, used to fill up on a giant ralti sheep every couple of weeks or so. But he was fully grown. You’ll probably be juvenile size. I wonder what colour Dragon you are – oh, my sweet petal, don’t sigh like that.”

She had a thousand things to sigh about, but what emerged was inane. “I have to eat sheep?”

Oyda chuckled heartily. “Meat, Aranya – Dragons don’t eat flowers. More if you’re flying more. And more if you’re transforming often, I’d assume. We think transforming takes lots of energy, but we’re not sure. As best we know, neither of our Dragons were Shapeshifters. That’s the thing – folks can’t tell. That’s where the trust breaks down. There might be Dragons all over the Islands taking the form of Humans. Nobody would know. Neither you nor your father knew your mother was a Shapeshifter. Yet I judge from what you told us that she probably flew when she was pregnant with you. Do you want to hide this identity of yours, as she did?”

Aranya opened and closed her mouth. Her brain buzzed with so many thoughts that she lost her ability to speak.

Oyda poured the tea. “Rule number two: Dragons are not invulnerable. You can break your neck. Dragons can and do kill each other. Dragon hide is not impenetrable.”

“Dragons fight each other?”

“Oh, Aranya!” Oyda broke into peals of merry laughter. “Do rajals fight over a choice bit of meat? Do vultures squabble over a carcass?”

Aranya laughed along with her, although she did feel a pang of annoyance at having her ignorance exposed. But if it was true she had escaped by changing into a Dragon – a ridiculous untruth if she’d ever heard one – then this was only the tip of the Island peeking out of the Cloudlands. She’d have to swallow her pride and learn whatever she could. She should play along until she worked out what had really happened to her.

“I apologise if my disbelief comes across as disrespect, Oyda,” she said stiffly.

“Petal … aye. Give yourself a little grace.” Oyda propped open the door of a round wood-fired oven Aranya had not noticed. She pushed the bread inside on a tray and swung the door shut. “Rule number three: What happens in one form has consequences for the other. If you injure yourself as a Dragon and transform, the injury will show up in your Human form too. Nak was very clear about that. He said he knew of cases where an injured Shapeshifter transformed himself only to die instantly in his Human form.”

“Oh.” Aranya puzzled over this. “Why?”

“Ask Nak. It’s something to do with volume. But don’t kiss him first. You’ll addle his already addled wits.”

Aranya laughed. “Like you haven’t already scrambled my brains into a sweet-tuber soup, Oyda.”

Oyda put her arms around Aranya and gave her a huge, floury hug. “Petal, I can only imagine how you feel. It’s like being born a second time. You don’t believe it now. Don’t you roll your pretty eyes, I see the disbelief writ all over them. Your new life has begun. Nothing will be the same – but you’ll soon understand when I say I am dreadfully jealous of this gift you’ve been given. I’ve always thought that being a Dragon must be an incredible, magical experience. You’ll get to fly. You’ll get to breathe Dragon fire. You’ll be able to wing your way to anywhere you want in this Island-World. And you need never be afraid of jumping off a cliff again.”

“I’ve always loved heights,” Aranya said. But she sounded as uncertain as she felt.

“Then be ready to spread your wings, my little fledgling.”

Chapter 8: Fledgling

Nak waved his hands with great animation. “Behold, my pretty, I’ve brought you a wild ralti sheep for your first meal as a Dragon.”

“You’re wonderful, Nak,” Aranya repeated, but her eyes kept straying to the seventy-foot furrow in the grass her first alleged landing had ploughed. Five days later, she was beginning to wonder if she had dreamed the whole thing. “So, what’s the plan? I transform into a Dragon and go chomp the sheep?”

Her sarcasm washed off him like water off a rainbow trout’s back.

“Just follow your instincts,” Nak said. “Dragon brains and Human brains are completely different. You’re going to have all kinds of strange thoughts and feelings. Imagine having two different female brains in your head, eh? One’s confusing enough, but two? How’d you ever make up your minds?”

“Nak, you’re an incorrigible rogue,” she offered, which was a guaranteed way to make him smile.

“No flying yet,” said Oyda, wagging her finger at Aranya.

Aranya eyed the sheep unhappily. Nak had tied it by a long tether to the ancient prekki-fruit tree. The sheep looked even unhappier than she did. Wild ralti were a lot smaller than the domesticated variety, but that still made for a beast that stood mid-chest to her. This male had curled horns, which made her imagine it could butt its way through walls. She did not want to tangle with the sheep.

“Stand back!” cried Nak. “When you learn to think with your Dragon brain, everything will just happen naturally.”

Right. Aranya closed her eyes. This Princess of Immadia was about to make a complete fool of herself. How did one transform into a Dragon? Think Dragonish thoughts? She and mutton were not on speaking terms at the best of times. She had lost count of the number of times she had pushed a chunk of mutton around her plate. Now might be an opportune moment to tell Nak she desperately wanted to be a vegetarian.

Oyda and Nak could be anyone’s grandparents, she thought. A few days spent in their hut and she had grown inordinately fond of them already. Every time Oyda hugged her, Aranya wanted to cry. But they suffered from this persistent delusion that they had been Dragon Riders and she was a Shapeshifter. She’d asked a thousand questions and never once caught them in a lie. Now she was half-convinced they were right. Either they were crazy, or she was.

“Think of how you flew before,” Oyda advised.

“Think teeth, claws and a tail,” added Nak.

“Soaring gracefully over the Cloudlands, my petal; seeing the beauties of the world through new eyes.”

“Rending the sheep tooth and claw,” countered Nak, scowling at Oyda. “Dragons are not soft and romantic. Except for thee, my peerless petal, my flame, my sweet-bosomed muse.”

She had better transform before Nak fell prey to another of his urges.

Aranya closed her eyes and summoned the flying dream. After a while, the sounds around her seemed to fade. She placed a Dragon in the picture, as Nak had instructed her. Hmm … an amethyst-coloured Dragon. Something to match her eyes. Perhaps she was being vain, but Aranya did not want to summon any thoughts of the huge Black Dragon which had haunted her dreams. Too fearsome. Besides, she didn’t have any other colours in her mind.

This would never work anyway. What was she thinking?

Slowly, her head swivelled. She blinked hugely. What had she felt just then; trembling her world? A hiccup? A strange perturbation?

A terrified bleating came to her ears. Prey.

Princess Aranya shifted forward on her belly. What was that witless sheep doing, frantically pulling at the rope on the far side of the tree? Sheep were not afraid of people.

Her eyes shifted. Minutiae smote her mind; the tooth-edged sword-grass swelling slightly with the first pollens of spring ready to be released from their tiny spiracles; the darting flight of a common sparrow into the forest behind the hut; the scent of prekki-fruit sharp and sweet on the wind, mixed with the evocative scents of a faraway land; the gentle buzzing of a dragonfly whirring down the stream, even the whisper-soft footfall of a meadow hare somewhere beyond her sight. Here were two small Humans looking up at her. One of them was dancing like a dervish.

Words came to her ears, slow and unfamiliar. It took her a while to process them, to realise that this was a language she understood.

“You’re a Dragon, not a worm,” screamed Nak. “Use your legs, stupid.”

Aranya tried to answer, but although her throat worked, no intelligible sound would emerge. She stared cross-eyed at the bump between her eyes, which resolved into a muzzle with two large, scaly nostrils. Muzzle? She sniffed toward the sheep. A woolly, warm-blooded scent percolated into her mind. Saliva gushed into her mouth.

Meat.

She surged forward, chasing the sheep around the tree.

Bleating and jerking against the rope, the sheep managed to stay one step ahead of the enraged Dragon, who twice butted it with her nose while trying to figure out where her mouth was. Her wings, flaring and flapping, sent pain shooting into her shoulders. She overran the sheep and fell heavily on her side while trying to turn about. Her head was completely in the wrong place, lashing about like an angry snake at the end of a ridiculously long neck. Fury thundered from deep within her chest.

Finally, she slashed with her forepaw, opening two bloody gashes in the sheep’s side. She raised her claws to her mouth. She pressed her digits between the surprisingly large fangs and tasted warm, metallic blood. The taste rushed straight to her stomach and ignited a gargantuan, all-consuming hunger. A roaring came to her ears.

She was roaring?

Dragon-Aranya, maddened beyond all reason by the sight of woolly meat bounding along in front of her nose, scuttled around the tree, then whirled and smashed the sheep with her tail. In a trice she was all over her prey, biting and growling and tearing and throwing back her head to bolt gobbets of meat. Chewing was superfluous. The mutton tasted like nectar in her mouth. It filled her stomach with sweetness. She sucked on its rich animal blood and slurped up the intestines with relish. This was a feast! She guzzled and guzzled, filling her belly.

Suddenly, that pesky male creature stood in front of her nose, shouting at her. Dragon-Aranya curled her foreleg around her prey and snarled at him.

“Aranya! Aranya!” he cried.

Aranya? Who was Aranya? Dimly, a memory came to her mind, a girl standing upon the battlements of a castle with her father, watching an invasion unfolding with full knowledge of what it meant for her people. She remembered the warmth of his love, the touch of his hands upon her shoulders and the deep sorrow in his eyes as he asked her permission to send her into exile.

Father!

That strange sense of disturbance came a second time. She swayed. Abruptly she was lower, much lower, kneeling beside the gutted carcass of a sheep.

She stared up at Oyda and Nak with haunted eyes, gasping, “What have I done?”

“Magnificent! Stupendous! Mind-boggling!” shrieked Nak. “What a Dragon. Such a thicket of gleaming fangs, and claws as sharp as daggers! Why, your haunches are as big and beautiful as an –”

“Nak,” Oyda interrupted.

“Breathtaking. Turned my bowels to water, you did.”

“Go deal with the sheep, Nak,” Oyda ordered.

Aranya accepted a blanket from Oyda and huddled into it. She let the old woman lead her back to the hut, where Oyda seated her kindly but firmly outside the door on a small stool. The noon suns-shine quickly warmed her scalp. In a trice, Oyda returned from the inside with a hairbrush and began to brush out Aranya’s hair.

She had been warned. But that mindless eating frenzy – grotesque. Bestial!

She gazed at the sky, seeing nothing.

“I’m a beast,” she whispered. “A wild animal.”

After a long silence, Oyda said, “There are feral Dragons – crazed, unthinking Dragons, who have no rational capacity left in their being. I remember on several occasions Emblazon fought with feral Dragons to protect me. In one fight he lost the end of his tail. In another, the Dragon shredded a good third of his left wing and we had to wait months for it to heal, even with his Dragon magic. But the majority of Dragons are not animals. You are not an animal. You are Aranya, Princess of Immadia, a young woman with heart and mind and a passion for life.”

The Princess of Immadia stared at the thoroughly butchered remains of the sheep. Nak was down there, hacking off the last useable bits of meat with his dagger. Right now, her fire was as dormant as it had ever been. She had never imagined finding herself jowl-deep in a sheep’s stomach cavity and loving it. Was that savagery part of her? Truly?

“The reborn need to learn to eat,” said Oyda, making no bones about her practicality. “Dragons can eat with manners. Emblazon used to love cracking open the skull and licking out ralti sheep brains with his tongue. When I asked him to desist, he asked politely if he could continue the habit out of my sight. We agreed. He never forgot.”

“You loved him? Emblazon, I mean?”

“I did.” Oyda sighed, her hands momentarily still in their task. “It’s different to Human love, or romantic love, petal. Romantic love is what I have for Nak. You see, when the crimson battle-lust comes upon a Dragon, they can lose themselves and become feral. A good Dragon Rider, or other Dragons, can bring a feral Dragon back. It’s like a temporary form of insanity. The deeper the bond, the more likely a Rider could bring back their Dragon. Sometimes loneliness will drive a Dragon over the edge. When Nak lost his Shimmerith, it broke him – snapped something in his mind, it did. You haven’t seen it yet, but he sometimes goes feral. Then I have to fetch my Nak from the woods.”

“So he had a female Dragon … you had a male?”

“It’s most often the case,” said Oyda, working vigorously at a knot in her hair. Aranya rode the pain. It made her feel Human again. “Riders care for their Dragons. They heal them, protect them, give them companionship, and much besides. I think that with Shapeshifters the relationships would more often be romantic. Sometimes a pair would both be Shapeshifters.”

“I’d find it very strange, having a Dragon Rider.”

Oyda chuckled at this. “I think I would too, petal. Now, shall I tell you a secret?”

“Surprise me.”

“Very well. Down there by the prekki-fruit tree, this old woman saw an amethyst-coloured Dragon. I’ve seen thousands of Dragons in my lifetime, but never an Amethyst Dragon. I don’t know what it means, Aranya. Reds, oranges and yellows are the most common. Although, most Dragons are extremely fussy about their precise colouration. Burgundy wing-struts with crimson undertones on a base of ochre underwing and belly – if you please.”

Aranya chuckled. “Oyda, I’m suitably surprised.”

“I love that you aren’t just some plain old purple, which you don’t get amongst Dragons, by the way, but that your Dragon self is a gemstone colour with the quality and depth of your eyes.”

How strange, she thought. Fitting.

“I wonder what Zuziana would think of being a Dragon Rider?” Aranya mused.

“Are you an artist, Aranya?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Oyda chuckled merrily. “Call it a lucky guess based on one hundred and seventy-six years of experience.”

* * * *

That evening, Nak sat Aranya down at the kitchen table and delivered an enormously lengthy lecture on hunting. The following day, it was a five-hour lecture on the mechanics of Dragon flight. Angles, wing flight dynamics when furled or half-furled or extended, using the air currents, landing, taking off, avoiding the huge quarrels of war crossbows and the payloads of war catapults, spitting burning meriatite at enemies, flying through storms, storming castles and using the tail to aid manoeuvring were all covered in a dizzying rush.

Then he had Aranya transform into her Dragon form and walk up and down the dell until she could manage that without falling on her face. Nak brought out a mirror so that she could see herself. Scary, she thought, curling back her lips in a Dragon smile. Oyda was right. Her hide was the colour of amethyst gemstones. She scratched herself pensively. Weird. The person called Aranya stared back at her from the mirror with a Dragon’s slit eyes.

Something about this should feel right. Instead, she just felt peculiar, and a bit frightened of herself.

Dragon-Aranya felt as though she were hiding inside a suit of skin. Ten feet of sinuous neck, twenty of body and another ten feet of spiny tail were bad enough. She held up her hands – but they were paws. She had weapons, not feet, with three strong digits and two opposable thumbs, all furnished with wicked purple talons that extended or retracted into their sheaths at a thought. Aranya walked in circles trying to see her tail and powerful haunches. Her gait felt bizarre, choppy and over-controlled by muscles which seemed primed to make her pounce, not prowl. Then she discovered that with her new neck, she could comfortably twist her head around to look at nearly any part of her that she wanted – and those parts were all Dragon. She flared her massive wings gingerly, but quickly decided to look at them another time. Her shoulders ached too much. Aranya examined the deeply striated muscles underlying her gleaming, scaly Dragon hide. Her flight muscles were enormous. She kept wanting to think of herself in Human terms of size.

“Roaring rajals,” she said to herself, borrowing one of Zip’s favourite sayings.

Aranya imagined leaping upon Garthion as a Dragon and biting his head off. Ha! But what would Yolathion have said? His seven feet were the height of her shoulder when she crouched down. How would he ever accept her, gleaming Dragon fangs and all? She was not displeased with her sleek, deadly appearance. But that hardly mattered when it came packaged as a Dragon, did it?

Nak spent two days covering Dragon anatomy in minute detail, including the care of claws and fangs, the types of parasites which could burrow beneath the scales or infect the gums, and the treatment of wounds, sprains and strains. He bade her practise listening with her Dragon senses. He told her that she could stop listening when she could tell what type of butterfly was fluttering on the far side of the dell. “You’ve the patience of a gnat,” he told her cheerfully. “Listen again.”

Aranya growled, “And what’s the use of this?”

Nak said, “Close your eyes. Listen.” Dragon-Aranya heard him pick up a stone. She heard it zip through the air and strike her flank. “Imagine a dark night. That was a crossbow quarrel headed right for your belly. How else would you avoid it?”

Aranya learned patience. She learned to listen for hours at a time. She practised focussing her Dragon sight until she was proficient at seeing a fly landing on a branch in the forest behind the hut, from a hundred paces distant. She sniffed the air until she could tell a male ralti sheep from a female, and could smell out which of the fifty herbs Oyda loved to sprinkle in her cooking and baking, just from a whiff of chimney smoke. She was made to pluck sword-grass blades with her talons until she could pick them precisely with either her forefeet or hind feet. She even managed to learn to speak in her Dragon form without burping in Nak’s face, which he accused her of the first time.

But she could not breathe fire.

Once her shoulders recovered – the heavy bruising having faded through a deep wine-purple colour into sallow yellows beneath her Human skin – the next stage of her Dragon training involved running up and down the dell flapping her wings until Nak and Oyda both were satisfied that her injures were sufficiently healed. She only tripped and shovelled up dirt with her nose twice. She dined on another wild ralti sheep. Nak declared she had behaved herself with decorum this time.

Aranya kissed him on the cheek for that comment.

One evening, sitting with Oyda in the kitchen beside the fireplace, while Nak snored peaceably in his bed next door, she said, “You think trying to get a message to my family should wait?”

Oyda nodded, her eyes softening with sympathy. “It should, Aranya. Sylakia monitors all communication between the Islands. We’d have to be incredibly creative – and lucky – not to bring the Sylakian hammer down on your family.”

Aranya winced.

“Maybe, when you’ve learned to fly, you can make your way up to Immadia secretly?”

“Good idea.” But Aranya hated to think of how her family had to be mourning her death. “I’ve also been thinking of going back for my friend Zuziana. I can’t bear to leave her – what if Garthion recovers? She already knows about my fire. Even if it were just a flying visit, so to speak …”

“I see the sadness in your eyes, petal.”

“I wonder what one Dragon who hasn’t even learned to fly yet, could do against the Sylakians?” Aranya stirred her redbush tea listlessly. “I don’t think all Sylakians are evil, of course not. But when one power takes over all the Island-World, it cannot be good. One day, I’d love to find out where the Dragons went. Even you don’t know that.”

“There’s plenty this old woman doesn’t know, Aranya. Sounds like you have a small Island’s worth of things on your mind. You know, if you did choose this Zuziana for your Dragon Rider … well, we should first consult Nak about how you might burgle the well-guarded Tower of Sylakia. Right now, you’re hidden here in this little corner of a large Island. But the theft of the Princess of Remoy, however delighted Nak might be at the prospect of another young woman gracing this house, will inevitably reveal your presence. You must think upon that.”

“I’d love to see Zip’s expression.”

Oyda’s face darkened. “And when she sees you’re a Dragon? Are you ready for that?”

Aranya caught her breath. “I – no. No, I’m not. Oh, I hate this, I hate it! Oyda, please don’t think me ungrateful –”

“You’re not.” Oyda placed her hand upon Aranya’s and squeezed gently. “But I’ve lived on this Island-World too long not to know you’ll want to seek your destiny, Aranya, Dragon Shapeshifter and Princess of Immadia. It cannot be denied. Tomorrow, we need to help you leave the nest.”

“Do you think I’m ready?”

The old woman’s face softened. “You’ve done it once before, petal. This time, the push will be with a hand of love.”

And those were the words that accompanied Aranya to sleep. Precious, precious words, she thought, hugging her knees in the darkness of her bedroom. Where did people as kind and unselfish as Nak and Oyda come from? How had she landed on their doorstep?

Life was strange.

Being a Dragon was even stranger.

The following morning, she stood on the very edge of the cliff. Aranya shivered even though she was not cold. “Spread your wings and make a decent jump away from the edge,” said Nak. “You’ve done this before. I want a quick glide, a turn and a landing. Mind the wind. It might waft you higher than you expect.”

Aranya gazed over the Cloudlands. Her Dragon hearts, all three of them, thumped in her chest and belly. “I’m not sure I can move, Nak.”

“You’re thinking with your Human mind. You’re a Dragon. Dragons fly. They are born to fly. Even one as pretty as you, who would make any self-respecting male Dragon fly sideways into a cliff for a mere glimpse of your scales, can fly.”

“Nak, you do wonders for a girl’s ego.”

“And you do wonders for my – shh, here’s the old sheep herself, now.” Nak raised his voice. “Come to see her fly, o precious queen of my soul?”

Oyda stumped along to join them. “My, you picked a perfect morning, Aranya. Now remember, this is your second flight. Let’s make it better than the first.”

Nak cried, “Ha! The insult. Who’s been mentoring her, may I ask?”

“We’ll see, husband.”

Aranya shuffled closer to the edge. So much for loving high places. It was different when you were planning to jump from nice, solid ground into the endless void. She looked up at the White moon, which had beaten Iridith into the sky this morning, and sighed. She was crazy. She wasn’t just one-moon-touched. Dragon-Aranya spread her wings to test the breeze. She checked each of her wings for the umpteenth time. They certainly looked useful for flying. Her wingspan was over forty feet, perhaps fifty if she stretched to her utmost.

What she had was a brain like a basket of rotten prekki-fruit. The Cloudlands were far below, but her Dragon sight could make out every detail of the copper and cobalt hues of the morning. Was it volcanoes stirring them from beneath, she wondered?

“Yah!” bawled Nak, belting her across the hindquarters with his cane.

It wasn’t so much the pain as the surprise that made her leap. One moment she was safely perched on the rocks, the next, she was airborne and wailing her heart out – which, in her Dragon form, meant bellowing so loudly that every last one of Nak’s sheep turned tail and bolted for the safety of the forest. Aranya tried to level out. She was flying! Actually, she was almost upside-down. She righted herself with a violent wobble and searched anxiously for Nak and Oyda. Oh dear, she really was flapping above nothingness. Her Human brain wanted nothing to do with this.

She closed her eyes and tried not to think. Suddenly, Aranya found herself drifting gracefully through the air as though she had flown a thousand times before.

But the moment she opened her eyes again, Aranya panicked. Help! People don’t fly! She needed an Island beneath her feet. Nak, Nak … there they were. Phew. Just feel the wind embracing her hide, she told herself. This was supposed to be joyous. But she was terrified.

Now all she needed to do was land without ploughing the dell with her nose.

Aranya came screaming in low. Nak leaped for cover as she hurtled overhead. Remembering her lessons, Aranya cupped the air with her wings and landed neatly not on her legs, but on her tail. She promptly toppled sideways like a felled tree.

Next she knew, a little man kicked her in the neck, chuckling, “I see we need to work on our take-offs and landings, my precious purple puffball.”

His kick did not hurt at all. With a flexion of her talons, Aranya righted herself. “Very well, little manikin. I’ll do it again.”

She did. Badly. Four botched landings and a scrape of the prekki-fruit tree later, Aranya finally managed to just about land on all fours with a modicum of grace. She grinned wryly at Nak, which meant showing off a thicket of teeth, she realised belatedly.

“At least I’m getting the jump right, aren’t I?”

“Give me a Dragon kiss,” he cried. Nak planted a smacker on the end of her nose. “Right, Dragon, a little rest while we discuss the finer points of your astounding ineptitude at this simple task. Tortoises fly more elegantly than you. I fly more elegantly than you. Those sheep are hiding more in embarrassment than in fear, by now.” He waved his cane beneath her nose. “The sight of thy beauty streaking across the face of the Jade moon should strike awe and wonder into the hearts of thy numerous admirers. Few sights in this Island-World are more marvellous than a Dragon in full flight. When her Dragon fire billows before her, what can stand against?”

Aranya snapped playfully in his direction.

“Back, thou glorious raiment of the dawn,” he growled, cutting the air with the cane as though he wished to dice her up with a sword. “Down, thou companion of the suns’ brilliance. Am I not thy Prince? Art thou not resplendent in all thy scaly, reptilian glory?”

“That you are, you silly man. I thought you taught me that Dragons are warm-blooded?”

“Then fly, thou precocious Dragon. Fly!”

She flew, and allowed her Dragon instincts to take over. Wind filled her wings. It caressed her scales, thrilling her with the sensation of swimming through the air like a fish. A thousand unfamiliar scents teased her nostrils. Her Dragon hearts welled up with such a fierce joy it burst out of her throat in a series of bugling calls of delight. What rapture! She knew she was made for this. Everything about her Dragon body was streamlined. She had power and grace and catlike reflexes. Her wings responded to the tiniest changes in air pressure and direction, flexing and trimming and rising and falling with a living rhythm all of their own. She swooped over Nak, carolling her exultation to the hills and skies.

He waved and danced and generally acted like a complete lunatic.

Later, when Aranya had practised at least fifty take-offs and landings, and was so exhausted she overshot the hut on her final landing and plowed another large furrow into their meadow, Oyda emerged to scold her inside. “She barely has energy left to transform,” she reproached Nak. “She’s just a fledgling.”

“But flying is just so … oh, Oyda, what can I say?”

“The sparkle in your eyes says it all, my petal.”

For sheer happiness, Aranya danced about Oyda and bent to kiss her cheek. “I think you deserve a kiss, too. You’re just too proud to ask.” She threw her aching arms around the old woman. “How could I ever, ever repay you for all you’ve done?”

Oyda reached up over Aranya’s shoulder to wipe her eyes. “This is thanks enough.”

“But I’ve eaten up all your bread –”

“Aranya, you’ve much to learn in this life. My old Nak has so much Dragon gold hidden back in that hut you wouldn’t believe it. We live simply because we believe there are things in this world no Dragon’s hoard can buy. Cup of tea?”

Typical. Just when she thought she knew them, Nak and Oyda sprang another surprise on her.

“Actually, I’m starving. Is that your berry and prekki pie I smell baking?”

“Let me rustle up a little snack.” Oyda’s eyes twinkled. “All that flying must make a girl as hungry as a Dragon.”

“Hungrier,” growled Aranya, so Dragon-like that her words stopped in her throat.

Oyda chuckled, “Aye, a Dragon.”

Aranya coughed and squirmed. “Oyda … did I hear in your tone a lesson about Dragons and gold?”

“Put some clothes on, petal, before my Nak bursts a blood vessel.” The old woman waved her wooden rolling-pin in Aranya’s direction. “Think you know me that well, eh, you scamp? Two lessons then, since you insist. One, a Dragon’s insight is different to a Human’s. Learn to use them both, since you as a Shapeshifter have that opportunity. Two, Dragons are acquisitive by nature. Unfortunately, in my experience, hoarding turns a Dragon mean. Gold, jewels, crowns – all those glittery things do something ugly to a Dragon’s heart.”

“Hearts – three hearts,” said Aranya, emerging from her room dressed in a simple peasant smock. “Where’s Nak?”

“Snoring up a thunderstorm.”

“Already?” she asked. “How do I look, Oyda?”

“Hmm,” said Oyda. “I’ll have to teach you to look less of a Princess of Immadia. We need to think about your disguise. Maybe a young noblewoman would work better. Meantime, I’ll teach you how to fix your hairnet and headscarf like a peasant woman.”

“Ah, maiden most comely,” Nak called out, but went straight back to his snoring.

They both jumped, and laughed.

“So, tomorrow will be your night flying training?” Oyda asked.

“Yes,” Aranya agreed. “He wants to cover landing on vertical surfaces like cliffs or battlements. Nak also says I need to make a few longer flights before I try anything as daft as raiding the Tower of Sylakia. I think he’s also hoping for some bad weather to provide harder testing.”

“He’s just concerned about you, petal.”

“You worry too much. Oyda … oh, I don’t know.”

The old woman sighed. “Ask your question, Aranya. But I cannot answer it.”

“Oyda – how, of all the places in the Island-World, did I happen to crash-land on your doorstep?”

Oyda’s smile, at that moment, seemed as old and wise as an ancient Dragon. She shrugged. “I can’t say, Aranya. It just is.”

Chapter 9: The Raid

Nak scowled at the Dragon, who glowered in return. “I’m trying, Nak.”

“Trying with the wrong brain,” said Nak. “Try to appreciate, my delectable damsel, how much more brain there is behind that thick Dragon skull of yours than a Human will ever enjoy. Islands’ sakes, your head and muzzle are longer than I am tall. A Dragon’s brain is designed for flying.”

“I understand that, Nak.”

“But does it penetrate that impervious shield of armoured Dragon bone about your cranium?” Nak smacked her muzzle for emphasis. “The instant Human-Aranya tries to fly, you resemble a blue-speckled marsh stork stuck in a glue trap, flapping up and down in a panic. Dragons glide, Aranya. They soar. They do not flap straight up and down like a child playing Dragonships, they tilt the wing to minimise drag on the forward stroke and maximise power and lift on the backward stroke. A figure of eight is basic to good flying.”

He demonstrated with his arms – for the tenth time, Aranya thought, crossly. The real problem lay between her ears, precisely as he said, in her inability to disassociate her Human brain from the business of flying. Don’t think. Just fly. Easy as breathing.

She followed his instructions yet again, showing the maximum extent of her incredibly flexible wing joints. She made her wing tips touch together ahead of her nose, then way above her back, before spreading her wings to their maximum extent, her struts straining and her muscles quivering as she held the required position.

Nak marched along her wing, tapping the salient points with his cane. “First joint, the shoulder. The second – your elbow, if you prefer – brings the wing bone forward again, although you can reverse it and lock the joint for the gliding configurations. Eleven flight struts, your primary struts, lie between the shoulder and the elbow. They are a light and flexible form of Dragon bone. Seven struts lie between the elbow and the third joint, your wrist. These provide power when used properly. All of your struts can curve with these ancillary muscles to provide additional shape to the wing’s surface. From the wrist to the wingtip we have five thinner struts. These provide manoeuvrability and fine control in the air. Now, the tail –”

“Nak. You’re filling her brain with technicalities,” said Oyda. “The poor girl’s mired worse than your stork in a glue trap.”

“Ha!” snorted Nak, resting on a boulder. He waved his cane. “Your pupil, master.”

Aranya glanced between them. They were so familiar with Dragons. So experienced. Nothing about Dragon-Aranya seemed to surprise Nak and Oyda. It was hard to believe that the rest of the Island-World did not feel the same way.

Advancing toward her with a posy of wildflowers held in her right hand, which she had been collecting, Oyda said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Thinking is precisely the problem around here,” Nak interrupted.

Oyda quelled him with a fierce scowl of her own. “Right, my fledgling. Memorise these flowers.”

“I – um, what’s this got to do with –”

“Now, or it’s none of my honey biscuits for you later, you churlish wretch.”

Aranya studied the wildflowers. Five meadow daisies, a sprinkling of tiny blue-tinkles and three each of peonies, red anemones and tall bursts of fireflowers, made up her posy.

“Now, you will make a pass above the dell,” Oyda instructed. “While you fly, you will tell your Human brain to paint these flowers in every detail. I will question you afterward. And – do shut your yawning trap, petal. You’re catching flies.”

Grumbling to herself about how direct Nak and Oyda could be at times, Aranya thumped four-pawed over to the edge of the cliff, to her favourite outcropping, and threw herself into the air. This bit at least she had grasped. As usual, the moment she was aloft, her Human and Dragon brains went to war in her head. She immediately wallowed in the air. Every wing beat was a struggle.

Fine. She would paint flowers.

Aranya shot through the morning air. The deep golden sunbeams of a partial eclipse, the twin suns almost completely hidden behind Iridith’s bulk, seemed thick enough to swim in. She wheeled a thousand feet out and spun back on her wingtip for the required pass over the dell, where the figures of two tiny old people watched her intently.

She shaped meadow daisies. She concentrated on the finely bearded leaves of the fireflowers.

And she flew like a Dragon.

She raced across the sword-grass of the dell, almost brushing the blade-tips with her wingtips, before corkscrewing up above the forest bordering the heights and doubling back for a graceful landing that barely disturbed the still morning air.

Nak and Oyda smiled mysteriously at Aranya.

“Well? How was that?”

Nak wiped his eye. “Got a gnat stuck …”

“You old charlatan.” Oyda clipped the back of his head fondly. “That was Dragon, Aranya. Pure Dragon.”

* * * *

Two nights later, an hour before midnight, Aranya launched herself off the Sylakian bluffs at the edge of the dell. After drifting downward a thousand feet or so, Aranya trimmed her wings and swung to the north. Nak had advised two wingspans of clearance to guard against sudden changes in air currents as they swirled around the cliff’s rough outcroppings. “When you’re a better flyer, you can cut it finer,” he had advised. Despite the clear effulgence cast by the White moon and a sense of dangerous exposure, she stuck to his advice. Her nostrils flared in the flow of cool night air across her streamlined body. Night flowers? What was that scent?

Aranya ran Nak’s guidance on her mission through her mind. She stretched her wings and tried to find the most efficient way of harnessing the small amount of tailwind available. Human-Aranya painted flowers. Dragon-Aranya adjusted her wing struts; she surged through the air as though she had released an anchor. This would be the longest flight she had ever attempted, culminating in the minor issue of avoiding Nelthion’s guards on the walls and roof, and inside the Tower of Sylakia. To that end she carried a dark cloak in her right forepaw. She agreed with Nak – the awkwardness of transforming into a nude Human form was a problem for a Shapeshifter.

He rather fancied the idea, however.

For about two and a half hours, Aranya flew northward and a touch easterly around the bulge of mid-Sylakia, up toward the midway point of the large Island on its western edge. She noticed the ground rising steadily to her right hand – wing, she corrected herself silently, marvelling at the appendage as the White moon’s light shone through the thin membrane of the main surface, highlighting the bone struts and secondary and tertiary arteries that fed the skin and the flight muscles. This was beyond her dreams. This was Dragon flight, crossed by a windroc! She pulled up alertly. But the windroc went about its business without apparently noticing her. Aranya let out a long, gusty breath. Her Dragon instincts had immediately primed her body for battle. Time to calm down.

Suddenly, she saw rock out of the corner of her eye. Aranya flapped frantically, taking the sting off a glancing blow against the cliff-side. Idiot. Just when her attention wandered, she had allowed the breeze to push her against the cliff. She recovered with a few angry flaps of her wings. It was growing more blustery. She sank lower and gave the cliffs a greater berth. Oh, look, there were mountain goats down there. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively.

No time to hunt, she told her Dragon brain.

Her eyes narrowed, focussing with the incredible binocular power of Dragon vision. There, perhaps a league ahead, was a jutting rock she recognised. She saw torchlight upon its tip. The low, squat form of the painfully misnamed Tower of Sylakia became clear against the background of stars. Her hearts thumped painfully, all three at once.

But Aranya did not turn aside for one wing beat. She eased into a long glide, preparatory for timing the vertical climb that must take her fast, over the edge and into a place where she could Shapeshift into Human form. She was ready.

Now!

She flapped powerfully, extending her wings for maximum acceleration, pushing so hard that she felt blood drain toward her tail under the gravitational forces. Aranya shot upward, wholly concentrating on the target. She came in close to the rock face, flying in a perfect vertical, before she furled her wings suddenly to slow down. A lash of her tail and a small wing-adjustment flipped her over the edge and rapidly down the other side. Aranya landed perfectly.

Right in the rajal pit.

Her Human brain squeaked in terror, but thankfully, her Dragon form had mastery and so she made no sound. A shadow stalking toward her with leonine menace was met with an equally menacing show of her fangs. Aranya flared her wings. The rajal pulled up short.

Aranya listened carefully. Boots, retreating. A guard on patrol, she assumed. There would be a man on the door nearby the Last Walk. Yes, she heard his breathing.

She leaped out of the rajal pit and into the shadows behind a large ornamental tree, and transformed. Snatching up the cloak, she covered herself and crouched, listening intently. Darn, now she could not hear the guards any more. Nak had not mentioned that. Could she listen with her Dragon brain through Human ears? Well, it gave her a headache, but it seemed to work to a degree. The night’s sounds suddenly became sharper and more distinct. Aranya picked up two stones.

Moving forward stealthily, she found an angle where she could remain hidden but see the doorway into the Tower. There was a guard there, she knew. Her Human eyes could not see him.

Overarm, she pinged the place she thought he was standing with the pebble.

Clink.

“Ouch! Eh, what’s the matter with you lot?”

The guard rushed out of the doorway. Aranya tossed another pebble down the walkway to her right. The man instantly oriented on the sound.

“Guys? Who’s the joker? Show yourself.”

He trotted away from her, loosening his war hammer just in case.

Aranya darted into the doorway. Unlocked. Good. Left open a crack, even better. She eased the door open and sneaked inside.

After listening for a moment, Aranya slipped down the corridor toward the secondary staircase, which was sometimes left unguarded. The Princess’ room was up one level. She could not wait to surprise Zuziana. This was going to be great.

She had no idea how she was going to explain about being a Dragon.

Danger! She shrank into a shadow as a pair of guards rounded a corner and marched toward her. Once they had passed by she scuttled up the stairs, trying very hard to listen with her Dragon senses. Nothing. Good – which probably meant Nelthion had stationed men at other points on the residential floor. Pulling her dark cloak about her, she tiptoed past two branching corridors, pausing each time to peek around the corners in either direction, before braving the open ground. Here, a right turn should take her to Zip’s apartments.

She sidled soft-footed toward the corner. Oh – flying sheep dung. Nelthion had stationed a man right outside Zuziana’s door!

Well, that meant switching to her backup plan. Holding her head high, Aranya marched around the corner and made directly for the Princess’ door.

The guard startled. “Who goes there?”

“Princess Ramalya of Renidia,” she said, softly. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“Princess who?”

She smiled at him and laid a coy hand on his arm. “Renidia. I’m new, but you won’t hold it against me, will you? I like men in uniform. They make me … purr.”

“I, um, I, what?” spluttered the guard.

“I’m just visiting my friend. Girl talk, you know.”

Aranya rapped on the door. Please let Zip be sleeping lightly. She always said she did.

After a second knock, she heard a sleepy stirring within. “Who is it?” Zip’s soft footsteps approached the door.

“Your friend,” called Aranya.

The female voice did the trick. A bolt squeaked; the door drew open. Waving at the guard, Aranya slipped within.

“Who is it?” Zip repeated, holding up a lantern.

“Please don’t scream, alright?” Aranya pushed back her hood.

Zuziana gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth, muffling a shriek. “Aran – no, it can’t be. How? How did you … are you real?”

“Pinch me and see.”

“I think I need to sit down.” Zip retreated to the bed, watching Aranya all the while with huge eyes. She put her hand to her heart. Poor Zip was panting; wide-eyed, as pale as the sheet she sat on. “This isn’t some cruel – no. No, you died.”

Aranya smiled at her friend. “Zip, it’s me. Truly. You aren’t dreaming. It’s Princess Aranya of Immadia. The one with the crazy hair, the fire – I healed you, Zip. I can tell you that you have a birthmark right there, just below your left collarbone. I can recite the names of your eight brothers.”

Zuziana said dully, “But I saw you fall. I cried for days, I cried … Beri’s gone home, gone to Immadia. Nelthion said she should go. But it’s your hair – I know that hair, and it’s Aranya’s voice …”

“We don’t have much time,” Aranya replied. “I’ve come to take you away from the Tower, Zip. I can’t explain everything right now. But I will. If you pack some things, light things, and maybe a cloak and your sword …”

“Are you a ghost from the Cloudlands?”

“No.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“I … flew. Zip, I know it’s hard to believe. Please. Pack what you need. Come with me. You don’t need to live here anymore.”

Shaking her head, Zuziana pushed herself to her feet. “You’re crazy. I’m crazy to be listening to my dead friend who turns up at my door in the dead of night. I’ve got your forked daggers.” She rooted around for clothes. “Travelling things, right? I’ve got a pack, somewhere.”

She kept stealing glances at Aranya as if to assure herself she would not vanish in a puff of smoke.

The diminutive Princess changed quickly into a split long skirt, blouse and cloak. She belted her sword at her waist. She pinned her hairnet and headscarf in place.

“This is insane, Aranya. Nobody escapes from the Tower.”

“I know. Come, to the roof.”

She had forgotten the guard. He took one look at their cloaks and shouted the alarm. Reversing one of her daggers, Aranya smashed him over the head with the handle.

“Run, Zip!”

They sprinted down the corridor. Boots thudded and yells sounded nearby. They might as well have awakened an army. Aranya, with Zip in tow, took the stairway up to the roof three steps at a time. They tripped a guard on his way down, sending him tumbling down the flight of steps to land in a heap at the bottom.

The great warning gong crashed as they broke out onto the roof.

Zip looked around wildly. “Where’s your Dragonship? Tell me you have a Dragonship.”

“This way!” Aranya nearly pulled her friend off her feet.

“There they are,” someone shouted.

“The ship,” cried Zuziana. “Where?”

The girls sprinted across the open, flat roof area to the raised battlements of the Tower of Sylakia. Aranya saw the nearest war crossbow being levered taut. Soldiers ran along the wall to intercept them, hammers held at the ready.

“No time to explain,” Aranya cried, and transformed. The world jumped and settled; her eyes were suddenly four feet higher and her body felt disconcertingly huge. “Zip, it’s me!”

Zip shrieked at the top of her lungs. Soldiers bellowed warnings. Officers rapped out contrary orders. Dragon-Aranya heard the crossbow platforms squealing as the soldiers brought the great bows to bear. They had no time.

She grabbed for Zip. The Princess dodged her first swipe.

“Zip, I swear …”

“Leave me alone! Monster!”

“You idiot.” The Dragon pounced on her friend. With her forepaws she grabbed Zuziana of Remoy around her arms and waist, squeezing her painfully. She leaped over the battlement.

Aranya tumbled through the air. The war crossbows twanged. Six-foot quarrels hissed through the space above her head. She twisted frantically and kicked off the side of the Tower. Too fast. Aranya tried to pull up, but immediately slammed onto her belly on the Last Walk. With the momentum of her Dragon weight, she skidded off the end almost in the same way as she had departed the Tower of Sylakia the first time, curling her paws around Zuziana in an attempt to protect her from harm. A sharp pain pierced her left wing.

Flapping and driving her body forward with frantic haste, Dragon-Aranya shot across the space between the Tower and the mainland. She saw red; the hurt, anger and adrenalin filled her in an unstoppable tide. She flew at a breakneck pace, aching with every wing beat.

The pain! For the first time in a hundred summers, a Dragon thundered her fury across the rooftops of Sylakia Town. Every animal froze in primal fear.

* * * *

Soon, Aranya found the presence of mind to hide below the level of the cliffs. She winged southward as quickly as she was able, looking askance at her left wing every few minutes. Drops of golden Dragon blood fell like glittering jewels into the Cloudlands below. Nak had said a wound should stop bleeding of its own accord. But this rent in her wing membrane did not. One of the tertiary arteries had been torn, she realised. She dared not attempt her healing power. If it took too much out of her, she might simply drop from the sky.

Zuziana appeared to have fainted. Her body hung limply in the cradle of Aranya’s paws. Her Dragon hearing noted Zip’s heartbeat, loud and clear. She had done it. Aranya released a long sigh of relief. She had rescued Zip from the Tower of Sylakia.

Yes!

“Forgive me, my friend,” she whispered.

Gingerly, she winged her way back. She had to. Nak would know what to do.

The hours rolled by. The night wind strengthened, making her work harder and harder to make headway. Aranya remembered Nak’s warnings. She must not land or transform. But she was weakening. She had no idea how much blood a Dragon could lose, but she felt her strength fading by the moment.

How could a small wound create such a problem? The quarrel had passed cleanly through the membrane. The trickle had slowed. Maybe that was only because there was little blood left to lose.

Aranya beat her way onward. Each breath rasped painfully in her lungs.

One beat. Two. Keep the wings moving.

Dawn’s first orange blush glowed in the eastern sky as she spotted the now-familiar V of the dell where the streamlet poured over the side of Sylakia’s Island, wetting a long, trailing streamer of thick vegetation that tumbled, layer upon layer and ledge upon ledge, and evaporated long before it reached the Cloudlands below.

Wheezing like a blacksmith’s bellows, Dragon-Aranya crested the cliff top. She barely hung on with her claws. Weakly, she dragged herself forward, claw after claw, gouging out footholds as she needed, up onto solid ground.

Nak came almost running down from the prekki-fruit tree, tottering dangerously on his canes as he hollered, “Don’t transform! Don’t transform!”

Aranya laid her head in the stream and let cool water flow down her throat, too tired even to swallow. “Nak …”

“You fool girl,” he groaned. “Fool Dragon. Hold still.” Nak tore off his own shirt and pressed it against her wound. He was crying, she thought; crying over her wing, weeping over her pain. “Use the magic, Shimmerith, my beautiful. Use the magic, whatever you’ve got. You’re safe now, darling girl.”

He had called her Shimmerith, his old Dragon’s name.

She released her magic, and knew no more.

* * * *

Aranya awoke to Nak smacking her across the nose repeatedly with his canes. “Dragonships,” he cried. “Get into the forest. Go!”

She looked dully about her. Where was Zuziana? Where was she?

“Quickly. They’re looking for you.”

Oyda was sweeping away tracks and turning sods of grass back over where Aranya had gouged them up with her claws. Weakly, she pulled herself up and flap-staggered her way up beneath the sheltering boughs of the forest. A Dragonship came humming steadily overhead on a southerly bearing, packed with Sylakian Hammers all searching the ground with keen eyes.

Searching for a Dragon.

She collapsed, panting. By the mountains of Immadia, she could eat a sheep right now. Aranya peered through the trees. So, they knew about her. She remembered roaring above the town, and wanted to kick herself – or claw herself, or whatever a Dragon did when they had been so stupid.

Later, Nak appeared with a large haunch of raw meat in tow. He chopped it up with his dagger and fed her chunk by hand-sized chunk. Soon after, Aranya began to feel better. Nak talked about her wound, trying to describe how she should encourage the membrane to regrow and the artery to heal itself. She told him how she had carried out her raid on the Tower of Sylakia.

“You should stay in Dragon form for a few days,” he advised. “Stay hidden, here in the forest, in case the Dragonships come back. But don’t wander far, for I wouldst pine and die for want of a sight of thy splendour, my jewel.”

His silly poetic turn of phrase made her smile. “How’s Zuziana, Nak?”

“Ah,” he sighed. “What a dainty piece of fluff you brought home, my beauty, what a sweet toy to grace my bedroom.”

Aranya fought off an urge to nip him in annoyance. “You mean, she’s fine?”

“She kissed my cheek,” Nak declared. “Aye, a pocket rajal, she is. Shocked, you have to understand. Oyda’s working her magic as we speak. Don’t you just want to nibble her up? A nibble for breakfast, a nibble for –”

“I’ll nibble your head off your shoulders, old man. Now, will you please explain why I cannot transform?”

“Aye, I liked you better clothed in Human skin,” said Nak. “Volume, Aranya. Relative to your Human form, the much larger Dragon form holds much more flesh and blood, so in the case of this wound – traumatic blood loss – transforming might kill you right away. In general your Dragon form can take much greater punishment than your Human form. I believe it is the Dragon form in which your healing magic will work best.”

That same evening, as the suns dipped beneath the cliff-edge of the dell, three further Dragonships puttered by overhead. They did not stop.

Shortly thereafter, Aranya’s sharp Dragon ears detected an unfamiliar footfall leaving the hut and walking uphill toward her. Zuziana. Her hearts turned over. How would Zip take this strangeness? Would she accept, or … Aranya could not even consider the alternative. She trembled. She resisted an urge to hide or flee.

The Princess of Remoy stopped a few feet short of her. After a long while, Aranya dared to open her eyes and regard her friend. “Zip?”

“A-Aranya?” she stammered. “I-It’s really you?”

“I’m afraid so.” Aranya’s mouth watered at sight of the leg of sheep Zip had dragged up with her. “Surprise. I’m sorry I made such a mess of not telling you –”

“I wouldn’t have believed you.”

“Well, I apologise anyway. Um – could I eat a bit of that meat? Starving.”

Aranya’s heart fell as Zuziana dropped the meat and retreated several steps. She ate mournfully. But then her friend plucked up her courage and approached her again. Aranya could only imagine what courage it took to walk right up to a forty-foot Dragon for a friendly chat. That was one quality she loved about Zip. She had more pluck than ten ordinary Princesses.

“Aranya,” she gulped audibly, “I think your eyes are the same colour as your old ones – but bigger and more brilliant – but you’re still stuck on the colour purple. It is you. I can see that now. You’re just so … Dragon.”

“Yes, and I can tell the difference between you and this sheep.”

Zip chuckled, but sounded overawed. “What a comfort. My best friend is the fiercest and most magnificent creature I’ve ever seen, and here’s the little sparrow talking to her.”

“You’re no sparrow. I was stupid to ever say that.”

“Oh, Aranya – you’re alive!” Zuziana hugged her muzzle, awkwardly. “Oh, I just hugged your mouth. Oyda’s been trying to explain, but it’s a crazy lot all at once and just a little freaky, alright? Forgive me. I’m sorry I fainted and didn’t help you return and I could have patched your wing or something – how is your wing?”

“All’s forgiven,” Aranya smiled at her friend’s babbling. Zip jumped backward. “Sorry. This is a smile. With fangs – er, the wing’s improving, Zip. Nak says I can transform tomorrow.”

“Is it weird? Gross?”

“Transforming myself?” Aranya cocked her head to one side. “I don’t think so. It’s more like the world wobbles and suddenly I’m a Dragon. But it frightened you ralti-stupid last time.”

Zip’s expression suggested that being grabbed around the torso by a Dragon’s paw was not her favourite recent experience. “You bruised my ribs, you bully,” she said. “But you burgled the Tower of Sylakia just for me. That’s just – I don’t have words, only a grateful heart.”

“I appreciate that more than you know, Zip.”

Her friend looked to the suns-set as if making a resolution. Wiping her eyes, she said, “Aranya, were you expecting me to become your Dragon Rider?”

She didn’t want to be a Rider? Aranya had never considered that possibility. Her belly churned uneasily. Would she have to do this alone? “I had hoped –”

“Well, it’s just that Nak says Dragon scales are frightfully sharp. I’d really need a proper Dragon Rider saddle, or I’d shred my legs on these.” She touched Aranya’s shoulder lightly as the Dragon’s hearts sang with hope. “Wow. Daggers. I was wondering – as you do – whether we’d find some old equipment lying around in Remoy. We’re a funny lot, we Remoyans. We don’t listen well to instructions to destroy our heritage, particularly when those instructions originate in Sylakia.”

An enormous grin exposed every one of her fangs.

“Ooh, I do hope that’s another Dragon smile.” Zip affected a nonchalant pose, standing in the curve of Aranya’s neck. But her heartbeat pounded as loudly as a drum to a Dragon’s hearing. “So – know any friendly Dragons who might need a Rider?”

“Friendly? Do you at least taste nice?” Aranya pretended to sniff around her friend’s legs.

“Down, you wicked, wicked beast!”

* * * *

Nak stood at the kitchen table in his pompous lecturing pose. Aranya wanted to laugh, but he was being so very serious and earnest that she had to settle for biting her knuckles and winking at Zuziana instead. She narrowed her eyes, clearly indicating Aranya should pay attention.

Zuziana had been thoroughly impressed with the responsibilities and honour of being a Dragon Rider. Now, Nak moved on to their proposed journey to Remoy Island.

“When you travel, you can hole up in caves or use ledges on the cliffs, or any convenient forest will do,” Nak said. “I suggest you don’t transform while you rest, my lustrous petal, because you’ll need all of your strength for the crossings between the Islands. Not many people or creatures will bother a sleeping Dragon. I used to sleep beside Shimmerith’s neck – did I tell you she was killed by a gigantic feral Dragon?”

Ten times, Aranya thought. A tear came to his eye every time. Mopping his eyes on cue with an absurdly oversized handkerchief, the old man continued:

“The bond between Rider and Dragon is so special and magical and … I couldn’t tell you. You just have to experience it. Travel together, face dangers together … aye. Well, I’d often wake to find Shimmerith’s foreleg curled protectively around my body. Kept me warm many a cold night, she did. You are very, very fortunate, you two.”

Zip prodded Aranya with her elbow. “Beast of burden.”

Aranya elbowed her right back. “Annoying little pest. Do I have to carry you everywhere?”

Nak wagged his finger sternly. “Every hand is raised against Dragons and their Riders. Travel at night, and only at night. I’ve already seen message hawks flying overhead.”

“Message hawks?” asked Aranya.

Nak explained, “They’re also called homing hawks. They are able to return to the nest where they were born from anywhere in the Island-World. The Sylakians developed the idea of training them to carry messages rapidly from one Island to another. I’ve absolutely no doubt you two are the subject of a number of those messages. The Sylakians will not have enjoyed being bearded in their own den. You did rather announce your presence, Aranya.”

“Battle rage,” she muttered, hanging her head.

“Well, word has even reached our village back there,” said Nak, referring to the nearest village, half a day’s walk distant. “Everyone’s talking about the return of the Dragons.”

“Quite the kerfuffle,” Oyda put in, but Aranya heard only pride in her voice.

Nak said, “The Sylakians will be out to destroy you. Don’t expect any quarter. This journey to Remoy will be dangerous. But you are Dragon and Rider, now. The Island-World as we know it has already been changed. It’s in your hands – and paws – as to what you make of this gift.”

Aranya squirmed at the force of his words.

Zuziana asked, “Nak, I thought Dragons could breathe fire. How come, if Aranya has so much fire in her Human form, she cannot raise even the smallest spark in her Dragon form?”

Aranya grimaced. “Shall I bite you now or later, Zip?”

“Juvenile Dragons can’t always breathe fire,” said Nak. “The ability might develop soon. Furthermore, it might all be different for Shapeshifters, we don’t really know. Dragon fire is a great mystery. Even our Dragons didn’t know where it came from. They just breathed it.”

Zuziana added, with a wicked little smile, “Aranya’s fire seemed to arise from high emotion. Like whenever she thought about Yolathion. Isn’t that so, Aranya?”

“He’s the enemy,” Aranya mumbled, turning pink.

“Huh,” said Nak. “A Sylakian brute, like that all-conquering father of his who you stupidly saved from the windroc.”

“Nak,” Oyda warned, “don’t say something you’ll regret. The female heart is a mystery greater even than your precious Dragon fire. I know you care about these two petals and that’s why you’re cross, but we need to let them fly off. They’ll come back sooner that way.”

“A couple more petals and we’ll have a whole flower in our house,” Nak grumbled. But then he brightened. “You’ll come back and give me a kiss?”

“Both of us,” said Zuziana.

“At the same time,” added Aranya.

Nak did a silly dance with the help of his canes. “I’m going to raid my stores for you two. You’ll need drals for food; a few jewels to cover incidental expenses. Can’t have starving Princesses on my doorstep. Your fathers would cross the Island-World just to smack me like Oyda enjoys doing.”

“Like this?” Oyda growled, reaching out.

Nak dodged her swipe and ran into the back room, cackling gleefully.

Chapter 10: Rider

Two days later, they were ready to fly.

Dragon-Aranya twisted her long neck to look at Princess Zuziana, seated between her twentieth and twenty-first neck spines, just ahead of her wings. The spines ran the length of her body to her tail. They were smaller on her neck and tail but rose to two feet tall where Zuziana sat. Nak had said her spines would grow bigger and sharper with time. Aranya wondered how much larger her Dragon form would grow. She estimated her length at forty feet from nose-tip to tail. Both Oyda and Nak had flown Dragons over ninety feet long.

That was huge.

As if she wasn’t self-conscious about her size already, Aranya frowned. Although, in comparison to her Dragon form, her Human body was tiny. She rather wished Zip had not teased her about the size of a Dragon’s behind.

“Ready?” Aranya asked.

Zuziana squeaked, “No.”

Her ride walked to the cliff’s edge anyway. An hour after nightfall, with Iridith still hiding below the horizon, the time was perfect to set out on their journey to Remoy Island. Aranya felt confident she could manage the first leg to Telstroy Island, which lay sixteen leagues south-east of Sylakia’s southern tip. The most challenging part would be to cross the mountainous heart of Sylakia undetected. Flying the long way around the southerly point, Nak argued, might be too much for Aranya to manage.

Oh, for a sight of Immadia. They planned to fly in the opposite direction. If only she could get a message to her father … but that was too dangerous, both for her and for the Kingdom of Immadia. Aranya agreed with Zip and Nak. They needed equipment and any Dragon lore the Remoyans may have hidden from the Sylakians. She only wished their route lay northward.

Nor could she have managed the long crossings between the northerly Islands – they were beyond her flying range. Remoy was the better choice, an opportunity for both Rider and Dragon to gain experience.

“Scared, Princess of Remoy?” she asked.

“You’re the one with the wings.”

“I intend to do my level best to keep you safe. Hold on tight.”

Zuziana was strapped in above Aranya’s shoulders via an arrangement Nak had figured out. A cloth pad between her spine-spikes protected the Rider’s seat and legs from the Dragon’s sharp scales. A long strap ran beneath Aranya’s powerful chest, just behind her forelegs, keeping the seat secure from beneath. Nak had cut leather straps and fitted them with buckles to hold the Rider’s thighs and torso, providing her security against slipping or falling off. Two travel packs containing their supplies were fastened in the spine-space ahead of Zuziana’s seat, where she could reach them if needed.

Aranya flexed her flight muscles. Excitement accelerated her heart-rate. Although she was sad to be leaving the little dell which had been her home for a month and a half – the time felt much longer – her appetite for adventure, for flying into her future, felt as whetted as an Immadian forked dagger.

Zip’s voice trembled as she said, “This takes trust to a whole new level, I’ll have you know.”

Dragon-Aranya banished a flare of irritation as quickly as it rose. Of course Zip was scared. Didn’t she know her Dragon-friend was scared, too? She held another person’s life in her hands. Paws, even.

“You’ve flown with me before, Zip,” she said. “I’ll try to make your flight more comfortable this time.”

Nak and Oyda stood hand-in-hand beneath the prekki-fruit tree. Their farewells had been said, but now Oyda called, “Go burn the heavens, Dragon and Rider.”

Aranya took one last look back and leaped into space.

“Oh, oh, oooooh,” wailed Zuziana.

Dragon-Aranya levelled out, flying swiftly along the cliffs in a southerly direction. She deliberately eased off the pace. The surge of Dragon adrenalin was so potent, she could hardly control herself. But she knew she had to take it slow for Zip’s sake.

“Easy on the yowling there, rajal,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. She heard the smack of Zip’s gloved hand, but barely felt it. “Enjoying the ride?”

“Aaaa-ooo,” moaned her friend.

Perhaps now was not the moment to show Zuziana that she had recently learned how to do loops in the air.

“Look at the Jade moon. That should help,” she advised.

Zuziana did not howl for much longer. But it did take her a very long time to stop gripping the spine-spike in front of her with white-knuckled desperation.

After an hour or so aloft, Aranya recognised the soaring ravine-wall that Nak had mentioned as their first landmark. Here, a river had been terraced into a huge lake that led into the interior of Sylakia. There was so much water that it spilled over the terrace edge in a gleaming sheet, a vast waterfall. At the end of the waterfall, Aranya rose and veered to the east, following the uninhabited southern lake shore.

Aranya flew low over the water, easing into slight changes of direction to follow the curve of the lake. After a while, she heard Zuziana say, “I can see our reflection down there.”

She was right. There was enough light from the White moon to cast not only a shadow, but a fast-moving reflection upon the mirror-calm surface. That was what they must look like from beneath. She hoped no Sylakians would be watching the night sky this evening. Aranya saw the tall, white-tipped peaks of the mountain range ahead. Three spear-like peaks, she reminded herself. She should aim for the rightmost.

When she glanced over her shoulder, Zuziana essayed an unconvincing smile. “I’m enjoying this – Aranya, really I am.”

“I’m glad, Zip. It’s peaceful out here.”

“Just pray we don’t run into any Dragonships.”

Aranya’s hearts leaped, as did she in the air. She settled crossly. “Positive thinking there, Zip. Thanks.”

Several further hours of flying across a vast tapestry of forest and lake brought Rider and Dragon to the farthest shore. Now they climbed into the mountains, rising above the treeline into a barren land of snows and icerocs, the fierce inhabitants of the mountains. Like windrocs, they were wild and dangerous, but Nak had stressed that the huge white-feathered birds hunted by day, not by night. Nevertheless, Aranya kept a Dragon’s eye on their surroundings.

As they winged over a frozen lake, a brilliant shower of meteorites streaked the sky ahead of them. Aranya exclaimed in wonder. She focussed her gaze carefully, following the brightest trail down to its explosive landing in the snows of a faraway peak. Steam and fire blazed upward momentarily.

Descending from the mountains, their route led them across the barren deserts of eastern Sylakia, inhabited by constantly warring desert tribes, and on to the Island’s edge. Aranya detoured and flew low across the desert to avoid a group of Dragonships motoring their way toward them from the east.

Then they rested in the lee of a barren, rocky outcropping.

“How’s my ride doing?” Zuziana asked, stretching her back.

“A little tired. Good thing I filled up on a sheep yesterday,” said Aranya. “There’s the long haul to Telstroy to come, yet – straight across the Cloudlands.”

“What about the hole in your wing?”

“Healed over, but still tender.”

Zip walked around to her nose. “Dragon-Aranya, if I ever start to take this for granted, I give you permission to bite me.”

Aranya blinked her secondary optical membranes. “Huh?”

“This. Flying. Being with a Dragon. It’s …” she sighed. “I thought I would grow old and die in that Tower. Now I’m flying Dragonback across Sylakia on my way home, seeing sights I never imagined. Actually, bite me now. Then I’ll know if I’m dreaming or not.”

Would Zuziana leave her in Remoy? Would she want to continue to wherever Aranya would go next? The old feeling of fire sparked in her belly. Raising her forepaw, Aranya poked her friend in the ribs with the longest claw of her five-toed foot. “Wake up.”

“Ouch! That hurt.”

“Oh, Zip, you’re bleeding. I’m so sorry.”

Aranya apologised at least twenty times before Zuziana managed to locate their small pot of a sticky, pungent cream Oyda swore by for cuts and bruises. A dab of her finger, and the bleeding of the deep puncture wound began to slow.

“Alright,” said Zip. “Enough bellyaching, Dragon. If you’ve got that much energy for endless apologies, then it’s time you were flying again. Agreed?”

“Grr,” said Aranya.

This time, the Remoyan did not howl as Aranya flung herself off the low eastern cliffs of Sylakia. She laughed and spread her hands in the wind. But her heart was hammering away back there. The Dragon smiled to herself. Just like Zip.

The Jade and White moons, risen high in the night sky’s starry vault, lent the Cloudlands a sickly cast that spoke only too eloquently of the poisons below. Aranya wondered how she had survived flying beneath the clouds before. Had she dropped into the Cloudlands themselves? For how long – long enough to hold her breath? Did poisonous gases not affect Dragons? Could it be that the Dragons had hidden themselves somewhere within or beneath the oceanic vastness of the Cloudlands?

Aranya flexed her flight muscles, pushing into a steady headwind. This was not going to be fun. She tried to remember what Nak had advised about the optimal number of wing beats per quarter-hour, which minimised a Dragon’s effort while maximising forward momentum. Now her mind filled with what-if’s. What if she ran out of energy? What if they missed Telstroy Island? What if they ran into a Dragonship? After a long while of flying in silence with her thoughts, she said:

“Zip, tell me about your family. I’d appreciate some distraction.”

Zip began to tell Aranya about her father, King Lorman, and his four wives, three of whom sat on the Ruling Council of Remoy, and the antics of her many brothers.

They passed the hours with Zip chattering away and Aranya labouring against the brisk headwind as they crossed the gap between the Islands. Toward morning, having pushed herself much further than she imagined she could fly, Aranya sighted Telstroy Island, at last. With a tired groan, she bought them to a safe landing on a ledge a quarter-league below the main surface of the wide, low Island.

When Zip stumbled on alighting, Aranya’s paw flashed out at a Dragon’s reaction-speed to steady her friend. But she was more circumspect with her claws this time. Zip settled herself in the curve of the Dragon’s neck, pillowed her head on their travel pack and pulled her robe over her head. Aranya wondered if she’d be able to sleep once the suns rose. Experimentally, she drew her wing up to shade them both. There, that was better. The suns would still shine through her wing membranes, but it was better than nothing.

They sank into an exhausted sleep.

Aranya’s muscles twitched as though she were still flying.

* * * *

By evening, when they were ready to resume their journey, the skies had clouded over and the wind freshened with a tang of rain. Dragon-Aranya tested the breeze, wishing danger smelled as clear as that approaching storm did. Maybe they could outfly it. Maybe she was having the Dragon equivalent of cold shivers for no good reason.

“This wind will be helping us, mostly,” she told Zip. “I think we can proceed.”

“There’s heaps of Islands along the Crescent,” said Zip. “Most are uninhabited. It gets much thicker down there – jungles, Aranya. Something you’ve never seen as a Northerner.”

“I’ve seen a few trees in my –”

“Down, bristly Dragon-lady,” Zuziana laughed. “Don’t start breathing fire all over me just yet, especially not when I’m irritating you. Once you’ve seen the jungles, you can have your little burst of flame, if you like.”

Aranya growled something unintelligible, deliberately deep in her chest. But she crooked her paw so that Zuziana could use it to step up onto her shoulder. From there she clambered nimbly up into the saddle. Zip fastened the thigh straps through the buckles Nak had carelessly cut off an old leather-bound trunk back in his storeroom. On second thoughts, she fastened the dangling ends with an extra knot. Aranya swung her head around to observe the process.

“Making sure I don’t fall off?” Zip asked.

She sighed so gustily that Zuziana blinked at the breeze she created. Aranya said, “I can’t get it out of my head what Nak said about that Rider falling off into the Cloudlands and his Dragon not even noticing. When the Dragon realised, she flew after him and was never seen again.”

Zip nodded, cinching her waist belt. “I’ll give you something else to worry about, if you like.”

“Oh – don’t.”

“You asked earlier whether or not we’ve been spotted.” Zuziana patted her flank. “I’m in. Let’s fly. I’d be more surprised if we weren’t spotted. The Sylakians must have guessed where we’re headed. A little eastward swing over the desert? That won’t fool them. With these beautiful moons the night’s lit up like the heart of a meriatite furnace. You and I don’t look a whole lot like a Dragonship. Who’s missing from the Tower? Who dropped her Immadian forked daggers on the battlements when she changed into a Dragon?”

Aranya, coiling herself to spring away from the ledge, half-stopped with a gasp of realisation. She very nearly somersaulted over the edge as her forepaws clutched only space. Aranya corrected mid-air with a furious, back-wrenching manoeuvre.

Once she was stable, she hissed, “Sorry.”

Zip said, “I’ll just fix my head back onto my shoulders.”

“Sorry!”

“Joke, Aranya. I should’ve stopped to pick up your daggers. But I was too busy fainting like some vapid party-Princess who forgot to eat before the big dance.”

Dragon-Aranya poured her anger into a long, shallow dive that accelerated them to a wind-whipping velocity. Zip said nothing, although Aranya knew that she must be eating insects back there. She eased into a glide, bleeding off the speed.

Aranya said, “Right, that’s out of my system.”

“Good. Can you see the Crescent yet?”

“Zip, thank you for stating things as they are. You’re no coward and I won’t have you saying it.”

She could almost hear a smile emanating from Zip. “I’m rather fond of having you alive,” Zuziana said. “I’d like to keep you this way. Even if it’s in the form of an ancient reptile.”

“Who needs daggers when you’ve got words, Zip?”

“Aranya, will you promise not to take offence at what I’m going to say?”

“Zip? Er – no offence, of course.”

Zuziana, with a self-deprecating chortle, said, “Back in the Tower, you were so very intense, Aranya – every inch the Princess of Immadia, and about as friendly as those mountains you Immadians claim are so wonderful. You’d disappear into painting for days on end. The way your eyes blazed – it was truly like fire. You scared most of us. I would never have picked you for a friend. But now …”

The massive, striated flight muscles of her shoulders and chest worked steadily as Aranya waited for her friend to continue. The Dragon in her measured Zip’s tiny weight atop her shoulders as almost negligible, but Human-Aranya measured the substance of their friendship with a melancholy inner sigh. She had never had a friend like Zip. She had never had many friends, period. Too intense. Too scary. Too self-absorbed. Now their friendship was developing so many different facets it made her dizzy to think about it. Dragon and Rider. Was this what Nak and Oyda had hinted at?

“I sense a deep joy in you, Aranya,” Zip said, at last. “You’re happy – infectiously so. Perhaps this happens in every person if they’re released into their true form. If they’re allowed to be who they should be. You always were a Dragon. You just needed to know it.”

Aranya pondered this for over a hundred wingbeats. “Thanks, Zip,” she murmured. “But tell me, who would Zuziana of Remoy be?”

“Well, now there’s something to think about, Dragonback, with my hair streaming in the breeze,” her friend said lightly, but she was silent for a long time after that.

A line of jag-toothed Islands slowly spread out before them, peeking from beneath the Cloudlands as though a crescent moon’s mountainous back had lifted from the murky depths; or, Aranya thought, the neck-spines of the most gigantic Dragon in all creation. Every spine was crowned with a fantastic profusion of greenery. Her Dragon sight feasted on the details – the enormous fronds hanging from the sides of the Islands in fringes a thousand feet long, and the canopy of vegetation rising in layer upon layer above each rocky spire until they resembled fantastical mushrooms with long hair hanging from every possible crevice.

A cool airstream, presaging the storm sweeping in from the north, hustled them along on its skirts. Aranya thought to outrun the storm. They shot over Island after moons-lit Island, seeing not a single sign of Human habitation. Rich smells came to her flaring nostrils – damp vegetation, loamy soils, gritty pollens and fragrances she had no names for. Many of the Islands were connected by great looping hanks of leafy vines, easily visible in the bright moonlight. She saw apes the size of houses swinging from them.

“Oraials,” said Zuziana, reading her thoughts.

“Want a closer look?”

“Sure – oh, my stomach. Please don’t fly sideways.”

“I have to turn, Zip.” But Aranya levelled off.

As they drifted past the mammoth primates, both Dragon and Rider gazed in wonder. There was a whole community of the shaggy-haired apes, swinging on the vines, plucking huge melons and eating them, the little ones – who were already bigger than any adult Human – shrieking and hooting as they played among the vines and overarching branches. Suddenly a huge male, perched on a branch, bellowed a warning. He began thumping his chest. The hollow booming instantly broke up the play. Mothers grabbed infants. Juveniles raced for the trees. Within moments, the entire family had vanished into the jungle of their Island.

“Magnificent,” Zip breathed.

Aranya glanced worriedly over her shoulder. Dark cloud-mountains loomed in the night sky, cutting off the moons and stars. “So is that storm. We should find shelter.”

“We can’t just fly above it?”

“Not with you on my back, Zip. There’s a limit to the height Humans can fly before the air becomes too thin and cold. It’s –”

“All fine for her Dragonish highness.” Zuziana chortled at her own pun. “Not much more than a one and a half leagues above the Cloudlands, Nak said, measured by that scientific process known as dead reckoning. Somewhere above two leagues, I turn into a blue icicle and drop off your back.”

Aranya sketched a mid-air bow. “Another inimitable Zip-ism. Help me find a place to land.”

But a landing place proved difficult to find. Because of her inexperience, Aranya was leery about landing amongst the trees. But the Crescent Islands were so enveloped in verdant jungles that she could not find a suitable open space. The wind gusted alarmingly now. Drops of rain smacked her back. Aranya drew her wings closer to her body, struggling to control her flight. A low hissing came to her ears, the sound of rain slashing in diagonally on the squalling winds.

She knew she had made a mistake, getting caught out in the open. In seconds, the rainstorm engulfed them. The downpour blinded her instantly.

“Grab a branch,” Zip shouted.

“I can’t see.”

“Use your outer eyelids separately.”

Aranya only heard half of what Zip yelled at her, but the gist of the idea helped tremendously. Her Dragon brain knew how to operate her inner membranes and outer eyelids discretely. Her vision cleared. Abruptly she lashed her tail, flicking them beneath a hanging vine. Leaves slapped her face. Aranya rolled mid-air, taking Zip out of harm’s way as she scraped and dodged instinctively through a dense tangle of overlapping vines and shot out the far side, shedding branches and greenery from her wings and tail.

“Zip? Zip?” she called.

“I’m – pah! I’m fine. Nice flying, girl.”

Part of Dragon-Aranya bridled at being called a girl. Strange – it had to be that difference between her two brains that Nak had alluded to. But how did the two forms exist alongside each other? Where was the Human part when she was being a Dragon, and vice versa? Now there was an existential problem to give her a beastly headache.

“Grab that branch, Aranya.”

Zuziana pointed to their left. When Aranya glanced back, it was to see water streaming off her friend. The poor thing, unprotected by Dragon hide, Aranya thought.

“How?” she called back. “I’ll just slip off.”

“How many ten-inch claws does a Dragon have, you nitwit?”

“Oh – right.”

Aranya overshot the first landing she attempted, courtesy of a swirling updraft that bounced her over the branch. She winged past several Islands in the torrential downpour, searching with her Dragon sight for a likely candidate. Ah, there – a titanic bough hanging out over the Cloudlands, which had several bare sections large enough to accommodate a Dragon. Approaching with care, Aranya touched down with all four paws, sinking her claws into the bark. Safe.

“Hold on, Zip. We’re going for a little walk.”

She clambered toward the Island, making sure she had enough claws sunk into the bark at all times to guard against slipping. Soon, they came beneath the overarching canopy and the rain slackened off, filtered by the overhanging greenery.

Zip pointed. “Ooh, big snake.”

“I see it.” Aranya growled at the large constrictor, which beat a hasty retreat. “Trust me, if anything wants to snack on you, they’ll have to get past me first.”

“Ooh, you’re a nice Dragon. There. There’s a dry hollow beside that tree, Aranya, that looks comfy enough.”

“By the mountains of Immadia, have you seen the size of this tree-trunk? It has to be twice as wide as I am long, Zip!”

Zip grinned. “Welcome to the Southern jungles, foreigner.”

Aranya gazed around them at the dense undergrowth. The towering treetops were lost in layer upon layer of foliage. “This is an awful long way from my mountains. I’m glad one of us feels at home.”

There was so much rain that Zip soon complained about water dripping down her neck. Aranya curled up, sheltering her friend in a cocoon created by the curve of her head back toward her body, much like a sleeping cat. She drew her wings overhead, creating a dark space inside which Zip opened their pack and tried to find some dry clothes and a snack. She paused to examine Aranya’s eyes.

“They glow in the dark,” she explained. “Pretty.”

“Pretty? Grr!”

“Fine, I understand,” Zip chirped. “Grr, I’m not a pet. Grr, I’m your friend.”

Aranya felt taken aback to have her emotions read so confidently by her friend. Perhaps this was the growing bond between Dragon and Rider – an unexpected vulnerability that no thickness of Dragon hide or sharpness of claw and fang could guard against.

They chatted for a while, as Zip ate, about how they might penetrate Remoy’s defences without creating danger for Zuziana’s family. Doubtless, Sylakian spies would be thick on the ground and even within the palace. Getting close to King Lorman would be a challenge. But equally, having a trusted go-between only multiplied the danger.

Soon, they both closed their eyes.

* * * *

Aranya awoke when a spear-point prodded her ribs.

Her stirring caused a shriek. Voices babbled around them. Bushes crashed briefly; then all became still. Aranya felt many eyes upon her. She stirred carefully, not wanting to cause any further alarm. A spear pinged her flank, but did not penetrate her hide.

Dragon-Aranya rose and yawned with the intent of displaying her fangs. She scanned the undergrowth. Small dark eyes peered fearfully at her from several places. They probably thought they were hidden, but her Dragon sight picked them out easily. If these were people, they were tiny. She was not worried for herself, but Zip was another matter.

“Pygmies,” Zip whispered. “I didn’t know there were any left. The Sylakians were supposed to have wiped them out a decade ago. Listen, I’m going to talk to them. Watch for spears, will you?”

“You talk Pygmy?”

“Ancient Southern, actually. You talk Immadian dialect, don’t you? I heard you and Beri.”

Zuziana moved out from behind Aranya and began to speak. Fascinating, thought the Dragon. Chirps, whistles and clicks all formed part of the language. A reply came from the bushes, much faster than the Remoyan had managed.

Aranya remembered Beri telling her about Pip, the Pygmy Dragon Shapeshifter. She had been a Pygmy girl, abducted from a Crescent Island much like this one, to a zoo on Sylakia. She had lived seven years in a cage before escaping. Imagine living in a zoo! Those must have been strange days, she thought, a time when Dragons and Humans lived together.

If only it were not all history. She and Pip would have been great friends.

After some discussion, Aranya was startled to see two warriors emerge from the bushes. They were tiny, perhaps only four feet tall, and clad in loincloths. Fantastic, swirling blue tattoos covered every inch of their mahogany skin. They turned to face each other. The slightly taller of the two punched the other in the mouth. Next, they laid down their spears and bows and knelt, facing Zuziana. She showed them her sword and dagger, and laid these beside Aranya’s paw. She moved forward and knelt.

More words passed back and forth.

Presently, the discussion appeared to refer to the Dragon, who narrowed her eyes. She heard the word ‘Remoy’. Another Pygmy appeared out of the bushes, carrying a tiny girl, who was laid in front of Zuziana. She had a suppurating wound to her stomach. More gestures and burbling followed.

Zip returned to Aranya’s side. “So, the warrior who threw the spear has been reprimanded. Now they ask if the mighty Ancient One –” she made a droll face “– can touch the girl. They mean you should heal her, I think. I don’t understand the word they’re using, but I think she’s probably some kind of seer or prophetess. For the sake of honour they insist on paying us.”

“Islands’ sakes, aren’t they poor? Wait, Pygmies are good hunters, aren’t they?”

“The best,” said Zip. “But they’re also afraid you might eat the girl.”

“Oh.” Aranya frowned. “Awkward. That explains the hunters in the trees who have their bows trained on us, Zip. I’ve no intention of having you swallow a poisoned arrow. What kind of edible animals do you get in a jungle?”

“Wild pigs?”

“Pig?” There were no pigs on Immadia. “I’ve never tried that before, but Dragon-me fancies the idea. Right. You and I need to put on a little show.”

The Dragon bent down to whisper in her friend’s ear.

Aranya reared up on her hind legs and began to rub and pat her belly with her forelegs, making hungry growls and lip-smacking motions. The dark eyes in the bushes became rounder and rounder as this continued for a while. Then she took a good, long look at Zuziana and sniffed hungrily around her friend, but then turned up her nose and spat sideways in disgust – which rather startled her as a large gobbet of phlegm rocketed into the bushes. By the mountains of Immadia, her new throat was powerful. How far would she be able to shoot Dragon flame?

Zip began to make very realistic pig noises. Chortling arose from the bushes. Reminding herself to tease Zip about her skills later, Aranya began to lick her lips with her long, violently purple, forked Dragon tongue. The message was perfectly clear. Two hunters immediately rushed off into the surrounding jungle.

Aranya inquired, “Do I try to heal her now, Zip?”

The Princess of Remoy shook her head. “I’m not sure. I think we should wait until we’re invited.”

“This jungle is completely impenetrable,” said Aranya, looking about. “How did the Sylakians ever defeat the Pygmies?”

“When I learned the history of the southern Islands, it was always explained to me that the Sylakians used the Pygmy hunters from one tribe to lead their warriors to the other rival tribes, and to track down any survivors. They annihilated these people. The man who threw the spear says he thought I was Sylakian. The elder told him he was a fool to attack an Ancient One. Apparently, they venerate Dragons.”

“Ooh, every girl needs a little worship in her life.”

Zuziana made a disgusted noise.

After an hour or thereabouts, as evening began to shade the jungle and the noises of animals on the prowl began to sound around them, the hunters returned with a small but fine wild pig. Without ceremony, they threw the dead pig to Aranya.

“Taste it and look pleased,” Zuziana ordered. “Then heal her before you finish eating.”

Aranya bent to taste the pig. “Um, not bad. Strong and a bit salty. Zip, I’ve never tried healing in my Dragon form.”

“Nak told me that Dragon magic – your healing magic and fire – should be easier in your Dragon form. In theory.”

“Right.”

“You did a first-rate job on me. No, don’t be silly. You healed your wing as a Dragon, didn’t you?”

“So I did.”

Zip said briskly, earning herself a growl, “At least try to engage the brain, beast.”

Aranya bent to her task. It was different as a Dragon. Under the beady eyes of a dozen Pygmy warriors clustered around her and many more in the trees, she laid her paw lightly upon the girl and centred her full concentration to the task. Nothing happened. She searched her memories and tried to push power out of her, like she had pushed the fire at Garthion. That did not work. But the image of opening a door in her mind did work, rather suddenly. It was a strange sensation – not so much about strength, as before when she had helped Zuziana, but something else. Something vital, she felt. Hopefully it could be replenished.

She lifted her paw.

The tiny Pygmy girl’s eyes flickered. She said something. Aranya jumped as the warriors burst into a frenzy of chest-slapping and hooting.

“She says she feels much better,” Zip clarified.

“The wound’s visibly better,” Aranya said. “Can I eat now? Dragon-sized hunger.”

“You deserve it, you pig. I mean, the pig.” Zip tittered and looked pleased at her joke.

“Oh, very funny, Zip.”

Chapter 11: Remoy

THE following evening, as the multiple overlapping rainbows of the storm’s aftermath faded into a vast, deepening night, the Princesses of Remoy and Immadia continued their southward journey along the slow curve of the Crescent. At dawn they found another resting place, and continued late the following afternoon. The Islands were all swathed in jungle, varying a little in height and character. A further three nights’ travel brought them to the end of the Crescent. Here they sighted the inhabited Island of Germodia, an Island which had long been a Sylakian ally and supplied them with many of their troops.

They also found trouble.

“Dragonships,” said Aranya, trying not to sound too dispirited, scanning the Island ahead as she turned parallel to the enemy line. “Heaps of them, lined up along our route.”

“We should detour,” said Zip. “Can you manage the flight?”

“I’ll try, but you do remember how Nak drew the map, don’t you?”

“I’ve been this way a few times,” Zuziana reminded her. “Did you have any idea the South was so large?”

“No idea at all,” Aranya admitted. “But the journey from Immadia to Sylakia is fifteen days on its own. My home’s a million leagues from here.”

“Remoy isn’t that southerly, Aranya. There’s still heaps of Islands before the Rift. Do we make the jump over to Tyrodia Island?”

“I guess. But we’d be flying in the daylight.”

They decided to take the risk.

Aranya winged directly eastward now, making a long, long loop around the line of Dragonships which had been spread out to cast the Sylakian net far and wide. Telling herself that no Dragonship could blockade a Dragon, Aranya flew for hour after hour, eventually leaving the Dragonships far behind. Then she swung to the south.

But the situation was repeated at Tyrodia.

“I wish I knew their colours,” said Zuziana. “This might be an invasion fleet headed to the south, or they might be looking for us. Should we be flattered, seeing how the sky’s crawling with Sylakians like fleas on an unfortunate cat? How are you feeling, Aranya?”

“I need to rest.” They had been aloft for a night and much of the following morning with hardly any pause.

“Then let’s stick to the plan.”

Aranya arrowed in low over the Cloudlands, hoping against hope that the Dragonships would be looking upward to the clouds above. She breathed a sigh of relief when they reached Tyrodia Island, but it was a very low Island with no cliffs behind which to hide. She quickly climbed over the first peninsula, before furling her wings and dropping sharply into a forest clearing. She crawled beneath cover, where Zip alighted.

They both checked the thickness of the foliage above them.

“That was close,” said Zip. “Are you alright, you poor thing?”

“Let me catch my breath. I could do with a stream.”

Zuziana eyed her with concern. Aranya wanted to be cross with her, but could only stand and pant for a while. She felt as though she had run the annual summer foot-race through the Immadian mountains.

“Shall I go scout?”

Aranya shook her head. “Stay close, Zip. I sense danger. Let’s just lay low for a bit.”

Despite her better intentions, Aranya fell asleep almost the instant her head touched the ground. She dropped off telling herself that the flight had been too much. Nak had been right, again. Juvenile Dragons just did not have the strength to stay aloft for long periods of time.

She dreamed of fire, of burning the forest around her in a rage which had no source or reason. She dreamed of Garthion. Later on, her dream mellowed into fond memories of playing dolls and Dragons with her mother on the thick pile rug in her bedroom.

Aranya awoke to find a wetness on her nose. Dragons cried?

“Search the forest,” she heard. “This one matches the description, no matter what story she spins. We’ll take her to the War-Hammer. Guard her well, you three.”

Zip!

Heat exploded from her belly into her throat. With an effort, Aranya swallowed it down again. Was this her Dragon fire? It would not do to burn the dry forest now. Her Rider was in terrible danger. Her claws flexed and tore the ground at the thought. She imagined ripping the entrails out of Sylakian warriors as they screamed for mercy, claws slashing and teeth chomping through armour and … oh dear. She was thinking like a Dragon, ferocious and vengeful thoughts; thoughts that stunned her with their bloodthirsty passion.

Forty feet of lethal Dragon ought to scare the living pith out of those men.

She scented the forest. She extended her hearing. Ten men, perhaps a patrol. At least seven sets of boots tromped through the thicket they had chosen, beating the bushes with their hammers and daggers as they fanned out, searching. Aranya sank to her belly. Dragons could move quietly when needed. If only Zip would speak, she could orient on her friend. Could she make out Zip’s breathing and distinguish it from the men?

She filtered out the forest noises – three deer, a flock of wild ralti sheep, birds fleeing from the disturbance. One man was coming almost directly toward her. How did one hide a gemstone-bright Amethyst Dragon in a forest? She eased her claws into the ground to scoop up mounds of dirt and leaves. Aranya poured them over her back. No pause for vanity. She stole downhill to a small stream Zip must have found, wet herself in the mud, and repeated the exercise.

Should have done that first …

Aranya bellied along, catlike, searching the undergrowth with all her senses alert. There, that smell – she knew that smell. She almost giggled. After days of travelling, her friend could do with a wash. Her Dragon nose identified her specific odour amongst the skunksome odours of unwashed soldiers as though it were a pink flag waving in a sea of blue. Fantastic sense of smell, Dragons had – Nak’s descriptions did it little justice. A whole world of scents made itself known to her through her nostrils.

She froze as a warrior beat his way into her line of sight.

The man had no idea. He stomped toward her, making a phenomenal racket, until he stood almost beside her shoulder. He paused to take a look around. Aranya decided he must be some kind of local militia. He did not have the uniform of a Sylakian warrior, only a badge of a windroc badly sewn onto his leather tunic.

Never mind. Aranya raised her paw and hammered him to the ground.

Oops. She had broken his neck, meaning only to stun him.

That was not her proudest moment – but Aranya knew that to rescue Zuziana might mean more killing. The Dragon in her had no trouble with that.

An ambulatory pile of mud, sticks and leaves skulked through the forest.

She pushed her muzzle through a patch of bushes. There was Zuziana, looking despondent as a soldier lashed her hands behind her back with a hank of rope. Her eyes crinkled into a smile as she saw an amethyst orb wink at her from beneath a large white-currant bush.

Dragon-Aranya’s fury churned in her belly. They had her Rider. Before she knew it, she coiled and sprang out of the bushes, roaring and snapping and rending with her claws. The three men stood no chance. A precise strike of her claw shredded the ropes. Zip quickly wriggled free.

“You look pretty,” she quipped. “Sword, cloak … right, I’m ready.”

Aranya extended her foreleg. “Hurry. Where’s our equip –”

“On your back. As we agreed.” Zip strapped herself in as they rushed through the forest in search of a clearing. “Before I stupidly ignored your warning and wandered off.”

“Here. Hold on.”

Aranya sprang upward with an adrenalin-fuelled leap, trying to gain enough clearance for the first sweep of her wings. Taking off vertically was a skill she had yet to master, due to the sheer power required to launch a Dragon’s bulk into the air.

“Watch out!”

Two mighty strokes of her wings lifted them clear of the forest. Her head butted into something soft.

“Dragonship,” yelled Zip.

Aranya heard the zing of Zip’s sword leaving its sheath. She was more worried about archers or crossbows. She snapped and snarled, ripping the sack above her as she tried to free her head and keep aloft at the same time, above the treetops.

“Go, Aranya!”

The Dragonship, hissing as it lost hydrogen, sank toward the forest. Aranya folded in her right wing and rolled to let it drop past her, then flapped furiously to gain height.

“Another one,” called Zip, unnecessarily.

Aranya banked rapidly, accelerating to take them out of range of the approaching Dragonship. Behind them, the forest exploded in a ball of flame – the meriatite furnace had touched off the hydrogen sack.

Dragon-Aranya said, wryly, “Do you think they know we’re here?”

“They might guess.” Zip rubbed her neck awkwardly. “Aranya, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Don’t worry. Let’s just make ourselves scarce, shall we?”

“You’ve no idea what it’s like to be at the sharp end of an angry Dragon’s claws. If you’re not careful, I might start to suspect that you care …”

“I don’t enjoy the killing.”

Aranya wished Zip would change the topic of conversation. She concentrated on flying across the rolling meadows and dark green hilltop forests of Tyrodia Island. They did not seem to terrace much here, she noticed, unlike the North. Was that due to better rainfall patterns? Why would the ancients have spent so much time shaping the northern Islands to conform to their apparently enormous appetite for water?

Zuziana asked, “So, what about Dragon-Aranya? How does she feel about killing?”

She already knew how she’d answer. “It’s different in my Dragon form, Zip. I couldn’t control myself back there, when I saw you in danger. It’s not just a set of clothes I change. I’m still Aranya. But it’s more – I don’t know. It’s deep; hard to explain.”

“It’s simple. You are a Dragon. Dragons have claws and teeth and like to burn things when they get angry. Right?”

“I guess.”

Zuziana patted her back. “Aranya, a girl can walk tall in this world with a friend like you. ‘Huh, you don’t scare me.’ ‘Why not? I’m going to have you for breakfast, wench.’ ‘Why don’t you talk to my friend over there? She’ll have you for breakfast.’ ‘Who’s your friend?’ ‘Oh, that cute little Dragon.’”

Aranya laughed. “Do you often have whole conversations with yourself, Zip?”

“Regularly.”

Aranya winged steadily across the interior of Tyrodia Island, a long sliver of land lying northwest by southeast. Ahead, a line of steep fells intersected their path.

“Aranya, how did you find me in the forest?”

“By smell. Dragon nose, you know.”

“Are you suggesting that a Princess of Remoy may be identified by body odour alone?”

Dragon-Aranya turned her head to eyeball her Rider. “Of course not. I’m merely suggesting that if you want your family to welcome you with open arms, you might need to bathe first.”

“You and your big nose. Ha!”

As they bantered back and forth, Aranya soared up over the edge of the violet-flowered, heathery fells and coasted down the far side.

“Um, Aranya.” Zip pointed ahead. “Eyes front.”

An army encampment sprawled before them, covering the entire breadth and length of a valley that led down to a town – Tyros, the ancient capital of Tyrodia. Three or four dozen Dragonships bobbed peacefully above the tent-city, flying crimson Sylakian pennants.

Aranya back-winged hastily. “Oh, flying ralti sheep.”

“Do you think we’ve found the invasion fleet for Herimor, perchance?” asked Zuziana.

“Yes, and war catapults.”

“Full reverse!”

Aranya turned tail and fled as a brace of crossbow quarrels and a speculative catapult-shot whooshed through the air toward her. She jinked to dodge the wickedly barbed quarrels. They fled back over the fells.

“Northeast,” said Zuziana. “There’s a clutch of uninhabited Islands out there, I recall, where we can lay low. Lots of caves.”

“But Remoy is south – oh.”

She could hear the smirk in Zuziana’s voice as her friend said, “Basic tactics, Dragon. We’ll double back under the cover of darkness. I’ll say nothing about me being the brains and you being the brawn in this partnership.”

“You just did, Zip.”

* * * *

The Islands northeast of Tyrodia hardly qualified as Islands, but they were jumbled, riddled with caves and capped with jungles teeming with flying vervet monkeys. Here, Aranya and Zuziana ousted a cliff fox family from their cave and lay low for two days while a dozen Dragonships quartered their hideout. Aranya snacked on a mountain goat, which she found to be tough and decidedly unappetising. She helped Zuziana pick vine-melons and unripe tinker-bananas. They tracked down a trickle of water together. Their supplies were running low.

On the evening of the second day, they made ready to depart.

“A decent loop around Tyrodia,” said Zip, “and then we strike for Remoy. This cloud cover should help. Can you see when it’s this dark?”

“Well enough to bite you. Yes, Zip. I see much better in the dark than –”

“Good.” Zuziana fixed their packs in place. “I’ve clothes ready for you. We might want to scout the town, although I’m quite well known and a tall Northerner would stick out like –”

“– a Dragon flying across Iridith’s face on a cloudless night?”

“Quite.”

Aranya looked her friend over. “You aren’t wearing a headscarf?”

“We don’t have Remoyan headscarves,” said Zip. “These Sylakian ones would brand us immediately – as Sylakians. That could be unhealthy in the wrong quarter of town.”

“Unless you’ve a Dragon in your pocket.”

Zip put her hands to her hips and regarded her friend sternly. “Unless we’ve already alerted the entire Sylakian fleet to our presence, Aranya. Don’t look so woebegone. We’ll get better at this, I promise.”

Aranya huffed crossly.

Putting her hand beneath Aranya’s chin, Zuziana scratched her as one would scratch a cat to make it purr. “Where’s my proud, fierce little Dragon, then?”

The Dragon’s scowl deepened. Perhaps, as Nak had suggested, a little nibble of Zuziana might not be inappropriate. She did have beautiful hair, Aranya thought, lustrous brown ringlets which tumbled down her back. She said, “I love your hair, Zip. Maybe we should start a fashion.”

“Princess of Remoy refuses to wear a headscarf?” Zuziana grinned. “Imagine the scandal.”

“Dragon enforces Remoy’s ban on headscarves.”

“Now you’re talking. No, what about ‘Dragon burns all headscarves’?”

Aranya pretended to consider this. “A little unhealthy for the heads inside them, I’d say.”

They chuckled for a long time after that.

Driven along by a fresh breeze, they flew southward all that night, avoiding Tyrodia Island by a respectable margin. Aranya flew as high as she dared, given that another squall was developing – the south Islands being completely different to the North in this respect. Immadia always had autumn storms; Remoy, thundery spring squalls. At intervals she rested on the wing, gliding along for half an hour or so, which was a trick Oyda had suggested to extend the flying range of a Dragon.

Zip kept asking, “Can you see Remoy yet?”

Aranya shook her head. “It’s a long haul, Zip. I’m doing my best.”

“Shall I disembark and push?”

“Shall I snack on the toes of your left foot or the right?”

But Zuziana did curl up to make herself as small as possible, reducing the tiny drag her body caused on the airstream flowing over Aranya’s back. Soon after, Aranya heard her snoring softly.

She wished she could sleep mid-flight.

As dawn sulked in, filtering through the overcast skies, Aranya sighted the tall dome of Remoy Island. Her focus brought her a sight of the eighteen terrace-lake levels for which Remoy was renowned, before the rain blurred her vision. Zuziana awoke with a cross exclamation.

“I saw Remoy,” Aranya told her.

“You did?” Zip brightened. “Brr, I’m cold. This rain should at least clean you off, Aranya.”

“Break out the soap and you can have a bath, too.”

Zuziana wiped her streaming face. “I appreciate your honesty, you ill-bred Immadian. Actually, this storm’s good. Shall we make straight for that inner garden I told you about?”

Aranya nodded. “If we’re willing to fly up into the storm. Remoy’s high, Zip.”

Her Rider said, “Nak said lightning was no problem.” But her voice betrayed how little she believed that statement.

Dragon-Aranya agreed with Zuziana’s assessment. No soldier liked the rain. They would take to the nearest shelter, disinclined to watch the sky. Making straight for the inner courtyard of Remoy’s Royal Palace would place them among people likely to be friendly, even to a Dragon who had severely irritated the greatest power in the Island-World.

Under Zip’s direction, Aranya hurried skyward, crossing terrace after terrace brimful of water until she screamed up over the brow of Remoy, called the Jade Isle, and she saw at least a little of its famed beauty – the waving fields of jade-coloured mohili wheat, the great lines of khaki-green oaks protecting them from the elements, the jewel-like lakes scattered across its surface. There, dimly seen in the distance, were the towers and battlements of a city which had defied the Sylakian horde for the better part of a year’s siege.

She flapped harder, pressing up into the storm, concealing them amidst the first wispy clouds as they winged toward the city. Zip shivered and shivered. Aranya checked – her lips were blue, but Zip only smiled and peered over her friend’s shoulder. She pointed out the Palace.

Once Aranya hovered above the inner garden, she folded her wings and hurtled down like a thunderbolt.

Abruptly she flared her wings, taking the strain in her shoulders as before, before landing hard with all four legs flexed to absorb the impact. Even so, her landing punched the breath out of her lungs.

“A bit rough,” said Zip, unbuckling her straps. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Aranya coughed. “I need more practice at this subterfuge.” She moved behind a broad fig tree, and transformed.

Their travel packs landed on her head.

Quickly, Aranya changed into a dress – which was instantly soaked by the pounding rain – and put her hair roughly up into a hairnet. Stowing the packs and their saddle behind the tree for the time being, the Princesses stole through the bushes. The garden was dense, as Zuziana had predicted; bounded on all four sides by the five-story Palace building. This part was the royal apartments. A further screen of buildings and a huge wall protected the royal apartments from the outside world.

Zip pointed to a spiral staircase leading to the third level. Aranya nodded.

They put up their hoods and rushed to the stairs.

A quick climb brought them to the third floor. Zip checked all around before crossing the walkway, which was open to the elements, to a set of wooden doors. She put her ear to the door.

“Password?” came a deep voice.

Zip blanched. “Er – haribol fruit?”

The soldier, who had appeared from a hidden alcove, peered beneath her hood. “Oh, it’s you, Princess Graziala. Don’t use old passwords in the future. The King would have me whipped.”

He opened the door.

A sweet curl of incense came to Aranya’s nostrils. She heard the sounds of children playing in a nearby room. She saw rows of family portraits lining the walls, which were nicely executed, if a little stern. Remoyans were evidently fond of frilly dresses – at least in the past – and military uniforms that included a vast spray of feathers on the helm and a strange type of banded metal armour she had never seen except in an illustration in a scroll.

“This way,” said Zip. “We need to find one of my mothers, or an older sister.”

One of her mothers? Aranya realised she was about to receive a rapid education in the ways of Remoyan families, which were completely alien to her experience. She had to remind herself not to duck through the doorways as though she were the size of a Dragon.

“Who’s playing that lovely instrument?” asked Aranya.

“Oh … that’ll be Graziala. The real Graziala,” Zip smiled. “That’s a Remoyan pan-flute she’s playing. We’re quite the look-alikes, although not as much as the twins. She’s a good choice.”

She led Aranya down a short corridor to a room at the end. The door stood ajar. Aranya saw a girl concentrating fiercely on playing a pan-flute, side-on to them. It could have been Zip’s twin standing before the tall wooden music stand, which held such a thick sheaf of music she was surprised it did not fall over. The room was clearly used for music practice – she saw several harps and even a Sylakian triple-drum standing in a corner.

Zuziana tiptoed up to Graziala. “Your A-flat should be slightly sharper, Grazi,” she pointed out.

“Oh, Zuzi, it’s … Zuzi? Zuziana! Oh, my sweet petal …”

Poor Graziala was so overcome she burst into tears. She kept sobbing, ‘Zuzi, my Zuzi,’ and hugging her sister as though she would never let her go. Nor would Zip’s tears stop flowing. Aranya watched them and tried not to regret the fact that they were in Remoy and not hundreds of leagues north in her own home, Immadia.

Finally, Zuziana pushed gently apart from her sister and said, “Grazi, I need a huge favour. We’re not supposed to be here. I need you to discreetly fetch Father and bring him here without alerting anyone –”

“Sylakian? I … I know you’re in trouble, Zuzi. I’ll get him, at once.”

She walked quickly to the door, threw a tremulous smile over her shoulder, and vanished.

Zip immediately took to pacing up and down. Aranya sat on a small stool. She tried to distract herself by looking over the magnificent furnishings of the music chamber.

Shortly, footsteps echoed in the corridor. Aranya imagined that the King of Remoy was walking with haste, but trying to keep some kind of decorum. Somewhere halfway down the corridor, he broke into a dead run.

Zuziana had described her family as one which ‘did nothing by halves’. What followed was exactly that – a tearful, joyous reunion that quickly spilled over to five of her brothers and three mothers and several sisters. Zip was so swamped in the middle of it all that Aranya lost sight of her at times and wondered if she would be squashed by all that love. Happy chaos reigned.

They were all tiny. Hardly one of the family stood over five feet tall, Aranya thought. King Lorman was the tallest at perhaps five foot five inches. He was also comfortably well-rounded and sported the most fantastic moustache she had ever seen – a hairy caterpillar at least ten inches long. She knew she was being rude, but could not help staring.

Eventually, King Lorman pushed out of the crowd and approached Aranya. She rose and accepted his formal greetings, which were gracious, yet underpinned by what she took for suspicion. King Lorman must know that the Sylakians were searching for them, she thought. He must know Princess Zuziana had disappeared from the Tower of Sylakia. Yet here she was, standing wet and happy in his chambers back in her native Remoy. She could tell his tongue longed to ask many questions.

Instead, he welcomed her warmly and bade the weary travellers rest, bathe and refresh themselves.

But she knew the questions would come.

Chapter 12: The Third War-Hammer

Graziala burst into their chambers, crying, “Quick, you must hide. Hurry. Into the tunnels.”

Aranya sat bolt-upright in her bed. She had not meant to fall asleep, but the tiredness seemed etched in every bone of her body. Her head felt muzzy. Hide? What tunnels? Where was she? Her bed had never seemed so soft and welcoming.

“Aranya. Hurry.” Zip rushed over to the bed and grabbed her arm. “The Sylakians are here!”

“Here? Can’t be.”

The two Remoyans hustled her out of the bedchamber and along a corridor. Aranya rubbed her eyes. This was crazy. How could the Sylakians have known? Or was it a result of their running into the war fleet at Tyrodia Island? What grief might now fall upon Zuziana and her family?

Suddenly, she was thrust through a narrow doorway. She heard stone click behind her. All became dark. Her flame licked around her intestines, low and hungry and afraid.

“Secret tunnel,” Zip whispered. “Come. I know where we can spy on them.”

Aranya felt for her friend’s hand in the darkness. Oh, for Dragon sight. But Zip seemed to know exactly where she was going.

“I explored these tunnels loads of times in my misspent youth,” said Zuziana, answering the unspoken question.

“I can imagine.”

She felt rather than saw Zip’s answering scowl.

They stumbled along a narrow passageway, taking several turns and forks, before Zip slowed and whispered to Aranya to be very quiet. She crept up a short flight of steps, and pointed to a screen through which light filtered. She mimed listening.

Putting her eye to the screen in imitation of Zuziana, Aranya found herself looking out over a receiving-hall – not the formal throne-room of Remoy, most likely, but a smaller chamber that a King might use for private business. King Lorman and three of his wives sat on formal chairs facing the doorway, which immediately opened to allow the entry of a Sylakian officer and his cohort.

Aranya bit her knuckles to thwart a squeak of surprise. Yolathion!

She did not appreciate Zuziana’s sly elbow in the ribs either. She silently let out the breath she was holding when she realised that the hall below did not require additional lighting other than the vivid afternoon suns-light. None below would know of the leap of an Immadian Princess’ heart, expressed in the surging of her inner fires.

After a brief, formal greeting, Yolathion rumbled, “I have orders to search your Palace and grounds for dangerous criminals, King Lorman – including your daughter Zuziana. If you’re harbouring someone here, I suggest you give them up now.”

“Dangerous criminals?” Lorman echoed. “I heard reports, of course, that my daughter had escaped from the Tower of Sylakia. I hope she has not caused so much trouble that a Third War-Hammer must hunt her down by Dragonship.”

“I bring ten Dragonships to Remoy,” Yolathion growled. Aranya caught her breath. “We’ve reason to suspect King Beran of Immadia’s involvement in a plot against First War-Hammer Garthion’s life. As you have been informed, your daughter was involved with the Immadian Princess, who was executed on the Last Walk for treason. She was an enchantress. Now, Zuziana has been reported in the company of a Dragon on Tyrodia Island, where she destroyed a Dragonship. A strange coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“Some troops are blaming a Dragonship accident on a Dragon? What fireside tales are these, Third War-Hammer?”

Yolathion drew himself up and barked, “We will search the Palace!”

King Lorman spread his hands. “We’re at your service, Sylakian. I will order every door and cupboard, every larder and cellar and storage room, opened for your inspection. You will have our fullest cooperation.”

The young commander clicked his heels together and said to his aide, “Leave no stone unturned.”

Five hundred Sylakian warriors? Aranya exchanged a loaded glance with Zuziana. They had arrived on Remoy on the heels of a storm. How did the Sylakians know? Did they suspect they were here? And it was Yolathion, of all people, who was hunting for her. What an irony. What a beastly, unbelievable irony.

King Lorman said, “Is this the same Princess of Immadia who saved the First War-Hammer Ignathion from a windroc?”

Yolathion said, “One and the same. The enchantress slew a windroc with a pair of Immadian forked daggers – the same forked daggers which were found on the battlements where a Dragon escaped with your daughter.”

“And now you’re saying my Zuziana was kidnapped – by a Dragon?”

Aranya rapidly ran through the conversation in her head. The only conclusion Yolathion had missed was that she was the Dragon. He believed she was dead. But his words had backed her into a corner. King Lorman knew his daughter had arrived with a real, live Princess of Immadia. The number of Princesses of Immadia in the Island-World numbered exactly one, unless Silha had been delivered of a daughter – her baby had to be due soon.

If she were Lorman, she would start asking her questions at the point of a dagger.

As if to confirm her thoughts, Yolathion stiffly informed King Lorman that he had personally cast the enchantress to her death in the Cloudlands. There were dark undercurrents in his words; a dangerous strain that Aranya did not understand. For now, as Lorman asked if Ignathion was his father, the giant Jeradian said, in dangerously soft tones:

“I know my duty, Lorman, as I hope you know yours to Sylakia. If you do not, I’ve orders to teach it to you at the stroke of a hammer.”

By that, he meant what had happened to Rolodia, and other Islands. Annihilation. Aranya put a hand to her febrile forehead. Burning hot, again. When would she learn to control her feelings?

Zuziana whispered, “He’s so leopard. Especially when he’s trying to hunt us.”

But before Aranya could decide how to respond, down in the hall, King Lorman rose from his seat to approach Yolathion. “Third War-Hammer, I apologise for aggravating you. You must understand that rumours of Dragons are like rumours of beer in Remoy’s taverns. But my chief concern is for my daughter Zuziana. I would do anything to keep her safe.”

Yolathion inclined his head. “Of course.”

King Lorman began to tell Yolathion about the last Dragon, found in Remoy’s deadly inner forests. He offered to have intelligence about Dragon sightings brought for Yolathion’s review. Shortly, servants appeared with a seat, a desk, refreshments and a pile of ancient-looking logbooks for the War-Hammer to peruse. He read and asked many questions of King Lorman, while his soldiers searched the Palace high and low.

After the Sylakians had departed, Zip and Aranya lay low for several more hours in the secret passageway. Zip quietly asked Aranya what she meant to do.

“I’m afraid I will need to tell him,” she replied, shivering. “Moreover, I’ll need to show him, Zip. Forgive the question, but, can your father be trusted? And your family?”

Zip bristled, but her reply was even. “With my life, Aranya. But I would not presume to dictate how you should choose to risk yours.”

“Except that we are Rider and Dragon.”

Zuziana pulled Aranya into an unexpected hug. “Except for that minor, Island-shivering detail, yes. Aranya – just to say, I intend to stick with you.”

Aranya hugged her so hard that Zuziana gasped.

As expected, the King’s summons soon arrived. Aranya and Zuziana approached him in the same hall Yolathion had so recently occupied. King Lorman regarded Aranya with the air of a stern tutor about to tell off a truant student. She squared her shoulders. Let him see that a Princess of Immadia would comport herself with dignity. Let him not see her trepidation.

King Lorman, who was a head shorter than Aranya, nevertheless fixed her with a piercing gaze. “So, I trust you heard all? The Sylakians branded you two ‘dangerous criminals’. They sent five hundred men to track you down. Congratulations on warranting such a ridiculous show of force.” He wagged his finger at her, bristling like an angry rajal. “So, Princess of Immadia, I ask you now to declare your interest in my daughter. I know Zuziana, but I do not know you, nor how you escaped the fate of the Last Walk. You appear barefoot at my door amidst a storm. You drop, as it were, from the sky. Of course I am pleased to see Zuziana. Delighted! But I am also perplexed.”

“Aranya saved my life, Father,” Zip interjected. “I’ll vouch for her.”

Lorman nodded, but did not remove his eyes from Aranya for a second. “I would hear from Immadia. For the sake of my daughter, I threaten with neither blade nor arrow nor dungeon – but I do demand the truth.”

Aranya raised her chin. “King Lorman, upon the honour of Immadia, I swear that I intend no harm to you, your household, or to the people of Remoy, in what I am about to reveal to you.”

At her side, Zip made a sound like a sigh of regret.

The King smiled, grimly. “So?”

“Please stand back, Zip.” Aranya bit her tongue before blurting out, “I am a Dragon, and Zuziana is my Rider.”

She transformed.

She had supposed her Dragon form would appear from elsewhere to replace Human-Aranya. Instead, for the first time, she felt how it blossomed from within, a miraculous web of energies shimmering outward from the elemental core of her being. Her clothing ripped like gossamer spiderweb blasted by storm winds. Everything changed. A forty-foot Dragon filled the King’s chamber. Her head loomed over him and his wives. Her tail curled against the far door.

King Lorman sat frozen. His three Queens screamed in concert. One bolted for the door. Lorman shouted at his son, one of Zuziana’s brothers, to hold the door shut.

“King Lorman,” growled the Dragon, “I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia. I burgled the Tower of Sylakia to bring Zuziana out. I carried her upon my back from Sylakia to Remoy, in order that we might seek knowledge of my kind. Zuziana and I destroyed a Dragonship on Tyrodia Island. We apologise for breaking into your Palace and ambushing you with our presence.”

Zip came to stand alongside her. “I am Zuziana of Remoy, and I am honoured to be this Dragon’s Rider and friend. All that Aranya has said, is true.”

Carefully, Aranya lowered herself to one knee, until she was able to bring her head beneath the level of King Lorman’s position. “King Lorman of Remoy, I beg your mercy.”

Zuziana knelt beside her. “Father, we beg your mercy.”

The King stood abruptly, wiping tears off his cheeks. “Never did I imagine a day when I would speak to a Dragon in my own Palace. Arise, Dragon. Arise, my daughter. You have brought a father a precious gift, the life of a daughter I thought dead. You’ve brought a Dragon back to Remoy. Ask whatever it is you want or need and I shall grant it, even if I should move these Islands of Remoy off of their foundations in the doing.”

“Oh, Dad,” Zip sobbed, flinging herself into his arms.

* * * *

Aranya entered the huge bathing-chamber shyly. Despite King Lorman’s assurances that she could better hide behind rumour and stories of Dragons than she imagined, she felt unsure. He was certain he could mislead and confuse the Sylakians by planting stories of sightings all over the neighbouring Islands, and even beyond. He declared that Yolathion would be chasing his tail for months.

Every female child of Zip’s immediate family, and two of her mothers, seemed to be present. Aranya was deeply grateful that their custom of communal bathing did not include the men as well. There was Zip, not wearing a stitch of clothing and perfectly brazen about it. Children played and splashed in the shallower pools. No servants were present. At least King Lorman was being a little discreet.

She vanished behind a changing screen. There was no point in destroying another set of clothes.

Fungus? She shuddered. Zip had insisted that she needed to be scrubbed. Rolling in the mud back on Tyrodia Island had done her no favours.

On second thoughts, Aranya pushed the screen over a few feet to make room, and transformed.

That rendered the screen rather pointless.

Her claws clicked on the floor as Dragon-Aranya headed for the largest pool. Despite having been warned, several of the children shrieked. There was a rush for mothers and older siblings. Aranya sank into the hot water with a sigh. Beautiful. She tried not to think about how meeting a Dragon scared the living pith out of most people. But Zip immediately began encouraging her sisters to come and see the ‘nice’ Dragon. Aranya took a mouthful of water and squirted it at Zuziana. Goodness, that jet was powerful. The smaller children began to giggle as Zip put her hands on her hips and pretended to give Aranya a severe telling-off. She passed out long-handled brushes and ordered Aranya to lie at the side of the pool.

“But I didn’t have time to soak,” Aranya pouted. She clambered out of the pool, taking great care to check that no children had snuck beneath her without her noticing.

“Clean first, soak later,” said Zip, starting to brush her nose. Aranya sneezed.

Ten pairs of willing hands made easy work of the scrubbing. Before she knew it, one of the children slid down her flank into the pool. She had thought her scales too sharp, but that was only in the opposite direction, up toward her spine. Sliding down seemed to be no problem, given the way the scales overlapped. Zip instantly lost most of her workers to this new game. Aranya adjusted her haunches so that the children could launch themselves properly into the pool.

This was fun. She could almost forget about Yolathion’s hunt this way. How strange it must be to share four mothers and have seventeen siblings – so different to the way she had grown up.

“Zip,” she asked, “which one is your – um – birth mother?” There was a brief, startled silence that informed Aranya she had just opened her maw and inserted a Dragon-sized foot in it. “Oh, ralti sheep droppings, sorry …”

“No, don’t worry,” said Zuziana, with a nervous laugh. “The Remoyan way is to share unreservedly. Only my mothers know, and they would never say. It’s considered bad luck to ask that question.”

Aranya grimaced, showing off her fangs. “I’ll un-ask it, then. And extra sheep droppings on the bad luck.”

“Well, you probably need to ask yourself if you’re willing to become one of two consorts – you know, if matters ever progress with leopard-man.”

“Ah, but he’s Jeradian, not Sylakian,” said Aranya, feeling very clever.

“Same tradition.”

“Oh.” She did not fancy that idea. “Maybe not – but Zip, how does it work?”

Zip snickered, “You mean, do they all share a bed? Oh, the adorable innocence of Immadia.”

Aranya was grateful for her scales to hide her furious blushing. “What about you, Zuziana?” she asked, tentatively.

“Oh, I’m just your traditional Remoyan girl – I’m working on refusing the headscarf, expanding my criminal record and keeping a pet Dragon.” Dragon-Aranya had a very un-Dragon-like fit of the giggles at this. Zip scrubbed her flank with a hard-bristled brush. “No mildewed Dragons on my watch. This doesn’t hurt?”

“Actually, harder is nicer.”

“By the Islands,” said the sister Aranya now recognised as Graziala, “if we scrub her much more she’s going to shine like the stars above.”

“She’s vain enough already without your compliments,” Zip advised.

Aranya felt so lazy she did not bother to snap at Zip. “Can my slaves not forget to scrub beneath my armpits?”

“Slaves?” Zip smacked her with a brush, but succeeded only in breaking the handle.

Dragon-Aranya’s laughter rollicked around the bath chamber.

* * * *

Two days later, two young Remoyan noblewomen set out by pony carriage for the King’s winter residence, several leagues outside of Remoy’s main city. Aranya had never seen a pony before. They seemed most useful. Immadia used dog sleds in the winter. Stolid water buffalo ploughed the fields or drew carts. Wealthy Immadians rode tall, flightless birds called terhals around the city. Remoy seemed like another Island-World.

Two of Zuziana’s brothers, Yuka and Tarka, travelled with them as the traditional escort. Although they were a year apart, they were as alike as blades of grass. Small, dark and even quicker with smiles than they were with their words, they made Aranya wish she had brothers – grown brothers – to tease her and try to charm her friends.

These Remoyans were never short on words.

Right now, Yuka and Tarka were commenting on Zuziana’s failure to beat Aranya at staves.

“I’d have given fifty gold drals to see you tearing into the Princess of Immadia like that,” said Yuka.

“One hundred for breaking an ironwood staff,” said Tarka, waggling an eyebrow at Aranya. “I’ve a thing for powerful women. Aye. Leopardess, says I.”

“May I remind you she killed a windroc with her daggers?” asked Zip. “I think she’d slice you up for those spicy deer kebabs you enjoy so much, Tarka, and use your bones to pick the bits out of her Dragon teeth.”

Deer? Aranya had thought she was full, but the thought popped into her mind that her Dragon form needed to be fed. When she looked down, her hand was clawed on the seat of the carriage. She uncurled her fingers and tried to think of something other than claws sinking into red, dripping meat.

The pony carriage, drawn by six neat, pretty ponies, seated two comfortably beside the driver, with room for six passengers on the backward- and forward-facing box seats within. The driver and his boy sat above, while a footman occupied a metal footplate at the rear. It was a carriage made for luxury rather than speed. But it was lightly built, so that the ponies had no trouble setting a pace that crossed Remoy’s beautiful landscape with rumbling haste. Aranya would far rather have been flying.

King Lorman’s winter residence was built above a secret set of caves – much like Immadia’s arrangement – which concealed Remoy’s treasures from the Sylakian conquerors. Lorman said they would find Dragon saddles and scrolls of Dragon lore there. She wondered what a proper Dragon saddle was like.

Aranya was daydreaming about flying home to Immadia when the driver’s hand pounded on the roof of the carriage. “Sylakians on the road,” he cried.

“Oh, mercy,” said Zip, pushing her head out of the curtained window. “It’s Yolathion … they’re flagging us down.”

Panic fluttered in her breast. Aranya wailed, “What do we do? What –”

Yuka grabbed her hand. “Quickly. Up with you two.”

Zuziana and Aranya stood. Tarka, the older brother, rooted around behind the seat for a moment before unclipping something. The entire seat cover shifted to reveal a dark space beneath.

“There’s only room for one, Zip. You go. I’ll fly, or something.”

“No, you,” Zuziana argued. “I can be my sister. Inside, Aranya. Keep quiet.”

Aranya clambered into the hollow seat and folded her long limbs within. It was a tight squeeze. Zip smiled at her as her brothers pushed the seat cover back into place. Darkness clasped her like a shadow determined to rise up against the object it mirrored.

Shortly, the carriage pulled up. She heard indistinct voices. An injured man? A Dragonship accident? The carriage rocked. She heard, ‘Lay him here.’ Yolathion’s deep voice approached, saying something about returning to the Dragonships. They had a physician there. The seat creaked. The driver called to the ponies and the carriage lurched into motion again.

The low thrumming of the wheels made it hard to make out the conversation. She caught, ‘Graziala,’ and ‘War-Hammer’. Aranya wished she could employ her Dragon hearing. Actually, she had been successful at that once before – not very well, but somehow her unseen Dragon form sharpened her hearing if she concentrated very hard. That also gave her a headache. But for some reason, perhaps the irony of the situation as she lay inches from Yolathion’s backside, or her concern about Zip, made it difficult for her this time. She scowled in the darkness.

Suddenly, Yolathion’s voice came into focus. He was right above her!

“– security risk to Sylakia,” she heard. “A Dragon flew right over Sylakia Town.”

Yuka or Tarka, she could not tell which, said, “So my lost sister knew this enchantress of Immadia? Was she as beautiful as they say?”

“Fairer than the dawn was she, that Fra’aniorian beauty,” said Yolathion, quoting a poem Aranya had once found amongst her mother’s memorabilia.

“Beautiful, then?” said Zip.

“Incomparable Immadia,” he whispered, so softly the others might not hear him, Aranya thought. Her heart shot into her throat faster than a Dragon swooping across Iridith’s waxing immensity. “Aye, Princess Graziala, you are a fair flower, yet Aranya had beauty to bewitch a man’s heart right out of his chest.”

A few words, and her would-be killer could reduce her to a quivering, burning wreck. Her hiding-hole was growing so hot she feared he should soon find his seat rather uncomfortable.

“Tell me, Sylakian,” said one of the brothers, “where is the honour in serving a man like Garthion?”

A tense silence fell on the company within the carriage. Aranya held her breath. Yuka. Or Tarka. What an idiot!

“Watch your tongue, pup,” Yolathion exploded. “You presume to lecture on subjects of which you know not the first lesson. I was born a warrior – not in the tradition of Sylakia, but under the Jeradian honour-code, as my father before me. Heed now this lesson, Remoyan, for I shall speak but once, and it shall be as though this conversation never happened. I used to think honour synonymous with duty. But now I see there is duty without honour, and actions once taken, must haunt a man forever. Since my youth my record shows I have served Sylakia without blemish. Yet my duty lies in serving the Butcher of Jeradia, who executed half an Island’s population for a perceived insult. Where is the honour in that, you ask? I used to think I saw honour in battles and accomplishments and medals. But now I see those are the honours of men, which are as dust. The honour of the heart is another matter entirely. The day my hand cast Immadia off the Last Walk, that same woman to whom my father owes his life, I made a choice. I chose duty over honour. I hurled my honour down into the Cloudlands along with her. It was neither right, nor just. I see her face in my dreams, her eyes haunt me …”

The carriage thrummed over the track. Aranya wished she could burst out of hiding and throw her arms about Yolathion. His misery could be abated in a breath.

He added, “And now I must track down this ravaging beast, this Dragon, and rid the Island-World of its menace forever. Can my honour thus be succoured? I fear not. Yet I vow that I will bring this beast to the battle. I will slay it with my own hand. It is my duty.”

Aranya knew that she could never tell him who she was. What now, Princess of Immadia? What now?

Despair choked her heart.

Chapter 13: Dragon Lore

After dropping off the Sylakian contingent and their injured comrade at the base they had established in a vast meadow several leagues east of Remoy’s capital, Aranya, Zuziana and her two brothers travelled on to the King’s winter residence. They made a pensive company.

Yuka and Tarka showed them the secret entrance to the caverns, where Aranya and Zuziana wandered through halls filled with the treasures of Remoy, until they came to the Dragon room. Here they found Dragon harnesses and saddles – double and triple leather saddles, Dragon armour of remarkable workmanship, cargo harnesses, even gigantic lances that could be fixed to a Dragon’s sides, but none of it fit. As Zuziana put it, with her customary delicacy:

“Are you a miniature Dragon, Aranya? Everything here is twice your size.”

The brothers’ faces were a picture. “She’s small for a Dragon?”

“A sort of immature half-grown baby Dragon,” said Zuziana.

“Sort of – what?” Aranya was caught between a laugh, a scowl and trying to find a smart comeback. She failed on all three counts.

“Oh, Aranya,” Zip exclaimed. “This is so disappointing. I’ve got ideas, new ideas – but we can’t use any of this equipment.”

“How’s about the lore scrolls?” asked Tarka.

Aranya imagined running into a feral Dragon who could fit into one of these harnesses, and decided it wasn’t worth scaring herself ralti-stupid for the second time that day. “Let’s take the scrolls upstairs,” she said. “I don’t really want to sit in a damp cave reading scrolls.”

So they lugged several trunks of scrolls up to the drawing room, where Aranya found another surprise waiting for her. She turned questioningly to Zuziana.

“I had the servants bring out my mother’s painting things,” said Zip. “I thought it might help for you to unwind a little while we’re out here.”

“Zip – you’re the best.”

“I’m glad you worked that out.” Zip tempered her joke with a silly waggle of her tongue.

It was just the medicine she needed after a rotten day, Aranya thought. She did not want to think another moment about Yolathion and his vow to kill her a second time, nor his angry threat to bring the Sylakian hammer down on Remoy – or Immadia, for that matter, if he learned her true identity. Just look at Zip, settled on a couch beneath a warm ralti-wool throw, devouring scroll after scroll. She thought about painting her mother. She settled on a rajal.

But her hand kept aching to paint a tall, dark Jeradian warrior.

To distract herself, Aranya said, “Zip? Something’s been bothering me about the birth-mother question I fluffed so royally, a few days back.”

“Hmm?” Zip dragged her eyes off the scroll she was devouring. “Royal … fluffiness? What did you say?”

“Zip, surely everybody knows which of your mothers was pregnant, when? It must be perfectly obvious which child belongs to whom.”

Zuziana waggled her eyebrows separately. “Ah, you’re forgetting just one tiny detail.”

“What?”

“The power of the Human mind.”

“Are Remoyans so –” Aranya coughed to cover her floundering.

“Stupid? Allow me to educate you, Princess fluff-brain. Imagine a society in which everyone is expected not to remember those details. People may know, but they never say. Most, in fact, genuinely do forget because they train themselves to forget. The fact of pregnancy is barely acknowledged.”

“You don’t celebrate it?”

“The practice is to hide it for as long as possible. Remoyan infants are tiny. When it becomes too obvious, all the wives go into seclusion together. Often, even the husbands won’t know which wife was pregnant.” She winked at Aranya. “Joint seclusion by the wives keeps the birth rate down.”

And her friend laughed merrily as Aranya’s jaw dropped.

In the early hours of morning, having forewarned Zuziana, Aranya went hunting. But she did not go where she had promised. Instead, having dined on two small and tasty deer, she winged through the misty night to the Sylakian encampment, and landed on a nearby hill.

A ground mist wreathed the hovering Dragonships, making them resemble great humpbacked animals emerging from the Cloudlands. Aranya’s brows drew into a frown and her fangs gleamed momentarily in a grimace of annoyance. A dozen? No, sixteen Dragonships. Yolathion had lied. Why? Her Dragon eyes surveyed the campsite. Some men slept on the ground, but it seemed that most slept aboard the Dragonships. Her sharp gaze picked out a Dragonship which flew the symbol of a leaping rajal. She remembered that from Ignathion’s vessel. Was the First War-Hammer here? Or was it a family symbol?

The aft sentry was asleep!

Through slit amethyst eyes, Dragon-Aranya considered this. Zuziana had just earlier read to her from a scroll that the Dragonish idea of honour was to warn one’s enemy before destroying them, to demonstrate power over a life without taking it. She had an idea – a bold, dangerous and entirely off-the-Island idea. But it was irresistible.

On stealthy wings, Aranya took to the air behind the hill and circled the Sylakian encampment. Her neck writhed as she spied out the sentries from a safe distance. They were all ground-watching.

The drifting veils of mist shrouded her form as Aranya banked into a smooth, silent glide across the backs of the Dragonships. Imagine not watching the sky? These Sylakians had a thing or two to learn about Dragon Shapeshifters. Fifty feet from Yolathion’s vessel, she slowed, judging her speed carefully. Ten feet shy of the Dragonship, she transformed.

A Human plopped down softly on the hydrogen sack. Ruing her pale Northern skin as it gleamed in the misty half-light, Aranya controlled the sound of her breathing. She clambered carefully along the netting, down and beneath the hydrogen sack, and alighted cat-footed on the gantry. She relieved the sleeping sentry of his war hammer and thumped him with calculated force on the head. He slumped a little further. A headache was his just reward for sleeping on duty. She eased the aft access door open. Now, if she knew the layout of a Dragonship, Yolathion’s quarters should be the cabin just aft of the forward navigation room.

Fool. She should turn around and leave right now.

Instead, she padded down the corridor.

A hand grasped her arm. “Well, my pretty petal?”

Aranya swallowed her terror. She tried for a breathy voice, which was no trouble given the state of her shock, and stammered, “I’m s-supposed t-to surprise the War-Hammer. Which one is h-he?”

“A surprise from the boys?” The Sylakian pulled her against him. “Lost your clothing somewhere, my pretty? You look a keeper. Maybe I’ll just have you for myself.”

She swung the war hammer in a short but brutal arc. The man staggered backward. She whacked him again; he went down. “Grab a Dragon’s backside, will you?” Aranya laughed to herself as she checked the man. Good, he was unconscious. Maybe being nude after a transformation was not such a bad thing. It definitely distracted the warriors.

Aranya sneaked along to Yolathion’s cabin and gingerly worked the door handle. Hearing nothing but the sound of a man’s slow breathing, she stole into the room, soundless upon her bare feet.

Third War-Hammer Yolathion lay on his bunk, his left arm trailing nearly to the floor and his long legs hanging off the end. Aranya had barely fit on her Dragonship bunk; Yolathion had no chance unless he folded himself up double, she told herself uncharitably. But he did look very sweet, asleep. His jaw lost its hard edge and became more boyish. The ralti-wool blanket covered him only partway up his stomach. What she could see of his body in the dim light had all the lean muscularity of a young warrior whose life was war and training for war.

He had lifted her so easily to cast her off the cliff. Well, her Dragon form could just as easily toss him into a salad, neatly sliced up for a dinner’s side-dish. Aranya cautioned herself, irritably, that curling up next to the War-Hammer was a temptation too far.

Instead, she checked his desk. Good. Spare message scrolls, a quill pen and ink. Aranya unfurled a scroll and rapidly drew a Dragon’s clawed foot on it – deliberately untidy, so that he would not link it with her artwork. Beneath it she scrawled, ‘Remember Jeradia.’ There, that was obtuse enough. Her eye fell on another scroll on his desk. Leaning close in the dim light, she scanned it rapidly. Several lines in particular sprang out at her: The hawks are nearly trained in our new tactics and should be with you within one month. We will also send crossbows and nets. New tactics? Nets? That did not bode well for a runaway Dragon.

She checked the scroll’s date. Two weeks ago! Oh, roaring rajals …

Aranya placed her scroll delicately behind his neck. She hesitated. Why not? Aranya dropped the merest whisper of a kiss on his cheek. She inhaled the scent of him with her Dragon senses come alive. Leopard, oh yes. A smart move? No. She breathed, “Let our battle commence, Third War-Hammer Yolathion of Jeradia. I shall not be merciful again.”

Aranya retreated to the doorway, watching him with bated breath, but Yolathion did not stir.

She retraced her steps past her first victim, but paused next to the furnace-room door. Nak had said something about chewing meriatite. All was quiet. She filched a small sack of the precious rock from beside the furnace. A gentle press upon the aft door opened it. Good, the gantries were clear. She monkey-climbed the webbing until she stood atop the Dragonship’s sack, balanced on the rope netting. Aranya transformed, before deliberately walking half the length of the Dragonship, puncturing the multi-compartmented hydrogen sacks in dozens of places. “Four sets of claws to your little hammer, Yolathion,” she muttered. “And don’t forget the fangs.”

She spread her wings and ghosted off the top of the Dragonship as it began to sag toward the ground. Aranya landed atop a hill a respectable distance from the Sylakian encampment, where she hunkered down to watch the fun.

It did not take long. Shouts arose; alarms bugled and the Sylakians came rushing out of tent and Dragonship to behold the Third War-Hammer’s vessel as it folded up on the ground. Aranya tuned in with her ears. Ah, the sweet sounds of cracking crysglass and hissing hydrogen, followed by Yolathion’s enraged bellowing as he crawled out from beneath the wreckage, brandishing a scroll – most likely hers. The drifting mist obscured her view for a few minutes, so Aranya had to be content with listening to his interrogation of the two unfortunate sentries. She was certain their headaches would not be improved by having their commanding officer screaming in their faces.

But then one warrior said the girl he had seen had a ‘Northern’ look about her. That was when Aranya lost her taste for the entertainment on offer.

* * * *

For three days, Zip and Aranya devoured scroll upon scroll of Dragon lore. Tarka and Yuka soon declared their boredom and disappeared on day-long hunting trips in the estate grounds.

Many of the records were only of passing interest, but among them were gems of knowledge that the friends set aside to pore over and discuss. Aranya was particularly fascinated to read about Dragon stomachs, which amused Zip endlessly. Some types of Dragons had up to five stomachs. One was always for food. Blue Dragons kept a stomach for water, which they super-heated behind a system of pressure valves before firing the steam out so fast that it could strip flesh from bone in seconds. Other Dragons, primarily the Red colours, usually had one or more stomachs for fire. Some added a stomach for rock and shot white-hot lava at their enemies. The Green Dragon family added stomachs for noxious gases and poison; the Greys had a stomach for boiling glue, which they combined with poison to form a particularly nasty attack. Other attacks were more obviously magical, such as a type of Dragon attack called ‘Shivers’, an invisible form of Dragon fire which turned stone to dust.

Zuziana read a whole chest-full of scrolls on Dragon tactics against Dragonships and crossbow or catapult emplacements. “Count the shots,” she read to Aranya. “A single war crossbow takes thirty to forty seconds to reload. That’s the window of opportunity. But beware multiple Dragonships timing their shots, or holding one crossbow shot in reserve against an attack.”

They read legends and histories about Dragons great and grim; those who had partnered with Humans, those who had always kept aloof, and those who had started the Second Great Dragonwar, rising up against Humanity in an attempt to wipe them off the Islands. They read about Dragons called the Ancient Powers, who were said to cause storms and hail, earthquakes and windstorms. Their breath was believed to give rise to the Cloudlands. The legends drew a clear distinction between the Ancient Powers and the Lesser Dragons, those that Aranya assumed were her peers.

Aranya lifted her eyes from her scroll, having mentally added lightning to the list of possible Dragon attacks. “Zip, it’s all nice theory – you know, spitting fire, fireballs, streams of fire and invisible fire and all that, but they don’t say anything about no-fire Dragons.”

“Oh, no-fire Dragons can still cause plenty of trouble,” said Zip, so sweetly that Aranya knew at once she was in trouble. “You know, just to pick a random example, like causing Sylakian War-Hammers to visit Kings to complain about Dragonships being destroyed.”

“Uh – I have a confession to make, Zip.”

“Really? A confession?”

She told her friend about her escapade, leaving out no detail other than kissing Yolathion on the cheek. Aranya tried to sound off-hand about how gorgeous she thought he was. She failed miserably at that task. When Zip demanded to know if the complete truth had been told, she had to sheepishly relate the kissing detail, too.

But Zuziana’s response was unexpected. She said, “Aranya, Sylakian Hammers have spent the last three days tearing Remoy Town apart, looking for someone answering to your description – a bad description, granted, but still. Old widows have been thrown out into the streets, fathers beaten and children threatened with war hammers if they don’t confess. Houses were torched, shops looted and a daytime curfew imposed while the search was carried out. Here. Read this scroll. I don’t think Father’s too impressed with your efforts.”

Aranya read the scroll, pale of cheek. By the time she finished she was ashen. “I should go back and apologise, Zip.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Zuziana shouted. Then she bit her lip and clearly tried for calm. “Look, that’s the last place you should go. We need a plan. I’ve sent the boys back for our saddle and equipment in case we need to leave in a hurry.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Words aren’t enough, Aranya. Maybe we can lead the Sylakians away from Remoy. Yes. Yolathion’s mad enough to take any bait.”

Aranya wiped her eyes. “Zip, I’m such an idiot –”

“You are. Next time, can we decide to be idiots together?” Zip collected a slack-jawed stare from her friend. “I’m your Rider, you idiot. Can you at least pretend we’re in this together? Not flying off to chase enemy officers on our own, even if they’re a thousand times leopard?”

Feeling sick to her stomach at what she had caused, Aranya curled up on the couch and rocked back and forth. How could she have known? A harmless bit of fun soured into a very harmful bit of foolery. The children must have been terrified. Now Zuziana thought Aranya would rather not have her in their partnership, for Aranya had treated her as a worthless tag-along.

“Aranya.” Her friend grabbed her hands and shook them. “Aranya! Listen, I’ve a crazy idea. It would take a pair of complete idiots to pull it off.”

The corners of Aranya’s mouth dragged themselves upward. “You want me to agree to what, exactly?”

“To start a war against Sylakia.”

Honestly? Aranya’s mouth sieved the air for flies. She said, “Two girls decide to start a war on a brutal empire that spans a quarter of the Island-World? Your brain’s turned to prekki-fruit mush.”

Zip touched the underside of Aranya’s chin with her forefinger. “Shut the rabbit-hole, petal. This isn’t two girls. This is a Dragon and her Rider. Now, you brainless beast, you shall attend in awe and wonder as I outline our strategy for the upcoming war. Pay attention.”

Chapter 14: War

When Iridith declined beneath the horizon at the third hour of night, a Dragon Rider and her Amethyst Dragon emerged upon a wide balcony at the rear of the Remoyan King’s residence. Zuziana, tiny as she was, looked fierce in her new armour. Zuziana embraced her brothers fondly.

“We’ll let Father know,” said Tarka.

Yuka added, “I’ll see to your apology personally, Aranya.”

“May I point out that I am not jealous,” Tarka lied cheerfully.

Zip mounted up and buckled herself in. She strapped a quiver of arrows flat along her left thigh and set her bow crosswise across her shoulders. She checked the oil-pot beside her right knee and her spark-stone at her belt.

Aranya craned her neck to examine her Rider’s new equipment. The banded, silvery metal armour fit her as though it were made to measure. Probably a long-dead Remoyan relative who had been a Dragon Rider, judging from the petite size – but she was pleased and so was Zip. The armourer had spent a great deal of trouble over balancing the coverage of vital parts with flexibility. The elbow and shoulder joints moved freely without having a single weak point she could see. Her thighs, knees and calves were well armoured too, aside from the obvious breastplate. Plating, she should say, given as it was seven pieces. What kind of metal was this, so light and flexible? The scrolls said nothing but that it had been forged in Dragon fire.

But Aranya worried, “Are you quite sure about the oil, Zip?”

“It’s what the Dragon lore says Riders did,” she replied.

“If it sloshes on you …”

“The armour’s fireproof. Hopefully.” Zuziana patted Aranya’s side. “Look, we’ve discussed this.”

“You’re as stubborn as a mountain goat. Fine.”

Aranya stepped up onto the wide ornamental wall of the balcony.

Yuka said, “Go burn the heavens, Dragon and Rider.” He grinned his impish grin, so like his sister that Aranya’s eyes flicked between them several times.

She spread her wings and took to the air.

Always, that first rush thrilled her. Human-Aranya could not believe she was flying. She could not believe the power of her wing beats thrusting her across the dark fields of Remoy, toward the towering wall of forest that separated the King’s estate from the outside world. Only the Mystic moon shone, high in the sky so brilliant with stars it was almost white. A rare sight, Aranya thought. An Immadian would call it a good omen. She quivered as the cool wind brushed her scales. Her throat swelled with an exultant bugle that she did not release. The Sylakians should not be forewarned.

Still lay the Island-World beneath the whisper of a Dragon’s wings.

Aranya knew the Sylakians would be watching, this time. They arrowed toward the encampment, keeping as low as possible.

Zuziana’s voice came to her ear, “This is magical, my friend.”

Aranya turned to blink her amethyst eyes, widely drinking in what light there was, at her friend. “Nak and Oyda said it, Zip. Flying is mystical beneath a Mystic moon.”

“I’m just thankful, Aranya.”

She considered this. “I am, too, but I wonder what we should do with this gift.”

Zip chuckled, “I thought I was supposed to be the practical one? Aranya, doing is what we’re doing – if you’ll excuse the play on words. I don’t see you terrorising villagers, stealing their sheep and hoarding gold in a cave.”

“I suppose not.”

After a quarter-hour aloft, Aranya heard the spark-stone clicking as Zuziana lit the oil pot. Once it was burning, she gathered speed. Her Rider seated her helm on her head.

Zuziana flexed the bow. Her voice issued reverberantly from inside her helmet, “I’m out of practice. Try not to singe us, Aranya.”

Dragon and Rider raced over a low line of hills, closing in on the Sylakian encampment. Aranya angled for the nearest of the Dragonships, her wings flexing with the air currents as they blasted over the perimeter of sentries – who were awake, but they passed over them before the alarm could be raised.

“Let’s tickle them awake, Zip.”

Flames licked hungrily around the arrow Zip dipped into the oil pot. Each arrow had been prepared and fitted with an oil-soaked collar just behind the arrowhead. It burned fiercely. Zuziana shouted at Aranya to keep her eyes forward and peeled for crossbow quarrels. A streak of orange shot into the flank of the nearest Dragonship.

Thunder echoed off the hills. A blinding flash disoriented Aranya for a moment. The Princess of Remoy grumbled about suns-spots on her vision as she fitted a second arrow to her bow. Dragon-Aranya’s membranes worked over her eyes. Now she remembered what Nak had said about looking at the suns. She glanced back to see the Dragonship’s frame outlined in charred, glowing embers. The rest was gone.

“Ready,” called Zip.

Aranya adjusted her flight muscles, sweeping past the conflagration. “Take the shot …”

Sss! The arrow leaped across the intervening space like a hungry rajal pouncing on its prey. A wave of heat scorched Dragon and Rider as the Dragonship exploded. Aranya swerved instinctively, taking Zuziana away from the furnace blast. A fiery joy sang within her being. Dragons were creatures of flame, creatures of the inferno of heat and smoke and blazing passions. Now her roar resounded, cutting short the warning trumpets of the Sylakian troops, unnecessary now that the hills blazed orange in the reflection of the fires they had caused. Dragon-Aranya’s wrath burned against these men.

Caught up in her passion, she almost didn’t hear Zuziana shouting at her to watch out for crossbow quarrels.

Aranya’s tail snapped sideways, knocking them off their previous path. She heard a crossbow twang; the sound of the quarrel, a low, angry whistling through the air. But the shot went awry. She took them between two Dragonships. Yolathion’s … Zip was not ready. She plucked out another arrow, lit it, raised the short bow and fired almost in one motion. Aranya tucked in her wings and rolled as the Dragonship exploded right next to them, letting her belly feel the heat and her body protect Zuziana from the explosion.

“Ouch! Darn it, Aranya.”

“I can’t avoid the flames if you shoot a Dragonship right next to us.”

“No, I mean, oooooh!”

Aranya wobbled in the air as she tried to look at Zuziana, whose scream trailed off into a groan. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m burned.”

Aranya’s wings flared as she braked. She heard Zuziana’s neck pop as the gravitational forces pressed them hard in their bellies. The Dragon rocketed upward. Two crossbow quarrels passed beneath them, one clipping the edge of her wing and chipping a chunk of light bone off her flight strut.

“Ha, they shot their own Dragonship. Zip, are you –”

“Bring us around, Aranya. I still want to deliver this message to your leopard-man.”

In the light of the fires, what she could see of Zuziana’s face was pale and drawn with pain, not at all her usual tan.

“You think after this –”

“I’m fine. Turn!”

Yolathion would want to kill her. He did already. But Aranya knew that, whatever she might feel for a man who served Sylakia, like his father before him, she must deny it for the sake of others. Her Dragon hearts sang a melancholy song as she arced through the night air, bringing them back to the Sylakian camp at a different angle of attack. All of Nak’s words on crossbows and shot-angles and tactics – bless that crazy old man. Laughter bubbled through her. At least he knew what he was doing when he tweaked a Dragon’s backside. She missed him. He would have loved to be breathing fire and smoke with her and Zuziana, or dodging crossbow quarrels, like this one spitting toward them now.

She dodged it easily. More would come.

Arrows rose to meet them, the Hammers of warriors organised on the ground now, sheltering behind their shields as their archers aimed at the Dragon in the sky. Arrows pattered against her tough, scaly hide like the first fat drops of rain before a thunderstorm. She saw Yolathion, aground, bellowing orders at his men – clad only in his armoured trousers, a huge hammer clutched in his left hand. She ripped her eyes off him.

Good. Now they could destroy his Dragonship without destroying Yolathion.

The laughter born in her Dragon hearts, wild and vicious and sad, thundered over the burning camp. Dragonships, helplessly tethered, awaited their burning arrows. Two began to rise into the air. Smart. That would give better attacking options and a field of fire for the war crossbows. Aranya powered on, swooping into the heart of the camp, feeling the next Dragonship crisp at the bite of Zuziana’s arrow as though it were a strange, slow flare against her senses, tracking the crossbow quarrels as the men struggled to aim at her darting form, using a moored Dragonship to protect her right flank as she lined up her next shot, Zip working in concert with her, raising her bow to their port side and taking the shot that destroyed another Dragonship. She doubled back abruptly, confusing the Sylakians’ riposte as she ducked beneath a Dragonship, tucking in her wings to avoid the anchor hawsers and then rolling upward, almost brushing the side of the ship with her tucked-up legs. Without thinking, she adjusted to bring her talons to bear, opening a ten-foot rent in the hydrogen sack.

“Useless oil,” Zuziana shouted, pain sharpening her words. “Oh, Aranya … once more around. I’ve got the scroll ready.”

Aranya jinked to her left. A crossbow quarrel smashed into a Sylakian warrior on the ground. They snaked through the air until Aranya could orient on Yolathion. There he was, snarling of face, sculpted of muscle, stalking through the battle not as a leopard, but like a rajal shaking its mane as it roared at the enemy.

Shouting something about having spotted him, Zip took aim and shot their message at the War-Hammer.

To the evil rulers of Sylakia,

Greetings from Dragon and Rider.

We declare war on you.

Aranya stared incredulously. “Zip, you hit his knee.”

“I hope he gets the message.”

“He might just.”

“One more Dragonship; that one, Aranya.”

Crossbow quarrels converged on them. Down! Aranya thumped into the ground. That was a mistake because the ground was closer than she thought. But her legs worked frantically, driving her forward as she gathered her hind legs beneath her to launch upward with a mighty thrust. Something sharp scored her side. But that flying bound took them up over the hundred-and-fifty foot length of the Dragonship ahead. Zip aimed over her flank. As they passed overhead, she delayed the shot slightly before swivelling to send one final burning arrow on its path to destruction.

WHOOOMP!

The Dragonship exploded behind them, shielding Dragon and Rider as they beat a strategic retreat from the charred field that had been the Sylakian encampment.

* * * *

Aranya flew until they had put several leagues between them and the Sylakians. Then she landed in a quiet spot beside the uppermost of Remoy’s terrace lakes. Her eyes tracked Zuziana with concern as she dismounted.

“Shall I transform and –”

“We might need to leave in a hurry. Your healing magic works better in Dragon form, right?”

Zip peeled off her lower armour and then her trousers. She groaned, “Oh, roaring rajals, it helps if you fasten the armour properly, Aranya. Look, I left a gap.”

The burning oil had trickled into that gap just above her kneecap, and seared a patch of skin from below her knee to her ankle-bone. Aranya eyed her friend’s sooty face and singed hair curling back from her brow. She checked her own flank. A crossbow quarrel had torn a nice little chunk out of her side, there. But she would be fine. It was Zip that she was worried about.

Unexpectedly, Zip smacked her on the neck, grinning a madcap grin. “Did you see your boyfriend’s face when we shot him with our message?”

“Boyfriend? After that? Who tried to kill whom first, may I ask?”

“Well, we sure singed his beard.”

Aranya chuckled. “My gorgeous enemy is clean-shaven, Zip.”

“Oh, for the Islands’ sake,” cried her friend, pretending outrage, “I’ll shoot him properly next time. Or would you prefer to sharpen your fangs on him first?”

“Maybe I should start a Dragon hoard with just him in it?” Zip hooted. But Aranya pressed her paw gently upon Zuziana’s shoulder. “Let’s see to your wound, my friend. I’ve a shiver in my spines that says the sky’s going to fill with Dragonships very soon. We need to outfly any message hawks to Tyrodia Island. Have you got Oyda’s ointment? Does it hurt?”

“Like the blazes.”

Aranya laid her forepaw on Zip’s leg. “I know you’re brave, but if we’re going to pretend to be in this together, you need to learn to ask for help when you need it.”

Her membranes fluttered shut. When her healing magic surged into Zip, her friend sighed. “Oh, that itches – nicely.”

Zuziana applied the ointment and bandaged her leg with strips of cloth torn from their spare clothes. She pulled on her trousers and clucked in annoyance as Aranya’s muzzle got in the way of her fastening the armour again. She pushed the Dragon’s muzzle away ineffectually. “Aranya. It’s nothing, so stop your mothering.”

“Here come the Dragonships,” said Aranya. “Mount up, Zip.”

“Those specks? I want your eyes.”

“I can also see a message hawk.”

Her Rider climbed quickly into the saddle and buckled in. She said, “So, let’s stick with the plan. Can you chase a hawk?”

“I hope so – for short periods, at least. Nak said they’re faster than Dragons between Islands.”

It took three arrows and some lung-straining flying to catch the speedy hawk, but Zuziana finally downed it with a lucky head-shot. After that, they headed north for Tyrodia Island, making no effort to conceal their presence. That would come later.

An hour’s flight brought the pair to the steep edge of Remoy, and a view of the layers of glistening, serpentine terrace lakes which were Remoy’s signature feature, reflecting back the last starlight before the gathering dawn. Vast numbers of water birds nested on their shores; their populations so dense that the lakes were outlined like mouths with white lips. Here they surprised a patrolling Sylakian Dragonship and sent a fireball spinning into the lakes, at the expense of two non-serious arrow holes punctured in Aranya’s left wing.

“Marking our trail,” said Zip. “Wasted an arrow, though. We’ve only got fourteen arrows left for the invasion fleet, if it’s still at Tyros.”

“Let’s make every arrow count.” Aranya glanced back at Zuziana. “Do you think our Pygmy friends might help us out with some arrows? Could we stop there on our way back along the Crescent?”

“You’re still bent on returning to Nak and Oyda, aren’t you?” Zip took a sip from her waterskin. “Well, I think it’s a good idea, even if it does land us back on Sylakia Island. Don’t think they’d expect that. We’ll need to see how it goes at Tyros, before deciding where the roving troublemakers fly after that.”

“All in the spirit of partnership based on mutual idiocy?”

“Speak for yourself, Dragon.” Zuziana gazed out at the Cloudlands as the rising suns bathed their billows in rosy hues, a carpet stretching to the horizon, deceptively calm and even. “Is it just me, or do you feel rather naked flying in the daytime?”

“As naked as a Dragon in her Dragon-hide can be.” Raising her head, Aranya declaimed, “Fellow-Islanders of this immense demesne, I foresee a day when Dragons and Humans shall co-operate in beautiful harmony, in a partnership based on mutual trust and –”

Zuziana’s exaggerated snort made her burst out laughing.

“What? I just wanted to use the words ‘immense demesne’ together in a sentence.”

“Well, if silliness helps you navigate the long road to Tyrodia Island, then by all means, be silly.”

“Road?” Aranya vented a snort of her own. “What road, o ignorant Human? Doth our road not lie in the skies most vast, beneath the beneficent gaze of the five moons?”

“Mercy. I’m getting some sleep. In fact, you’re boring me to sleep quite effectively.”

As though the world held its breath, a brooding stillness surrounded Rider and Dragon as they winged away from the relative security of Remoy Island and out across the Cloudlands. Not a breath of wind stirred apart from the Dragon’s steady wing beat. Being in her Dragon form still felt marvellous and weird. Much that she took for granted about her Human form, such as running or leaping or breathing or being ill, seemed tinged with novelty and wonder when viewed through a Dragon’s eyes. She had some sense of her stamina as a Dragon, a growing appreciation of her flying ability, but as yet little idea how to use the magic she sensed still lay latent within her, apart from her healing power.

Carrying a Rider was foreign, too, Aranya thought. On one level they were friends, on another, she was responsible for her Rider. Zip said she felt the same sense of responsibility toward her Dragon. It added an unexpected dimension, a mutual dependency as they set out on a mission … to do what? Laughter echoed hollowly in her hearts. Overthrow the Sylakians? Stir up a bit of trouble until the hammer came down? How long could they goad the great beast of Sylakia?

Long enough to make them pay for her trip to the Cloudlands. Long enough to ensure Garthion knew what his brutality had cost his people.

She wondered what was left of him after being burned like that. Part of her hated him; another part regretted what she had done. She tried not to dwell upon the Dragonships they had destroyed, or all the men they carried. ‘How does Dragon-Aranya feel about the killing, Zip?’ she whispered. ‘Sorrowful. And lonely.’

Could she be the last Dragon in the Island-World?

Aranya shook her head. No, she would not give up the search for others. Maybe she’d find other Dragons in Herimor; or maybe on the Island her mother had come from, Fra’anior, which lay west of Sylakia, perhaps five or six days’ travel by Dragonship.

She rested a moment, gliding steadily toward the Cloudlands. Aranya experimented with the angle and extent of her wings, trying to find the best gliding configuration. She looked to the Jade and Blue moons, both in their crescent phase, and tried to remember the precise direction Zuziana had instructed her to take. Navigation by the moons was another complication entirely. Sneaky of her to study Ignathion’s navigation charts during that journey down to Sylakia, she congratulated herself. If she had the slightest inkling she was about to discover she was a Dragon Shapeshifter, she might have paid proper attention, too.

Aranya missed Tyrodia Island by ten leagues to the west.

Zuziana worked out the error in her navigation and how to correct it. So it was a very tired Dragon who, around midnight, sighted Tyrodia at last.

“You keep that map in your head?” Aranya asked.

“Mostly. It’s a skill that runs in our family. We liked to play memory games – name the Island from its shape, name the main cities of each Island, name the Islands from south to north …”

She hooted at the expression on Aranya’s face.

But, after they had rested an hour, Aranya and Zuziana took to the air to discover their miss had been a blessing. Aranya drifted along as she described what she could see.

“It’s a line of Dragonships strung across the route we should have taken up from Remoy,” said the Dragon. “Do you think they got a message hawk through? They’d have had the time because of how far off track we went, don’t you think?”

Zip nodded. “We should assume they’re forewarned.”

“And what’s that sly smile saying to me?”

She pointed upward. “Look at those pretty cumulous clouds.”

The weather had been either clear or stormy, Aranya thought. She was not familiar with Southern weather patterns. But those clouds would be handy, if she could fly high enough. Perhaps they would provide enough cover, despite the moon Iridith bathing the night with a gentle, almost-lamplight glow as it spanned fully two thirds of the horizon. Her Dragon eyes narrowed as she noticed shadows, huge shadows, traversing Iridith’s face. Dragons? No, they were the wrong shape. What on the Islands were they?

But Zuziana was chattering to her, talking about their next raid. She was right. Aranya wrenched her attention back to the problem at hand. All the while, Tyrodia loomed before them, seeming to grow larger by some eerie magic unrelated to their flight.

“I see that gleam in your eye, my friend,” said Zip. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Once her Rider was settled, Dragon-Aranya climbed straight for the clouds. The air grew chill. Greyness closed about them, then receded as they flew into a gap. Aranya reported the layout of the Dragonships to Zip. She pointed with her chin to the faraway lights of Tyros Town.

“The camp is still there,” she told Zip. “I vote we attack where the Dragonships are moored. That’ll cause the most chaos.”

“Those bumps? They do look close together.”

“Very.”

Zip’s grin flashed in the moonlight. “Take us overhead, o Princess of Fang. Keep those clouds as close as a ralti wool cloak.”

“We shall fall upon them as lightning from a storm.”

“Dragon-you does love a dramatic turn of phrase,” Zuziana observed. “Keep those claws sharp and your ears peeled for the sound of catapults and crossbows.”

Oil glugged into the pot. Zuziana struck the spark-stone several times before the flame caught. She settled her helm on her head and gripped her bow in her left hand. Watching over her shoulder, Aranya smiled at how warlike Zip looked. She furled her wings and plummeted out of the clouds.

Closer and closer came the Sylakian camp, the sprawling staging ground for their impending invasion of Herimor. Aranya wondered why they were gathered here on Tyrodia and not many leagues to the south, closer to the Rift. Perhaps the Supreme Commander did not want to scatter his forces too widely. The bulky Dragonships lay closely moored in clumps over a tent-city comprising thousands of Sylakian warriors. She looked for Ignathion’s symbol of the rajal, but did not see it. But she saw a Dragonship of the Crimson Hammers, and several others of types she had never seen before, three oblong balloons side-by-side, perhaps for carrying heavy cargo, she thought, and slim, narrow Dragonships that could hardly have carried ten warriors each.

Behind her shoulder, Zip called, “Armed.”

Aranya tilted her wings to catch the wind, bringing them out of the dive and into a whistling swoop at high speed, aimed like a javelin at the first clump of Dragonships. A trumpet sounded the alarm just as Zip released her first shot. The fiery arrow struck the very top of one of the vessels and stuck in a netting rope, burning brightly.

“Quick, another.”

“Oh, mercy, some of these Dragonships are armoured,” Zip cried.

“Shoot, Zip!”

A huge explosion lit the camp all the way to the hills beside Tyrodia Town. A second followed, Dragonships flaring like torches behind them as the first arrow burned its way through to the volatile hydrogen.

Aranya veered sharply as crossbow quarrels, arrows and a spray of catapult-fired shrapnel burst across their path. “They’re firing sharp metal,” she panted, “trying to shred my wings.”

“Try not to get hit,” said Zip, lighting another arrow.

Her next two shots missed as they came under heavy fire. Aranya felt strikes against her belly and beneath her tail. A crossbow quarrel passed so close to Zip that she could have reached out to catch it. They snaked between a brace of Dragonships before Aranya levelled out momentarily. The instant she heard Zuziana’s bowstring twang, she dove sideways again, swerving into a muscle-straining gyration. She realised why the Dragonships were moored in clumps – it left open ground between them, ground that had to be covered by Dragon and Rider, a space which allowed the archers an opportunity to take aim. If this was Ignathion’s doing, she had to admire him for it.

The Remoyan cried out as an arrow smacked the cheek-guard of her helmet.

Aranya rose to avoid a hail of catapult-shot. She grunted as an unseen quarrel pinged off the bone of her shoulder near the base of her right wing. It made an excruciating pain spurt through her wing, momentarily paralysing her. The shock incensed Aranya. A sheet of blood seemed to descend across her eyes. Dragon-Aranya forgot who she was or where she was flying. Flame roared within her, roiling in her belly, so hot and intense and agonising that she had to expel it or she feared she would burn from within. It felt as though lava-bubbles were popping up into her throat. The muscles of her neck worked. Her body jerked spasmodically and her flight became erratic, stuttering and slowing.

Somewhere, someone was shouting, “Aranya! Aranya!”

Her mouth gaped open. A melon-sized fireball rocketed out. The next was larger. The third, larger still, and aimed directly at a clump of Dragonships. Aranya thundered her agony to the skies. Her throat! A Dragon’s fire seared the Tyrodian night.

A swathe of tents burst into flame, right across her path. The Dragonships exploded in a pyre of flames a hundred feet tall, five or six at once, the nearer ones setting off those moored behind them. The din was deafening, pummelling her sensitive ears. Aranya jerked and roared as she slammed into a catapult, snapping the struts and sending the weapon crashing to the ground.

“Aranya, stick with me, girl,” Zuziana called urgently. “Aranya, remember who you are.”

Slowly, the red receded. Words – she remembered, now. Her Rider’s words pushed it back. She was Dragon. She was Human. She was a Shapeshifter.

She tried to speak, but could not. She had scorched her throat. She needed water, cool water to flood her throat and take away the pain. Aranya summoned up the healing power. But that drained her. She felt tired, so tired.

“Aranya? What’s the matter, petal? Speak to me, please. Aranya?”

Dully, she pushed through the pain. Her shoulder seemed alright, but only because that pain was drowned out by the agony of her throat. She must not let her Rider down. She must carry her to safety. Aranya flexed her muscles and flew by instinct alone, away from the Sylakians, weaving through the arrows and catapult fire with a dancer’s suppleness, until they left the noise and the flames far, far behind them. The smoke was still visible from leagues away.

“Aranya? Petal?” Zuziana sounded as though she were on the verge of tears.

Dragon-Aranya twisted her neck until she and Zip were eye to eye. She tried to open and close her mouth to show that she could not speak. She nodded; tried a wink or two.

Finally, Zip caught on. “You can’t speak? Why? Your throat?”

She nodded.

“The flame – you breathed flame, Aranya. But you weren’t ready, were you?” Another nod. “Is it bad?” Aranya wondered how a Dragon shrugged their shoulders. She bounced Zip up and down. “Not too bad, you think? Alright, Aranya. I understand. We need a quiet spot; get some water down that throat of yours. I’ll take a look. But – what am I going to do? Talk to myself for a while? Don’t I do that enough already?”

Aranya wanted to laugh, but it hurt. She settled for giving Zip a big, toothy Dragon grin.

Chapter 15: Hunted

When Zuziana looked down her friend’s throat, she hummed a little tune and said, “Try not to close your mouth, Aranya. Turn to the light. You don’t smell of sulphur or rancid meat or anything I might imagine on a Dragon’s breath. But you do have a bone stuck right here.”

She withdrew and tossed the sheep bone into a corner of the cave. Aranya tried not to notice the sigh of relief that accompanied her exit from the Dragon’s jaws.

They had stopped on a lonely, windswept cliff on the northern tip of Tyrodia. A perfect hiding place. A sandy, comfortable cave, impassable cliffs above and below, and a series of ledges teeming with small animal life and monkeys.

“It’s blistered. I mean, it’s one big blister down there, as far as I can see. I’m surprised you can even swallow water. Are you hungry?”

Aranya nodded. All that flying, two battles and then lying low for three days in a cave had combined to make her ravenous. Her stomach chose that moment to growl so loudly it echoed down the tunnels behind them.

“I’ll take that as an affirmative. I need to hunt. No, don’t you growl at me and block the doorway. I’ll be careful. Aranya!” Zip giggled as Aranya pushed her back from the cave entrance with her muzzle. “Don’t you bully me, you stubborn lump of Dragon flesh. Yes, I know there are Dragonships crawling all over this Island like rats on a fresh carcass. Yes, if there’s one thing I can assure you, it is that Remoyan Princesses know how to hunt and we can sneak, too. We’re very … sneaky.”

With that, she darted beneath Aranya’s neck.

Aranya lifted her paw and flattened her friend – claws carefully held apart, lest she hurt Zip.

“Ouch! Get off me, you scaly ralti sheep, or I swear I’ll skin that pretty hide and hang it up for a hunting trophy!” When she relented, Zip said, dusting off her armour with cheerful slaps, “You know, petal, we need to come up with a Dragon name for you. I can’t call forty feet of Amethyst Dragon – well, ‘petal’, can I? Aranya is your Human name. How do you fancy the ring of, ‘Knobbly-Kneed Goat Muncher’? Or something grander, like ‘Her Amethyst Majesty the Mighty Fireball Tosser’?”

This drew a laugh, which hurt.

“Look, the rest of you is getting better but I’m worried about your throat and I’m tired of talking to myself. Understood? I will be super, super-careful.”

Aranya raised her paw and gave her a woebegone look.

Zuziana unexpectedly flung her arms around Aranya’s neck. “You’re silly. You’re not having one of those Dragon foresights – no? Right. You breathed fire. Clever thing, you just wanted to show off by destroying six Dragonships at once. Well, if we can’t get you healed up, we need to go ask Nak. He’ll say, ‘Give us a peck on the cheek, thou lily of the pond.’ Oyda will say, ‘Concentrate, Nak.’ ‘Ah, but I dreamed of ten Immadian Princesses in my bed last night.’” She aped the little old man tottering about on his canes.

She had to let her friend go. It was that or keep laughing, which brought fresh misery because of her throat. Who ever thought of a Dragon being injured producing her natural element, fire?

Zip should find something easily.

Aranya moved to the back of the cave, where a natural trickle had pooled enough to allow her to drink easily. The water was fresh and tangy with minerals, which her Dragon form appreciated. She saw a glint at the bottom of the pool. It winked at her. Curious, Aranya dipped her paw in up to the knee-joint and stirred the sediment. Gold coins. Lots of them, old gold drals, with the stamp of the Sylakian windroc on them. Beautiful, thick metal of high quality, she thought. This must have been a Dragon’s hoard. Her paw curled possessively over the drals. Stillness settled upon the cave as she regarded the hoard. It was so pretty. So golden. So – hers.

“Dinner time.”

She whirled with fire buzzing in her belly and a strange roaring sound filling her ears. Aranya stared at the intruder, outlined at the cave entrance by the setting suns’ fiery exit from the day. Her lips peeled back from her fangs. How dare that little creature come near her treasure?

“Aranya? Why – why are you glaring at me like that?”

She tore herself away from the pool and its treacherous allure with a sound that was half-gasp and half-sob. She backed away as far as she could, shuddering. How much time had passed? The shadows had grown deep. The cold jealousy that consumed; the greedy stirring of a heart ready to rend and destroy even those most precious to her to protect that cold, unfeeling metal … she flung herself to the ground and hid her head beneath her wing.

Zuziana marched over to the pool and looked in. She stood very still for a moment before her hand suddenly leaped to her mouth. “Oh, Aranya.”

She knew. Shame brought tears – thick Dragon tears – to her eyes. Suddenly Zip was there, crawling beneath her wing, kneeling beside her head. Her tiny fingers stroked Aranya’s muzzle, soothing. After a time of simply sitting with her and saying nothing, Zip’s hand rose to cup the teardrop brimming in the corner of her eye.

“Now this is a jewel more precious than anything in the Island-World,” she said, gazing at the fluid yet crystalline substance. “The tears of a beautiful heart.”

She poked the teardrop with her finger before tasting it with her tongue, much as a cat laps at milk. Her eyes widened. “Oh – wow. I see colours, Aranya, a constellation of colours surrounding me and … life, I imagine life, bursting … and happiness. Is this some kind of Dragon magic? Nak didn’t say anything about Dragon tears, did he? No, I didn’t think so.”

Zip rolled up her trouser leg and experimentally smeared a small portion of the Dragon tears on the top couple of inches of her burn, which was healing well. The viscous liquid soaked in easily and left a pearlescent sheen on her skin. She raised an eyebrow at Aranya, who waggled her brow-ridges in approval. Zip treated the rest of her burn, but found half a handful still remained.

“Shall we try this on your blisters?”

Aranya opened her mouth and let Zip treat what she could reach. Her friend paused to collect the second teardrop from Aranya’s right eye. It was smaller than the first. When she was done tickling the back of Aranya’s throat, Zip licked the remaining residue off her hand.

“Yum. Aranya, I’m sure it can’t be bad for you. Oh … sensation. That’s amazing!”

She was definitely uncertain about the wisdom of drinking Dragon tears. But Zip did not appear to be poisoned, or unhappy – rather, she was bouncing about as though she had eaten far too many honey cakes. Her vibrant blue eyes sparkled and danced as she poked fun at her friend. She was making so much noise that when Aranya heard a footstep outside the cavern, it was already too late.

A Sylakian warrior gaped at the scene. Aranya lunged at him. Bleating like a crazed sheep, the man raced up along the ledge with a Dragon hot on his trail. There was a Dragonship several hundred feet away, she saw, drifting along on the breeze. But the aft war crossbow spat a quarrel at her. Aranya ducked; stone splintered against her flank. Reaching out, she swiped the man off the mountainside and sprang for the Dragonship.

Her ears warned her with a fraction of a second to spare. A second Dragonship, higher in the sky and closer to the cliff – deliberately hidden, she realised – had fired upon her. The shards of metal shot by the catapult stitched holes in her left wing as if by magic. Startled, Aranya hurtled directly into the side of the first Dragonship. Her neck snagged in the netting. Bellowing, tearing and clawing, Aranya ripped herself free. The archers on the gantry beneath her were shooting at point-blank range, but her Dragon hide was tougher than most arrows could penetrate. She lashed out with her tail, cracking the gantry and smashing a hole in the side of the Dragonship. Men tumbled into the sky. Deliberately, she reached out with her forepaws and ripped the hydrogen sack open.

The Dragonship above held its fire as she lashed the gantry again, knocking more warriors loose and bruising her tail. Aranya dropped free and wheeled beneath the Dragonship, counting the seconds before that war crossbow could be reloaded. She had a better idea. Coming up beneath the crossbow platform, Aranya cleared it with a cunning swipe of her claws. Then she clambered up the side of the Dragonship and ripped another part of the sack open.

Segmented into six or more sacks, a Dragonship’s hydrogen load could survive a certain amount of damage. But not a measured attack by an intelligent Dragon. The vessel began to sink. Aranya timed her leap free, waiting until she was out of range of the Dragonship still lurking above. She swung wide in the air, checking their cave. She must fetch Zip. At that instant, the Sylakian Hammers would see and cover the cave entrance with their deadly crossbows.

Oh no. Worse – there were more soldiers working their way along the ledge.

Aranya made a split-second decision. She darted back toward the cave, furling her wings for a fast landing. She smacked into the rocks beside the entrance and scrambled inside. She groaned as the deep quarrel-wound on her shoulder opened again at the impact.

Zuziana was throwing their equipment into bags at a furious rate.

“Quick,” Aranya rasped. “Soldiers. Dragonship.”

Zuziana threw the bags on top of Aranya and buckled them fast. She tossed the saddle upward. An unladylike snarl followed as she missed the right position between the spines. Zip scrambled up again to put it right. She dropped with the leather strap in her hand, rapidly drew it tight beneath Aranya’s chest and fastened it through the buckle. The pitiful handful of left-over arrows received an unhappy sniff of discontent. After that, nothing of value was left in the cave, apart from the Dragon hoard. Aranya would have preferred to forget all about that. Even now she felt a pang of loss. And the pangs of hunger, which simply had to wait.

Shouts sounded outside the cave.

Zip climbed adroitly aboard her Dragon. “Go, Aranya. Go fast and swerve once you’re out.”

Taking a deep breath and bunching her muscles, Aranya launched herself out of the cave. She heard a thump and a low cry. By then she was airborne, rolling, watching the path of the inevitable shots descending and arcing her body to avoid them. She laughed. They had used up all their shots.

That was when she realised Zip was not on her back.

Her Rider staggered out of the cave, bleeding freely from a cut near her hairline. The Sylakian Hammers surged forward with cries of, “Catch her!”

Aranya cut back through the sky, crying, “Run, Zip! Run!”

It was terrifying not to be able to help. Aranya was too far away, the soldiers closing in, Zip looking this way and that, clearly dazed, before she broke into a stumbling run along the ledge, thankfully in the right direction. Aranya had to pull up sharply as another catapult shot hissed through the air toward her. Two catapults? Had they reloaded so quickly? She lost height. The Dragonship’s archers were trying to pick Zuziana off as she came into range. The Princess of Remoy was agile, weaving and bounding over rocks and bushes even at a full sprint. She began to pull away from the pursuing soldiers. But now another group of armoured Sylakian warriors appeared ahead of her, brandishing their hammers. She skidded on the ledge. Before anyone could react, she changed direction.

Screaming, “Aaaraaanyaaaa!” Zip threw herself off the cliff.

Aranya surged through the air with her utmost power. Zuziana fell ahead of her – gracefully, as though she were diving from a height into water – but the cliff was not vertical in this place. She fell toward the rocks. Aranya stretched out her neck as though that could make her fly faster. She seared through the cool twilight, faster than the shots that sought to track her. She could not reach her friend with her claws. The cliff was too close, the speed too much. Intuitively, she reached out with her wingtip, a dozen feet above the rocks, to cushion Zip’s fall at the expense of a tearing pain in her wing joint.

Zuziana struck the rocks, but softly because of the elastic wing membrane beneath her. She bounced toward Aranya. The Dragon wobbled in the air, juggling the Remoyan on the surface of her wing as she swung away from the cliff. She slowed, trying not to lose Zip. Her Rider had a one-handed grip on the leading edge of her wing. Aranya’s throat throbbed. All that shouting and bellowing had been unwise. A speculative shot zipped by nearby, but they were passing out of range.

After flying a little ways, Aranya relaxed into a glide. Her head snaked back to look at Zip, who offered her a wan smile, even though her face was a mask of blood. She quipped, “Thanks for the rescue, o Mighty Bewinged Princess of the Air.” But she grasped her side with her hand. “Not sure about the ribs, though. Definitely a nice bruise.”

“You’re brave,” Aranya said, keeping to a whisper. Appallingly brave. “Want to get into the saddle?”

Zip eyed the Dragonship floating up near the edge of Tyrodia Island. She seemed quite happy to remain exactly where she was. “They’ll be after us soon enough. Head out a point north of west, Aranya. There’s a tiny Island called Melkadia out there, a few leagues below Germodia. Hopefully they won’t know much about runaway Princesses.”

“You need to uncurl your fingers to move,” Aranya offered, helpfully.

A scowl that could have curdled milk was her reward. But as Zip balanced on her wing surface, she asked, “How’s the wing? Sore?”

Aranya waited until Zip had secured herself in the saddle before admitting, “Stinging. But I think I can fly that far. Let’s pretend we’re making for Germodia first and change direction later.”

“How did they find us, Aranya? Chance? Or something more sinister, like those new tactics you were telling me about?”

They took stock, and realised they had lost their primary weapon against Dragonships – Zip’s bow. She remembered dropping it when Aranya pounded her head against the roof of the cavern. She sneaked guilty looks at her friend as she mopped up the worst of the blood. But the wound kept oozing.

* * * *

Toward mid-afternoon of the following day, two young Remoyan women walked into a town on Melkadia Island’s eastern peninsula. After they passed the hard-eyed gate guards, Zuziana whispered to Aranya to keep alert. They asked after a physician to have the deep cut on Zip’s forehead seen to. After that, they shopped around for a decent bow and cloth to make collars for the arrows.

“I wish we had smaller coins,” Zuziana said, after another shopkeeper had complained about their gold drals. “Don’t they want our money?”

Aranya, transformed into her Human form, frowned. “I wish I knew if it’s us, or just a general dislike of foreigners. I vote we don’t sleep in town tonight. Maybe a meal, though. I could eat a – er, something other than sheep.”

“You do look very Northern,” Zip said. “Pale skin and high cheekbones. Those eyes are definitely a giveaway. Who has amethyst eyes? Put your hood up, Aranya.”

“I want my daggers,” said Aranya.

“You are the weapon,” Zip retorted. “Fine, we’ll buy you a decent sword. There was a shop near the tavern. I’m hungry, too. Islands’ sakes, will you stop rotating your wrist? You’ll only hurt it more.”

“Didn’t anyone teach you that Humans can’t fly?”

Zuziana and Aranya picked a plain but serviceable sword for Aranya and a belt and scabbard to go with it. The shopkeeper wanted to overcharge them, but Zuziana bargained hard before giving in for what she admitted was a higher price than they should have paid. Then they decided to investigate the food in the tavern.

“Ugh, lamb stew,” said Aranya, poking at the contents of her bowl. She cradled her cut and hurting left arm in her lap.

“Mmm, gravy,” said Zuziana.

“Being a – uh, I guess I just don’t fancy sheep.”

The tilt of Zip’s eyebrow told her she had almost said the word they had agreed not to use. Aranya decided she had better fill her stomach anyway. She chewed uneasily while Zip went over to the bar to secure more bread to sop up her gravy. For such a wisp of a thing, Aranya reflected, she definitely owned a healthy appetite. She watched a man trying to draw Zip into conversation at the bar. Actually, there were two of them – not ruffians, judging by their clothing, but also just that little bit more insistent than was called for. Aranya’s hand stole to the pommel of her sword. Cutpurses? Or something more sinister?

Zuziana tried to slip away from the men with a smile and a coy word, but they hemmed her in. A third joined their number. He said something.

Aranya extended her Dragon senses. Her knuckles were white on the sword. She forced her fingers to relax.

“– one they’re looking for?”

Zuziana was acting giddy and spinning a story about her father taking her on her first trip away from Remoy. Her lie would have convinced Aranya. The men seemed uncertain; unsettled by her confidence, perhaps? She stepped between them, intent on escape, but one of the men put his arm out to stop her. Zip trod on his instep and jabbed her fingers into his solar plexus. Aranya chuckled to herself. Those men were about to learn they had baited a rajal.

But one of them was faster than the others. He grabbed Zip’s wrist and twisted her arm up behind her back. “Why don’t you come for a walk with us, my pretty petal?”

Zip poked him in the eye with her free hand. Twisting like a hooked fish, she fought him, but the man hung on. Another two joined the group from a nearby table, drunkenly intent on a ‘bit of sport’. That was unfair. Aranya saw the fear flash into her friend’s eyes, perhaps the memory of a whipping she had been helpless to escape. A thin wail of terror escaped her. But the men only laughed.

Before she knew it, Aranya leaped to her feet. Her chair screeched across the floor behind her. The fire, somehow always there, made its voice heard in her ears, but she clenched her teeth in an effort to deny it.

“Boys!” she called. “Why don’t you let the lady go?”

“You want to play, too?”

“Yes. Why don’t we play?” Aranya snarled. The pain in her throat only intensified her anger. “Let my friend go, or it will go ill with you.”

“Ill?” laughed the man holding Zip. “Where you from, lady, talking like that?”

“A Cloudlands volcano,” she replied. A crackling of fire entered her voice, unbidden. “Why don’t you pick another day to die, friend? Today, I’ll let you go free.”

The men gaped at her. “You’re joking.”

“Look, a tall one and a little ’un,” said another of the men. “Them Sylakians is lookin’ for these, innit true?”

“Aye,” said the first. “She’s a Northern-looking lady.”

Another group of men moved in from a table near the door. A local militia or watch, Aranya judged, watching them with narrowed eyes. Their options were evaporating fast. They should never have come to the tavern. At one level, she knew she would probably have to eat a few of these unfriendly locals before they paid attention. At another level, she realised that the Sylakians must have spread the story far and wide, for it to have arrived on this unremarkable Island, in a small town.

“Last chance,” said Aranya. Her fingers hovered on her belt-buckle. “Anyone who wants to live, I suggest you find a door right now.”

Zip’s eyes widened. “Why don’t I buy drinks for everyone?” she suggested.

There was a stony silence in the tavern.

But she must not reveal her Dragon nature. That was what Zuziana was mouthing at her. Aranya paused. Turning into a Dragon would clear the room, of that she had no doubt. The news that she was a Dragon Shapeshifter would wash over the Islands like a storm.

She had fire inside of her; only, she did not want to kill everyone in the room, including Zip. Her sword made a clear zing as she drew it. The guards or town watch, starting to gather around her, paused as a tendril of fire ran up the blade. Aranya bit her lip. How did one control the fire? If it leaked … yellow flame curled briefly against the ceiling before she brought it under control. Focus. Focus on the metal. A burning sword lowered to point at the men surrounding Zuziana.

“Release my friend.”

Her Dragon hearing caught a quick footstep behind her. Aranya whirled and released fire along the blade as she swung, striking the would-be backstabber on the shoulder. His rough shirt burst into flame. Her sore wrist twinged and she dropped the sword. To her senses, the sword seemed to fall slowly. Someone laughed. Pushing back the sleeves of her robes, Aranya ignited her hands and stalked toward the men standing around Zuziana, a malign anger boiling inside of her.

She said, “Now I’m starting to feel irritable.”

Aranya hardly knew what she was doing. She was not thinking. But through the pain, she realised her skin was not burning. Amazing! Blades, she thought. The fire leaped out hungrily, forming twin blades four feet long. Aranya laughed an utterly sinister laugh – and that was the push off the Island, as the saying went. With a howl, one man leaped over the bar and cowered behind it. As though this were a prearranged signal, there was a rush for the main door, the stairs which led to the rooms above and the windows. Crysglass shattered as men howled like rabid animals. The room cleared in seconds.

Zip dusted her hands. “Ralti droppings to these idiots. Let’s clear this town, Aranya, before you have to show them your really nasty side. Don’t forget your sword. I enjoyed the evil enchantress laugh, by the way. Very effective. You’re smouldering.”

“Thanks.” Aranya patted the sleeves of her robes. “Clothes just aren’t safe around me anymore.”

“Yolathion won’t mind.”

Aranya turned a deep shade of pink.

* * * *

Aranya and Zuziana knew that a Dragon should not be flying too much on an injured wing. But the manhunt that erupted on Melkadia Island tossed any notions of resting there over the edge of the Island. Resupplied, they took to the air for Germodia on the most direct route. If they could pass safely by the Island, they could hide in the Crescent. Zip stated confidently that they could hide from an army in the Crescent.

That was handy, since an army was chasing them.

“How many Dragonships?” Zip repeated, scanning the eastern sky. “Darn, those suns are bright. How do you see anything out there?”

“Twenty-seven Dragonships,” said Aranya. “Yolathion’s group, plus a good number from what was left of the invasion fleet, I’d assume. Maybe we’ve stopped the advance on Herimor.”

“Remind me to write to Herimor seeking thanks,” retorted the Princess.

Ignoring her sarcasm, Aranya continued, “I shield my eyes by adjusting the opacity of the secondary optical membrane. Tell me again, why can we only fly via Germodia?”

“Large gaps between the Islands,” said Zip. “The Crescent is like a long, curving brush-stroke down the map, from Telstroy to Germodia. South of Melkadia is nothing for five days. West, four days. Northwest, six days. It’s the Crescent or return east the way we came, Aranya. Back through those Dragonships.”

“We can’t make that flight, Zip. I can feel my membranes tearing where the catapult hit me.”

“Better a tear than a cut, Nak said.”

“Better neither.”

“Petal, I –”

“Don’t call me petal!” Aranya sighed and tried to form an apologetic look over her shoulder. “Oh, heavens, Zip – I’m sorry. Call me what you like. I’ve got the grumps because I’m sore.”

“Mercy,” Zip laughed, holding up the arrow she was preparing with a cloth collar, “a Dragon-sized case of the grumps, is it?”

“You’re not cute; you’re heartless.”

“Grump. Now, listen up. I’ve thought of something for our oil canister – rags and wire. We stuff it full of rags and pour in enough oil. Then you can fly upside-down and nothing will fall out.”

Aranya considered this. “If you keep it far enough from your leg that the wash of our passage won’t blow the flames into your face, yes. Only one thing bothers me about flying to Germodia.”

“We drop out of the stew pot to sizzle on the coals instead?”

“If that’s how you say it in Remoy, yes.”

The Dragonships came on and on, making for Melkadia Island. But Aranya knew they would not spend long there. She tried to flap gently, easing the wind’s force on her wings. Thank the stars above for a slight tailwind to speed them to Germodia. But she had a bad feeling the Sylakians would be waiting there, too. They had already seen three message hawks racing past.

Chapter 16: The Chase

Two hours before dawn, Aranya and Zuziana picked the weakest point in Germodia’s defences and angled for it – a quarter-league behind two Dragonships, slowly patrolling the southern tip of the Island. They came in as low as they dared, given Aranya’s weakness, and stole through the line.

Zuziana pointed as the two vessels shifted to parallel their course. “Messages,” she said. “Flashes of light from the two Dragonships, Aranya. They’ve spotted us.”

“I don’t see anything ahead.”

“Let’s watch out for hidden Dragonships. Maybe do a zigzag –”

“Catapults!”

Aranya flapped powerfully, gaining height as she dodged the shots coming their way. The Sylakian forces were concealed in folds in the interior hills of Germodia. She saw a Dragonship rise from behind a nearby copse of trees.

“Easy, Aranya. Don’t let them scare you. You’re faster than them even at this speed.”

“But they aren’t closing with us. Why?”

“Because your leopard-man has a plan. He’s trying to outsmart us. He’s lost a lot of Dragonships and men,” said Zuziana. “Even Sylakia must be hurting given how much damage we’ve done. Now, the catapults drove us upward to where they can see and follow us. We need to find concealment. Fast.”

But the night was full of eyes. Signal lamps winked across Germodia’s hills, tracking their progress even though they tried to keep low and follow the lay of the land. Aranya saw several Dragonships high overhead. She wondered if they were using some type of telescope, a new invention King Beran had told her about not long before the conquest of Immadia. She wondered how much telescopes negated the advantage of Dragon sight. Maybe they should go up there … no. Those were armoured Dragonships, the larger ones which had not appeared with the invasion fleet at Immadia.

That was only months ago, but it felt like years. How far she was from the battlements of Immadia’s castle, now.

To attack those Dragonships, Zip needed a more powerful bow or – Aranya sighed – a Dragon who could actually breathe fire without turning herself into a whispering wreck, able only to dribble cold water and pre-cut meat down her throat. By the mountains of Immadia, she was hungry. On cue, her stomach voiced an almighty gurgle of complaint.

“We need the Crescent, my friend,” said Zip, patting the base of her neck. “Nice thick jungles, friendly Pygmies and fresh wild pig roasted in Dragon fire.”

“I wish I could fly faster. There are eyes everywhere.”

“We’ll be out of sight by dawn.”

Aranya twizzled her head around until she could look Zuziana right in the eye. It was something she had practiced until she could keep flying straight on while looking backwards. “But the Crescent Islands are only so many, a thin band on the map. Look at how those Dragonships have been working in teams, supporting each other – high and low, keeping each other covered against attack. Yolathion’s working the strategy just like his father did.”

“Then we’ll surprise them.”

“Yes, we have a whole chest full of surprises tucked away on my back.”

Aranya meant to be sarcastic, but she was startled when Zip smacked her fist against her palm and shouted, “Yes! The meriatite.”

“Um – what do Dragons do with meriatite? Blow themselves up?”

“No, you silly overgrown windroc, don’t you remember what Nak said about chewing meriatite?”

“Not a whole lot.” Aranya grinned toothily. “I knew that reading about Dragon stomachs would come in useful – I think it should go in the fire stomach. But then I’d burn my throat again, wouldn’t I?”

“We’ll try gently,” said Zip, “as gently as exploding hydrogen –”

“Inside my stomach. Thanks.”

Dragon and Rider winged steadily across Germodia Island, leaving Yolathion’s Dragonships in their wake. The darkness gave way to a blood-red dawn, rising over the cracked canyon landscape of central Germodia, where rivers ran deep and fast between tall cliffs inhabited by millions of crested sparrows and yellowtail doves, and windrocs soared on the thermals far above. Aranya and Zuziana rested for a couple of hours, but slept uneasily and stirred when they saw message hawks overtaking them from the south.

Aranya followed such a canyon north, enjoying the funnelling effect of a strong breeze pushing her from behind as she flew above sparkling turquoise waters. So she was travelling fast as they rounded a final bend and saw a Dragonship directly ahead, patrolling the northern precipice.

Before she could say a word, Aranya heard the click of Zip’s spark-stone. Smoke wafted into her nostrils, followed by a surge of adrenalin. She growled low in her throat. Dragon-Aranya smelled battle.

“We’ve got the jump on them,” said Zip.

Aranya knew they could not tension the war crossbows in time – but where were the others? Why was this vessel on its own? No time to think of that now. Zip already had a burning arrow to the string, trying to search out a weak point in the ship’s armour.

“Between the cabin and the underside,” Aranya realised, speaking rapidly. “They haven’t armoured the bottom.”

“You expect me to get an arrow in there?”

“I thought a Princess of Remoy –”

The bowstring twanged. Aranya took evasive action as several arrows zoomed their way. Zip’s shot passed perfectly between the cabin’s anchoring hawsers and the hydrogen sack above. She groused, “Oh, toss it in the Cloudlands! Again.”

The fore and aft crossbows fired as one. Aranya furled her wings and laughed as the shots passed by ten feet overhead. Then she opened her wings. Her injured membrane tore another foot. Pain as brief and sharp as the point of an Immadian dagger made her scream.

Zip called, “Hold still … and, go!”

The blast nearly knocked her out of the sky.

By the time they had covered the four leagues between Germodia and the first of the Crescent Islands, Aranya was vomiting from the pain. She dropped gingerly onto a rocky outcropping and let Zip lead her beneath the overhanging jungle canopy.

Zuziana examined her wing. “Torn in three places,” she said. “Nak did say something about the nerve-endings in the wings being sensitive to changes in air pressure and air currents, which is one reason why Dragons are such fantastic flyers.”

“Right now, I feel like chopping it off …”

“Rest, Aranya. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Zip killed such a large python that she could not drag it up to Aranya’s resting place. Instead, she led Aranya down to a shady green gully, where the Dragon could wet her throat at a tiny spring and snack on the python at leisure. They rested, watching the colourful jungle birds play in the foliage around them as they tried to figure out how to repair Aranya’s wing. At least her magic dampened the pain. She could not seem to produce any Dragon tears. Zip used up the last of Oyda’s ointment on the rents.

Toward noon they heard the throbbing of turbines as a Dragonship passed overhead. Later, a group of three Dragonships returned. In low voices, they discussed the merits of making a dash for freedom or lying low. They sneaked up to the outcropping and peered out from beneath cover, to see the Dragonships landing troops on nearby Islands as the hunt spread out. Other Dragonships hovered high overhead, a foreboding presence.

Suddenly, a sparrowhawk sped past. It screamed and swerved as it spotted them.

Aranya and Zuziana followed the hawk’s flight with their eyes. The bird raced heavenward and alighted on the starboard gantry of the Dragonship far above. Aranya confirmed this to Zip, as the detail was lost to her Human sight at that distance. Next, flags waved overhead, clearly a set of signals being spread across the fleet. At once, the Dragonships far and near sprang into action. Sylakian soldiers shinned adroitly back up ropes. They manned the catapults and crossbows with evident purpose. Two groups of Dragonships swung about to point directly at their Island.

“How do they do that?” Aranya snarled. “Hawks can’t talk.”

“Petal, we can argue that point when we’re far away,” said Zip.

“I’m a very mad, very dangerous petal at this precise point in time. Do me a favour, Zip – shoot the next hawk we see, wouldn’t you?”

When her Rider was buckled in, Aranya dropped off the edge of their Island. She teased Zuziana gently about how she had screamed the first time they flew together as Dragon and Rider. Scanning the skies, Aranya noted how Yolathion had distributed his forces – trying to keep them in line of sight for as long as possible. Three Dragonships dawdled in case they chose to change direction. The hunters worked in groups of three, keeping a sensible separation so that an attack on one could be countered from a nearby ship. She spied several Dragonships far to the north, patrolling the route Yolathion expected them to take.

“They’re trying to tire us out,” Aranya realised aloud. “I’ve heard of the painted dogs of the north-western Islands doing this. One healthy ralti sheep can’t be taken down, so a family of dogs will run them down, taking turns to chase the animal until it’s too tired to run anymore. Then they close in and –”

“I’m not sure I appreciate being chased about like a sheep, Aranya.”

“Well, that’s what Yolathion’s up to.”

Zip said, “Baa – bah!”

Over the course of the next few days, Aranya’s suspicions were borne out. The Dragonships were relentless in pursuit. The hunt never slackened, day or night, while she and Zuziana were harried from one bolt-hole to the next. The weather remained perfectly clear and fine – much to their dismay. A nice little storm would have been perfect. Even a touch of cloud cover. But the Cloudlands remained opaque and inviolate and the world above, bright by day and luminous by night as a four-moon conjunction banished the darkness and the stars. Although they hid behind Islands and in the jungles and caves, the hawks always found them. Zip downed three, but also finished their store of arrows in the process.

They tried to double back, but ran into heavy fire. Aranya complained bitterly about her injured wing. All the flying prevented it from healing properly. They were on the wing more than twenty-two hours of every twenty-seven. Zip’s cheeks looked gaunt.

They discussed Aranya transforming to reveal herself to Yolathion. But they agreed he’d be forced to kill her. Aranya dreamed about throwing herself into Yolathion’s arms. Then she changed into a Dragon and tried to kiss him. Yolathion attacked her with his war hammer.

She dreamed of burning him as she had Garthion.

* * * *

On the morning of their seventh day in the Crescent, Aranya calculated, they landed on the tree next to Pygmy Island. She had no idea of its real name, if it had one. Her claw marks were still visible in the bark of the massive bough where they had landed before. Using her wings for balance, Aranya ran along the branch and dived into the jungle beyond.

A Pygmy popped out of the bushes to greet them.

“He greets the Ancient One with delight,” Zip translated. “He offers whatever help we might need.”

“Tell him, Zip, that the Sylakians might attack the mighty Pygmy hunters if we stay long.”

“He says that the Ancient One is mightier than any Pygmy warrior.”

Aranya nodded. “Tell him that may be true for the skies, but in the jungle the Pygmy is king.”

The Pygmy beat his chest and grinned at this. His teeth were filed down to sharp points, Aranya saw, small black teeth stained by chewing some type of nut. Pieces spit out of his mouth as he spoke. Apparently the Pygmies were not concerned about the ‘white sky warriors’. Zip, squawking and crying like a hawk, outlined the danger posed by the marauding message hawks. The Pygmy nodded and made bow-and-arrow motions with his hands. Zip said the Pygmies would simply ‘walk the jungle ways’ between the Islands – crossing on the tangled vines – to escape the Sylakians.

The tiny warrior led them further into the jungle to meet the Seer. Aranya noticed Pygmy warriors taking to the trees. No doubt the hawks would find a hot reception from their poisoned arrows.

The tiny Seer greeted them with delight and bowed deeply to Aranya. She proudly showed off her wound, healed over save for a scab. Although Zip asked only about arrows, the Seer ignored that request to make an examination of Aranya’s damaged wing. Then, in broken Island Standard, she explained to Aranya that the Pygmies would glue her wing membranes together.

“It is old way,” she said. “Ancestor story.”

“They’ll glue my wing with leaves?” Aranya clarified with Zip.

After some discussion, Zip explained, “Apparently there are stories of the Pygmies helping the Ancient Ones in a battle, as best I can understand, over five hundred years ago. They used a special glue they employ to build their bows, together with some type of tough leaf. The glue is supposed to come off on its own after ten days or so. Or you can remove it with prekki-fruit juice.”

“But – I hear Dragonships. Please warn them, Zip.”

“Pygmies long memory,” smiled the tiny girl, who stood only just over waist-high to Zip. “We shoot. Ancient One, Sylakians you family also poison. I see so.”

Aranya’s eyes widened. “Um – what did you say?”

Zip put in, “She says you have a memory of a bad man in your mind. His father arranged some … killings, I think.”

“Of my mother?”

Zip questioned the girl. “She says ‘your family, maybe your mother too’.”

“The bad man is Garthion?” Aranya asked.

The Pygmy girl shrieked and spat. “Bad, bad, bad! Eee-veel. Evil?”

Aranya shuddered. “Evil. Hurt my friend, Zip.”

Was the girl saying that Garthion’s father had arranged the murder of her family on Immadia? Or her mother’s family back on Ha’athior? Suddenly, Aranya was very afraid. Why had she chosen to travel to Remoy rather than Immadia? But her father had signed a peace accord with the Sylakians. They were brutes, but more concerned with ongoing conquests than settling old scores, surely? Had the Supreme Commander taken his revenge on King Beran so openly that even a Pygmy knew about it?

Zuziana could not obtain further clarification from the Seer. The girl shrugged and explained something about the uncertainty of Seeing. But she insisted that the Supreme Commander had killed Aranya’s family ‘long moons ago’. That could be months or years, Zip said. Aranya told herself that ‘long moons’ had to be historical. She could not bear any other thought.

But a seed of doubt lodged in her mind.

Pensively, she watched a number of Pygmy women swarming over her wing. She tried to relax, even as she watched them threading needles and making ready to stitch her skin. It was worse even than she imagined. Every pinprick was a hot needle stuck into her flesh; the pulling of thread an abrasion of raw nerve endings. Aranya groaned and sank her fangs into a nearby tree.

Next, the Pygmies painted the stitched tears with warm glue and carefully pasted on strips of a tough leaf, above and beneath the wing membrane. They trimmed their work neatly with their knives. Through Zuziana they bade the Ancient One to sit still for three hours. After two hours, they dragged several dead Sylakian warriors past. Aranya hoped they were not about to make dinner, but Zip insisted that Pygmies were not cannibals.

They practised with the meriatite. Aranya swallowed the stone into the wrong stomach seven times before figuring out the correct one. Then she belched up a great deal of hydrogen without producing a single hint of flame. “We’ll try again later,” she grumbled.

The Pygmy warrior who had first met them, now appeared with a bow and two quivers of arrows for Zip. He pressed the bow into Zuziana’s hand. “Try.”

Zuziana tested the draw. “Wow, that’s a beast of a weapon. Look, Aranya. I’ve never seen a bow glued together like this, in reinforced layers. Amazing technique.”

“Good?” said the warrior, snatching the bow from the startled Princess to demonstrate the draw, right back to his ear. “Good.”

“Good enough to puncture Dragonship armour?” asked Aranya.

The warrior seemed to understand. Plucking an arrow from the quiver, he bent the bow and let fly at a nearby tree. Zip walked over to examine the shot and exclaimed in surprise, “It’s buried nearly a foot deep, Aranya. I can’t even pull it out.”

“Good,” said the warrior, showing every one of his pointed teeth.

“Good,” agreed Zip.

Aranya pushed Zip impatiently with her muzzle. “Ask him what we can do for the Pygmies in return for these wonderful gifts.”

Zuziana did not need to translate. They both broke into startled chuckles as the Pygmy mimed, with appropriate noises, a Dragonship falling from the sky.

“Good?” asked the warrior.

“Tell him the Ancient One says it is very good,” said Aranya, peeling back her lips to show the warrior her fangs.

This seemed to impress him. “Good-good,” he said, firmly.

* * * *

They waited in a place the Pygmies had selected for them. The dense jungle foliage hid a small clearing, a space between the massive trees large enough for a Dragon to stretch her wings. Aranya’s claws scraped on the huge boulder that formed her launching-pad. Beyond, through a gap in the foliage, she saw a vine-dense thicket followed by the promise of the cerulean ocean.

Aranya tested her wings with strong beats and growled, “Incredible. That’s flexible – it feels weird, admittedly – but I think it’ll hold. More than hold. Thank them again, Zip.”

Zuziana’s wry grin took in the row of nine message hawks being plucked for the Pygmy pot. “I believe the appropriate response would be to go and destroy a few Dragonships.”

“Did they really put the Sylakians in the cave of warriors?”

“Yes, Aranya.” Zip buckled herself in with an impatient hand. “Not in the place of honour, however. That place is reserved for Pygmies and Ancient Ones.”

Aranya raised her head. “Here comes a Dragonship now. No, two Dragonships.”

“I’ll light up,” said Zip, striking her spark-stone.

“Let’s go burn the heavens, Rider.”

With the excitement of three hearts pounding blood through her flight muscles and into her ears, Aranya launched herself through the foliage. Leaves slapped her face. Her Dragon mind took care of the details, adjusting her wings and calculating angles between the vines, flying sideways, a complete roll even, bringing them right out beneath a Dragonship. She thrust hard, rending the air, closing the gap before the Sylakian warriors had a chance to react. A crossbow ground on its moorings as men tried to bring it to bear. Aranya crunched into the bottom of the cabin and hung on, upside-down, with the claws of all four paws – Zuziana’s idea, gleaned from a scroll. The lowest Dragonship of a group was always vulnerable from beneath.

The first man to peer beneath the gantry jerked back as her teeth snapped an inch from his face.

“Ready?” she growled to Zip. “One, two, three!”

Aranya sprang sideways and rolled simultaneously, bringing Zip into a firing position. The Princess of Remoy fired perfectly in time and reloaded even as Aranya continued her roll, twisting them away from the fireball blooming in the afternoon sky.

KAARAABOOM!

Debris shot past them. Aranya jerked as something hard and heavy crashed into her legs.

“Crossbows above,” Zuziana warned. “Two ships.”

She saw the quarrels coming slowly, her senses alive, her body and wings responding before any thoughts had time to form. Aranya folded her wings and twisted mid-air, flying right between the converging quarrels. One shot from each Dragonship, she calculated. That one above had four crossbow emplacements, a true monster of a Dragonship. Two at the fore, two aft and possibly several above, she suddenly thought. The structure surrounding the hydrogen sack was unusual. The men manning the catapults showed real discipline, holding their fire even though she was in range.

Why?

Dragon-Aranya’s danger sense prickled along her spine.

“Zip, I’m switching targets,” she warned over her shoulder, and executed a dramatic twist in the air.

Zuziana held onto the spine ahead of her as she called, “What’s the matter, Aranya?”

“Danger sense. Something’s different about that large Dragonship. I think I’d want to get above it and take a look first.”

“But it has three of the small Dragonships above it,” Zip pointed out. “You’re right – is that a gantry on top? Get your muzzle over here. I want you to try something.” Zuziana put a lump of meriatite onto Aranya’s purple tongue. “When we attack the next Dragonship, think of fire. Try to make yourself really, really angry.”

“But I’m not angry. Just worn out.”

Zip laughed in a way that made Aranya frown. “That one. Let’s pick the topmost of the group. We then fly on past, northward. We need to find a place where we can rest properly. Seven days on the wing is killing us, Aranya.”

She was right. Three or four hours on the ground with the Pygmies, with no sleep at all, had not made for much of a rest. Her flight muscles trembled with fatigue.

As Aranya arrowed in on her attack run, she chewed up the meriatite and swallowed it down into what she had labelled her gas stomach. Immediately she felt a swelling down there, a building pressure. She clenched her muscles to deny it egress.

That was when Zip leaned forward and said pleasantly, “You woolly excuse for a flying ralti sheep, what do you think you’re playing at? Don’t come bleating to me with your excuses. Call yourself a Dragon? You couldn’t burn rock inside an erupting volcano. Where’s your fire, Dragon? Remember Garthion? Remember what he did?”

With a terrible roar, Aranya surged forward, descending upon the Dragonship with her neck held straight. A blast erupted from her belly. Fire shot out of her throat, funnelled between her pursed lips, flaring a hundred feet and more. Flames licked the Dragonship, eating its armour and finding a violent companion to her rage within the hydrogen sack. One second it was there, the next, a detonation rattled their eardrums and the world flashed white. The concussion-wave punched them sideways in the air, but her Dragon instincts took them clear. Aranya bugled her triumph to the skies as she skirted the top of the flaming fireball and wheeled into a vertical dive on the far side.

“Go, girl, go!” shouted Zip. She had an arrow nocked to the string.

The wind whistled past them, snuffing out the flames on her arrow. She dipped it in the pot of burning oil and took aim. Aranya concentrated on holding still, watching for crossbow quarrels, but the men on the Dragonship below had lost her behind the fireball above. They were all looking in the wrong direction when Zip’s flaming arrow pierced the armour atop the hydrogen sack.

Then Aranya realised they were plummeting straight into the middle of the fireball. There was no time to pull out of her dive.

At the last instant she folded her wings over Zip’s head and prayed for a miracle.

Chapter 17: The Net Closes

To their amazement, Aranya and Zuziana survived the burning Dragonship at the expense of little more than Zuziana’s eyebrows and eyelashes and a sharp crysglass window strut that punctured a neat hole in Aranya’s hide in the lower belly region.

The hunt continued. Day after day they twisted and hid in the Crescent, snatching an hour of sleep here and a quick bite to eat there, as Yolathion’s group harassed them more intently than ever before. One day, Zuziana developed a cough and a high fever. She sickened dramatically in the course of the next twenty-seven hours. “I’ll be fine,” she kept insisting, but she was not. Aranya’s healing magic, so potent against wounds and burns and bruises, seemed helpless against whatever tropical jungle disease had attacked her friend. Aranya knew they were in trouble the following morning when Zuziana tried to mount up, and slipped and fell from the top of her thigh.

The vomit that flooded out of her mouth was green and foul, and flecked with blood.

“Pick me up,” Zip whispered. “Fly, Aranya. Find Oyda.”

Her friend’s tiny body was like a rag, limp and wrung out, with little substance left to her after so much running and hiding. Aranya was appalled at her frailty as she used her paws to lift Zip onto her muzzle. Twisting her neck, she boosted her up into the saddle and dropped her as carefully as she could into the seat.

“The buckles, Zip.”

She pawed at them. “Oyda,” she said. “Sorry …”

Aranya raised her forepaw and tried to help with threading the buckles, which was nearly impossible in Dragon form. “We’ll get you right, Zip, don’t you worry. I’ll stop on Tyrodia and find you some help; some medicine.”

“No. Too dangerous. Oyda.”

But Zip had not seen what Aranya had seen. They were hiding in a cave on the next-to-last Island of the Crescent. A dozen or more hawks worked the Islands nearby, searching. As yet just a set of specks high in the sky even at the fullest magnification of her Dragon sight, Aranya saw a whole new fleet of Dragonships drifting down on the breeze from the direction of Tyrodia Island.

The pursuit was about to reach a new pitch.

“When I ask, can you feed me meriatite?” asked Aranya.

“Um,” said Zip, lolling against the straps.

Great. Dragon-Aranya felt fury churn in her belly as she considered her route. There was only one option – the long journey to Telstroy Island, followed by the hard haul to Sylakia and over the mountains to Nak and Oyda’s dell. And then? Would she bring the Sylakian hammer down on them, too? She could not transform, could she? How would she ever get Zuziana back in the saddle, or the saddle on her back, for that matter? Some things about being a Dragon were not so easy. Had they come so far only to be defeated by some stupid disease?

She wriggled out of the cave, taking great care not to brain Zip on the rocks as she had done that previous time. She spread her tired wings and launched into the air. This time, they would truly test the endurance of a young Dragon.

Aranya flew toward the orange clouds above the setting suns, which burnished her scales to a coppery amethyst sheen, despite a dusting of travel-grime, soot from Dragonship fires and green stains where they had flown between the trailing vines and bulled through overhanging branches. Her body ached. Her wings felt ready to drop off. Slowly, she climbed, seeing the Dragonships spread out before and behind, shifting orientation to follow her path, made indefatigable by the power of their engines and the efforts of their soldiers.

Alone, she could have escaped by flying beneath the Cloudlands as she had done before. Not that she remembered much of that first flight, just the same kind of bone-deep pain that racked her now. Alone, Aranya could have flown upward until the air became so thin that even a Dragon would struggle to breathe. But she worried about Zip, slumped in the saddle. At least she seemed to be sleeping.

She flexed her body, driving upward even as the twin suns touched the horizon. How strange, that as a Human she had only ever distinguished the twin-ness of the suns when one or the other was eclipsed by a moon or two. With her Dragon sight lidded and protected against the glare, she clearly made out one sun a little above and behind the other. Some Island cultures gave them individual names. Immadians simply called them the Twins. The world spread out before her, its Islands made small by the height she had gained. The Cloudlands were an unbroken textured carpet several leagues below. The pursuing Dragonships were but dwindling dots in the gloaming. The world was immense.

What futility, one Dragon and her Rider trying to change all this.

Aranya tilted her head forward, beginning the very long, gradual descent toward Tyrodia Island, visible as a smudge on the horizon. She was too tired to focus her eyes properly. She rested a little on the wing. As she left the Dragonship groups behind, she even dozed for the first time, safe in the unending immensity of the sky’s dome.

It was three hours before dawn when Aranya reached Telstroy Island. She realised that the Dragonships she had spotted had been northwest of the Island, en route from Sylakia itself, just sixteen leagues farther. Just sixteen leagues. Aranya laughed hollowly as she dragged her aching body through the air. She was probably flying at half her normal speed.

Dragon-Aranya tilted her wings and dove for the thickest patch of forest she could see. She landed in a clearing, and hid herself among the trees, moving quickly and stealthily away from where she had set down.

“Zip? Zip?”

Her friend did not answer.

Aranya found a stream. She took a mouthful of water and tried to squirt some of it down Zuziana’s throat, but her friend did not revive. She tried her healing power, but that seemed to change little. She tried to cry, to produce Dragon tears, but her hearts seemed made of stone. She rested for longer than she had intended.

A cruel nightmare woke her. From another clearing, Aranya observed the movement of Dragonships in the gleaming almost-dawn sky. Her keen eye saw Yolathion’s standard of the black rajal almost above her. Already? How long had she slept? Another vessel flying the same standard converged with it. Ignathion, she thought. At the greatest magnifying power of her eyes, Aranya saw father and son conversing from gantries perhaps thirty feet apart. After an hour or so, Ignathion’s vessel hurried on, and many of the Dragonships with him. Was he bound for Remoy; taking command of the invasion fleet there? She watched as Yolathion transferred to one of the larger Dragonships, one of the three-hundred-foot monsters with the overhead gantry – the vessel which gave her the shivers.

Then she learned she had not seen all. She heard Dragonship engines approaching from the other direction, low over the forest. Suddenly, the air was thick with hawks trying to spy her out.

Yolathion had sprung his trap.

Aranya knew she had to get help for Zuziana. She did not delay, despite the danger. As she rose from the forest, she saw Dragonships all around Tyrodia Island, encircling her, and a group of three small Dragonships, fast and manoeuvrable, converged upon her. Aranya pushed hard for the northwest. The huge Dragonship lumbered after. The three smaller ones wound up their single war crossbows and steamed on her tail, their turbines whining loudly in the still morning air.

She curved her head back to the saddle and used her fangs to snip through the ropes holding their half-full sack of meriatite. Aranya gulped it down.

The reaction was immediate. A pain developed behind her breastbone. Too much gas, Aranya thought, angling her flight to intercept the Dragonships ahead of her. She needed to attack.

Crossbows spoke, criss-crossing the pre-dawn moonlight with angry quarrels. Aranya whispered between them, moving as easily as a dancer, yet feeling the strain of her weariness in every muscle. Extending her neck, she blew flame over the Dragonships. Two exploded. She side-slipped at once, trying to find airspace clear of Dragonships. The small vessels harried her from different angles, cutting off her escape. The air filled with sprays of catapult shot. She could not avoid it all. Aranya bellowed as a shot struck her inner right wing, shredding a patch of surface instantly. She twisted mid-air and dove, surprising a small Dragonship. Her flame licked out again.

Rage and sorrow bloomed in her breast. This was the final battle, she sensed. Hemmed in on all sides, she twisted and turned and spat fire and destroyed many Dragonships. The meriatite ran out. A quarrel glanced off her left flank and another bit a chunk out of her left hind leg. She did not bother to count the number of arrows that pinged off her hide or chipped her scales.

Aranya fought with all her cunning. She fooled two ships into crashing together. She dropped atop another, shredding the hydrogen sack. She hid beneath a Dragonship, upside-down, while Yolathion’s command struggled to find a clear shot at her.

All the while, Zuziana dangled from the straps like a rag doll.

Yolathion loomed above her, always Yolathion, directing the battle with signals from his great Dragonship. Aranya’s fires rose in her belly, the fires which had burned her throat before, but this time it was no surprise. Smaller, she thought. Perhaps smaller fireballs would hurt less. Maybe she’d save one of them for Yolathion; blast it right into his smug, unfeeling face.

Aranya made a break for the north, for a moment, springing clear of the pursuing Dragonships. They were over the Cloudlands now, she saw, battling lower and lower in the air as her strength faded – even now, as a swarm of the little Dragonships overtook her from behind. She doubled back. Time for Yolathion to feel her fire, she decided. Her flight was slow, her wing beats laboured, her breath rasping in her lungs. A different type of fire burned through her muscles. Aranya clenched her throat. Quick shots. She no longer cared for avoiding the quarrels. She could not think of them.

Her mouth gaped open. Fireballs seared the morning air – one, two, three, almost quicker than she could aim them. Two of the small Dragonships exploded. She twisted, firing at new prey – the flanks of Dragonships too near to avoid her shots. Debris rained about her. Black smoke filled the sky, drifting in veils across the brightening dawn. Her final two fireballs, aimed for Yolathion’s large Dragonship, splattered against a smaller one that swooped unexpectedly between them.

Aranya veered off, avoiding the fallout without jerking Zuziana about too much.

Pain lanced into her side near the base of her tail as she closed with the huge Dragonship. Catapult shot hammered into her body and wings. Crimson splashed across her vision. Maddened, Dragon-Aranya summoned a fresh burst of speed and rose above the top of Yolathion’s vessel, ready to swoop down upon it.

She heard a new sound on the wind, a low hissing sound.

Four hidden catapults atop the Dragonship had fired at once, filling the sky with rope. Netting, she realised, covering such a swathe of sky she stood no chance of avoiding it. Dragon-Aranya howled as the netting and ropes snarled her wings. Furnished with metal hooks, the nets clung cruelly. The ropes were tough, reinforced. Although her paws clawed madly, she only succeeded in fouling herself further. She fell.

The ropes jerked. The net drew painfully tight about her body, snarling her wings. Aranya coughed out a fireball in surprise, burning a small hole in the net. It splattered against the huge Dragonship’s cabin, setting it alight. Sylakian warriors leaped to douse the flames.

Aranya bit and fought and struggled until her lips bled, but found little purchase against the entangling nets. She could not get them between her teeth. Her claws sliced against what felt like metal. She tore several talons off her feet in her madness, before the pain registered on her senses.

The Sylakians began to reel in their catch.

Nets and winches, she realised. Perhaps, if she had been faster or smarter, or thought to use her Dragon fire to burn the nets, she might have escaped. But she had nothing left. Her fright seemed to have robbed her of the fire. Her neck twisted frantically, thrashing the net from side to side, as she was dragged unwillingly to the side of the Dragonship, and up it. Her claws splintered the cabin and shrieked against the armour protecting the hydrogen sack. All her vaunted power, all the ability to slice through the air in glorious Dragon flight, was lost now. The aerial fisherman had snagged his catch.

“Quick, get the Rider,” she heard Yolathion shout. “The beast will surrender once we have the Rider.”

Hands, many hands, reached from the gantry to attack the leather strap binding the saddle to her back. Aranya screamed. Not Zip! No, not Zip! Several warriors climbed the netting, working Zuziana loose through holes that fit her small frame. Aranya knocked one of the men off his perch. He fell shrieking to his death in the Cloudlands.

An awful pain drove like spikes into her right wing – one of the joints. Three men smashed their hammers down on her wing-joint, over and over again. Aranya bellowed, pitching two of them off the Dragonship. The winches lurched and groaned against their moorings.

“Stop that!” Yolathion roared.

The winches resumed, creaking beneath her weight, drawing the Dragon up and over the bulge of the armoured hydrogen sack to the platform where Yolathion stood. His men cheered at the sight of her. Yolathion stood there, tall and grim. His dark eyes glittered as the soldiers reeled her in. Aranya flapped and fought, twisting and snarling, but it was useless. She lacked the strength to break the layers of ropes or tear the winches loose of their footings.

“Ha!” he cried. “I have my Dragon at last. How does it feel, beast?”

“GLORY TO SYLAKIA!” shouted his men.

Yolathion stalked down to take an arrogant stance beside her head. “I have your Rider, beast. Surrender, and I will make your death a merciful one.”

Aranya touched her tongue to the blood on her lips. She was tired, so tired of fighting. For a moment she simply lay there, breathing, her eyes closed and her lungs labouring against the agony of every breath in her abused throat. She knew her injuries were severe. Golden Dragon blood leaked out of dozens of wounds on her body. Aranya wanted nothing more than to lie down and die, for the hunter had won.

But she was a Dragon. She was the Princess of Immadia. And this man had tried to kill her before, and failed. She would not give up.

Aranya whispered, “Yolathion.”

He jumped back a foot. “The beast speaks!”

“Why do you wish to kill me?”

He drew himself up, his face set like stone and his voice stern. “Because you have brought shame to my command, Dragon. You destroyed many brave Sylakian warriors with your treachery. No Islander is safe. You’ve been set against me from the first. I vowed to destroy you, and so I shall. I’ll have your hide, Dragon.”

“But it was Sylakia’s hammer that first struck me,” Aranya returned. Breath hissed into her lungs, renewing her; but she was unable to heal the pain of her failure to keep Zuziana safe. “Your hand, Yolathion, held that hammer. Yet I held your life in my hand and let you live.”

“When did you hold my life in your paw, beast?”

His scorn returned the fire to her belly. “On Remoy, when I placed a scroll upon your pillow-roll. Remember Jeradia, it said.”

The warrior gaped at her. “That was you? How? Impossible! You lie, beast.”

“I know your disgrace, Jeradian,” said Aranya. “I know how you flung Immadia to her death, knowing she had saved your father. Now you will face dishonour twice over, for I will never surrender to you as long as I have breath to draw into my lungs.”

Yolathion raised his hammer, his face a mask of wrath. “I’ll strike you down where you lie, beast! How dare you lecture a Jeradian warrior about honour?”

Slowly, Aranya gathered her paws beneath her, even though Yolathion bellowed at her to lie still. She forced herself to stand. She gazed at him, long and deep, sorrowing, a gaze that stopped his hammer above his head. It could have been so different. But he was bent on serving Sylakia. He meant to kill her – again. He had hunted her with every fibre of his being. He hated her. He had driven his men to their deaths in order to bring her down, and the Princess of Remoy with her.

Aranya said, “If you have any regard left for the Princess of Immadia in that black heart of yours, Yolathion, then I beg you to treat my Rider with honour. Take care of her, please. I beg you.”

Anger and puzzlement warred in Yolathion’s expression as he stared at Aranya. “Do I … know you?”

“You do.”

Aranya transformed.

Abruptly, the net sagged. Two hooks snagged painfully in her skin, one behind her shoulder blade and another in her left buttock. She tore them loose; seeing in the fiery pain a punishment for her failure. She let the ropes drop around her ankles. The holes in the net were made with a Dragon in mind, not a Human.

She said, “I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia. Perhaps you know me better thus.”

Yolathion wheezed, “Aranya!”

She must look a sight, Aranya realised. She was covered in blood, wounded in more places than she could count. Her right wrist hung askew in an exact replica of what the Sylakian warriors had done to her wing-joint.

The young Third War-Hammer gazed at her with the air of a man who had just had the living pith kicked out of him, Aranya thought. He glanced at the limp net, probably wondering where in the Island-World his captive Amethyst Dragon had vanished. He looked at her as though he had seen her clamber out of the grave – which she had, in a sense. He regarded her as a man desires a woman, even though she was in a pitiful condition. A softness and horrified regret entered his eyes. Aranya raised her chin, and stood tall and proud.

But the world spun around her, full of strange colours. Her strength was spent.

“Aranya,” he repeated. “How?”

She took a backward step. “I’m a Dragon Shapeshifter, Yolathion. We’re hard to kill. Please, take care of Zuziana. Promise me.”

“Aranya, stop!”

She almost did stop; the craving to yield to this man was so sweet. She almost listened to him, turned, and flung herself into his arms as she had wished to from the very first time she saw him. But her feet took another step, and another. The soldiers’ leers from behind his shoulder strengthened her. The ones who had smashed her wing helped firm her resolve.

“Farewell, Yolathion.”

“Aranya, I –”

She whirled, and flung herself in a graceful dive off the Sylakian Dragonship’s platform.

Chapter 18: Treason

For the second time in her life, the Princess of Immadia fell toward the Cloudlands, her body spinning end over end in a ghastly parody of flight that could only end in death. She fell past the unsuspecting Dragonships of Yolathion’s command. She fell faster than the golden rays of dawn sweeping down the brief crags of Tyrodia Island. She fell into clear air that grew thicker and warmer the closer she came to the Cloudlands.

She had a moment to think of what Yolathion might have said up there. I hate you? I love you? Go toss yourself into the nearest Cloudlands volcano, you evil, shape-changing enchantress?

But Tyrodia was not a tall Island.

The transformation took longer than usual. It felt torn out of her, a step beyond what her strength could bear. Drawing the deepest breath she had ever taken into her lungs, Dragon-Aranya plunged into the clouds.

She pulled out of her dive deftly, careful not to repeat her ligament-tearing first flight’s mistake. Aranya flew by instinct beneath the toxic clouds for as long as her breath could hold out – which, for a Dragon, was a good quarter of an hour if she did not flap hard. In her condition, she managed about half that time, but it was enough to take her a good long way from the pursuing Dragonships. Her right wing dangled at the last wing-joint. Every stroke of her wings grated the broken bones together.

Aranya flew long enough in the grey world beneath the Cloudlands to appreciate what might happen if she flew into an unseen spire of rock. That would be a relief from the white-hot pain of her broken joint. Strangely, the pain did not dull her senses. It gave her purpose. It made her focus, purifying the extraneous as a meriatite furnace burns off the slag to produce pure, refined meriatite for the acid bath. She flapped through the thick, liquid-seeming air, a slow-motion flying as if she were underwater.

Zuziana! She mourned the loss of her Rider. This was the only way to escape Yolathion. But she could not do it with a Rider. Perhaps their physician could help Zip, where she had been unable to. She remembered reading about the ravages of disease when she was younger; she feared that Zuziana was close to death.

Leaving her felt like death.

Aranya wanted to believe that she could steal Zuziana a second time from the Sylakians. That she must leave her friend with a man like Yolathion burned her to the core. His duty would be to return her to Sylakia Town for her execution – and he had shown himself to be a perfect slave to duty. It was all she could do to keep flying. A Dragon could do nothing for her Rider if she was incapable of flying. She already had a glued-together wing. Now she looked like she had scabies, there were so many wounds on her body.

Nak and Oyda would know what to do, wouldn’t they?

Aranya leaped out of the Cloudlands like a trout leaping upriver, and descended again. Please let the Sylakians be looking elsewhere. Please let them be struck blind.

After two hours of flying northwest from Tyrodia Island, groaning and writhing and wondering if every wing beat would be her last, Aranya overtook a trader’s Dragonship headed for Sylakia. It was the first Dragonship she had seen in what seemed like months which was not swarming with Sylakian troops. This, at last, was a stroke of good fortune. She hunted the trader with cunning, landed lightly atop its hydrogen sack and hitched a ride.

She curled up and slept, numb to the world.

Aranya awoke above the deserts of eastern Sylakia. The night was young, with Iridith lording its sallow presence in the sky and a full Jade moon passing overhead, too. She worked on the worst of her wounds with her magic. There was a piece of crossbow quarrel stuck in her leg. The bleeding cuts and puncture wounds received most of her attention. But she quickly realised that her wounded wing joint needed to be set properly before she should try to heal it. She sensed there were several broken pieces inside.

The trader’s Dragonship provided fine transportation all the way up to the mountains of mid-Sylakia, where the Dragonship turned more to the north to skirt the mountains, while her path lay directly westward. Aranya intrepidly winged off.

That was a bad mistake. She found herself barely able to stay two hours in the air because of the pain in her wing, thus she entered the mountains during the daylight hours, only to be attacked by an iceroc. Aranya eventually defeated the bird, but left a number of her scales in the mountains. She waited for nightfall before taking off in intense pain and continuing her journey. Even her healing power barely dulled the pain.

The mountain crossing took far longer than she remembered. By morning, Aranya had battled over the mountains and was free to coast down the other side. This involved a dint of swift flying to outpace an enraged family of icerocs she scared up from their massive stick nests amidst the ever-icy peaks. Her broken wing flopped about agonisingly with every buffet of the wind. She cooled it in the high-lying snows, and later in the ribbon of lake which curved to the western periphery of the isle. When she could no longer fly, she walked. After endless hours of walking on the barren southern shore, she surprised an injured windroc aground and tore into it with a madness of hunger. After that Aranya summoned the strength to fly a little more, although it took all of her courage.

She crossed at the end of the lake, and her legs collapsed.

No. She had to push on. Any marauding Dragonship might happen upon her. The Sylakians would soon be searching for her again.

Aranya limped along on broken-toed, bleeding paws. She pushed through thick forests, seeking that tiny dell above the precipice, the dell with the hut, the hut with the two old people in it. She dreamed she heard Oyda calling to her. She dreamed of flying over the Cloudlands, but somewhere Nak shouted at her not to crawl on her belly like a worm. That was what she was reduced to, now. A belly-crawling Dragon, a Dragon who had almost crawled before the boots of the Sylakian conqueror and surrendered meekly to his mastery. Never! She cried in the depths of her hearts. Never! She used her anger as a whip to push herself on.

She transformed herself. Even one-handed, the injured wrist tucked up against her body, crawling on bleeding knees, it was easier to move a small Human body than to drag a Dragon’s bulk through the forest.

During the darkest hour after moons-set, Aranya reached the dell. All was quiet.

She dragged herself through the streamlet and up to the front door of the hut. Her fist fell upon it, twice. She heard a shuffle within. Lamplight struck her face.

“Petal? Is that … oh, petal.” Oyda made a sound like a choked-off sob. “You poor girl … Nak! Nak, wake up, thou fool husband. Aranya has come home.”

Aranya leaned into Oyda’s arms and sobbed out her brokenness.

* * * *

Two days passed in fever-dreams. Aranya remembered little save Oyda’s gentle hands cleaning and treating her wounds, and holding her head as she spooned a thick vegetable broth down her throat. She recalled a cheerful fire blazing behind the grating, seen through the door into the hut’s kitchen-come-living-area. The mighty Black Dragon’s head appeared in those leaping flames, speaking to her. She raved, she cried, she sobbed brokenly over Zuziana’s fate and raged at Oyda to let her go and save her. She longed to fling herself into the abyss, never to fly again.

She told the old people everything which had passed, as though she wished to purge her soul of a well of bitterness. The worst was how they neither judged nor blamed her. Nak and Oyda had never been gentler or more accepting, despite her miserable catalogue of failures.

That evening, as she lay on a couch Nak had drawn close to the fireplace for her, staring despondently into the flames, she startled at a firm rap on the door.

Oyda laid down her rolling pin. “Nak, we’ve a visitor.”

She said it as though she expected this person; there was neither surprise in her voice, nor any sign of the panic that welled in Aranya’s breast.

Kindly, Oyda added, “Be still, petal. What will be, will be.”

Aranya gasped as a huge rajal of a man filled the doorway. Yolathion! The very last person she would have expected. He bent beneath the lintel; he could not stand upright within the hut. His face was grave. In his arms he bore a bundle, the tiny body of Zuziana of Remoy.

“You must be Oyda,” said a deep, familiar voice, which set every nerve in Aranya’s body alight. “Is Aranya here? Is she?”

His gaze swept the hut. When he saw Aranya, huddled in the couch, a smile touched his lips at last. She trembled, but returned his gaze levelly, refusing to welcome him.

“There’s but one Dragonship out there,” Nak called, “and she’s flying flags both white and green. What does this mean, Oyda? Aranya? Do you know this Sylakian officer?”

It took Aranya three tries to persuade a coherent word to emerge from her throat. Green and white. Surrender and friendship. What did this signify? If Yolathion had brought the Princess back to her, then he was committing treason against Sylakia. Where was the rest of his command? How had he found this place? Why had he come?

“Nak, Oyda, may I introduce Yolathion of Jeradia?” she managed at last. “Yolathion is a Third War-Hammer in the Sylakian army; the man charged with hunting me. He threw me off the Last Walk. Now, he will wreak his revenge.”

Yolathion stiffened at her words. But his dark eyes did not flash; instead, he nodded, seeming to accept her accusations. He said, “I tried to care for your Rider, Dragon. But I failed. She lies near death. This disease is called the Green Death; there is no proof against it. I brought her to you, that you might by some means try to heal her. When she spoke of this place, she also spoke of Dragon tears.”

“Dragons don’t cry, pup,” said Nak, stumping forward on his canes. “Don’t ye know nothing, thou wicked rajal of a man? How dare thee deal with Immadia so treacherously, thou shameful son of dishonour?”

“My presence here is treason, aye,” said Yolathion. “Please, Aranya, if there’s anything you can do … my honour is worth less than dirt. Her life hangs by a thread. Can you …”

Aranya smiled at Nak. “Dragons do cry, old man. Can it be that I might teach you something about Dragons? Outside, Yolathion. Quickly.”

Oyda took her arm as she limped past the kitchen table. “Let’s take that splint off your wrist, Aranya. Nak spent hours carving it for you.”

She paused in the act of taking off the simple dress she wore around Nak and Oyda, thinking that of all the awkward moments in her life, undressing purposely in front of her would-be killer must win out. Aranya did not know what to say to him. She felt Islands apart from him, yet a single kind word from his lips might reduce her to tears. He seemed a dark river, full of undercurrents she did not understand.

Nak smacked Yolathion with one of his canes. “Avert thy eyes, pup, lest thou ogle the peerless beauty of Immadia.”

Aranya tore off her clothing and transformed. An Amethyst Dragon bowed her neck over the still form of Princess Zuziana. When she saw how cold and unmoving her friend lay, and the sepulchral hollow of her cheeks, her hearts were moved. A tingling manifested in her cheeks. Tears crystallized on her lower eyelids.

“She seemed to improve,” Yolathion said, “but only briefly. She asked for you, Aranya. I told her how you escaped our nets and dived into the Cloudlands. She laughed then, a little; she bade me bring her hence, saying I was a fool for thinking I had killed you. Then she collapsed, unable to speak again. I did not kill you, but I hurt you sorely, I fear.”

Raising her paw to her eye, Aranya settled a drop on her talon. “Open her mouth, Yolathion.”

Her Dragon ears judged the pounding of his heart as they bent together over the Princess of Remoy. He was afraid. Adrenalin rushed through his veins, telling him he should flee this terrible creature who overshadowed him, who doubtless had every reason in the Island-World to kill him. Yet all she could think of was that Zuziana’s breathing was a whisper, her heartbeat almost too faint to hear. Death had her life in its talons.

Aranya put her claw to her friend’s lips, and tipped the crystal droplet into her mouth.

“What magic is this?” asked Nak. “Know thee what this is, o my jewel?”

“I don’t,” said Aranya. “But if it saves her life, it will be enough. Oyda, have you –”

“No, petal.” She knelt with stiff knees and massaged Zip’s throat with her fingers to encourage her to swallow. “But then I never saw an Amethyst Dragon either, nor do I know of lore which speaks of such as you. I’d caution you regarding Dragon magic –”

“Dragon magic is passing strange,” Nak declaimed, pinning Yolathion with a jealous glare. “Think thee to chain the winds of the morning, Sylakian? Shalt thou despise the golden radiance of the suns, locking them in thy dungeon forever?”

“Yet if Remoy lives, then I have done my duty at last,” Yolathion said softly. His voice developed a tremor as he gazed up into Aranya’s burning Dragon eyes. “I knew … my heart spoke, but I was deaf to its eloquence. I have been summoned to appear before the Supreme Commander to explain my failure and mismanagement of Sylakia’s forces. He demands to know how one Dragon and her Rider can cause such chaos.”

Bringing her second teardrop to Zip’s lips, Aranya smiled at him – a deliberate show of her fangs. “Did we turn you into a greybeard overnight, Yolathion?”

“You destroyed a sixth of Sylakia’s entire Dragonship fleet. You were the earthquake beneath Sylakia’s strategy, turning the invasion of Herimor into an initial exploration.” He made a cutting motion with his hand. “Apparently, the news of your escape was a cruel blow to the son of Sylakia. Some say he has fled the Dragon’s approach. I hear he travelled to Fra’anior in a bid to learn more about Dragons.”

“Look at the Princess’ skin,” Oyda whispered.

In the darkness outside the hut, it was clear to them all that something strange and magical was taking place in Zip’s body. Tiny pinpricks of light rose and faded beneath her skin, as though her flesh had become a window to the mysteries of the constellations above. Yolathion lifted the coverings off of Zip’s arm. It was the same.

“Magic,” said Nak.

Yolathion extended his hand to help Oyda to her feet. He asked, “Where may I place the Princess of Remoy, Oyda?”

Now he had manners to match his brutality? Aranya snaked her head into the hut to watch him carry Zip inside, until it dawned on her that she was being silly. As he placed Zuziana in the back room which had become Aranya’s, she transformed and followed the others inside. An appreciative quirk of Nak’s eyebrow reminded her; she snatched up her dress and tugged it over her head at once. When her head emerged from the neck-hole, it was to see Yolathion swiftly averting his eyes. Aranya turned the colour of a fine dawn sky.

“I must go,” said Yolathion, looking hot under the collar himself.

“Must you?” asked Oyda.

“I must rejoin my command before this act of treason is discovered,” he rumbled. Aranya watched with wide eyes as he skirted the table, approaching her. “I hope you won’t disapprove of a little treason, Immadia? I mean, Aranya?”

“I, well, I –”

Rather than lifting her broken wrist high, Yolathion bowed to the point of deepest respect. He blew over her knuckles, made the sign of the peace twice and kissed her fingers rather than her palm.

“I wish you a speedy recovery, Princess Aranya,” he said, wistfully.

Aranya rather wished he would release her hand, because it was intimately connected to her treacherous heart. Perhaps he would never approve of a Shapeshifter. It must have been a great shock for him when she finally revealed herself.

She said, “I … wish you well in your endeavours, Yolathion.”

“If my words matter,” he said, meeting her gaze without reservation, “and if words could ever make amends for my acts of folly, Aranya, which they cannot, then I would wish to offer my sincerest and humblest apologies for all the harm I have done to you. I deeply regret – everything. Many times I have wished to undo these things; the names I called you, the quarrels I ordered to be fired at you, and much besides.”

His intense, solemn manner dismantled her reserve.

“Not all is to be regretted,” Aranya replied, almost speaking to herself. “You threw me into a future I could never have imagined. Perhaps there is greater purpose in this than you or I imagine.”

Yolathion’s dark eyes grew wide. As she stared up at him, Aranya felt the fire stir within her, the delicious, liquid fire that only he seemed able to ignite. The room grew strangely still; a moment where even the hearth fire was unwilling to crackle or spit, and even the usually voluble Nak had nothing to say. The bitterness within her, deep-rooted in all he had done and nourished by her animosity, drained away to nothingness. A weight lifted off her shoulders. Aranya realised that she felt free.

She wondered if he wanted to kiss her.

Would she kiss him back, or transform and bite his head off?

In the end, he bowed once more, saying in a thick voice, “I really must go. The Supreme Commander awaits my report.”

As he made to depart, Yolathion glanced back over his shoulder to catch Aranya’s wide grin. His head slammed into the lintel.

“Oh, for the Islands’ sake,” he growled.

“Mind your head,” Nak put in, cheekily.

Aranya raised her hand in farewell. “Watch out that the hunter does not become the hunted,” she said, biting her tongue in mortification as the words slipped out.

Nonplussed, Yolathion stammered, “I shall watch the dawn skies for the sign of Immadia.”

He fled out of the door.

* * * *

Nak teased her until Aranya shouted at him. She did not want to hear innuendoes about placing the Third War-Hammer in her Dragon hoard, hunting warriors for sport and shamelessly disrobing in Yolathion’s presence. She did not want to consider what might have been.

Oyda, in her customary fashion, kicked Nak out of the hut to look after the sheep.

Aranya, feeling Oyda’s regard even though the old woman was cleaning berries preparatory to making a preserve, said, “How’s Zuziana doing, Oyda?”

“Sleeping a healing sleep,” said Oyda. “Much better, methinks. A pinch of colour in the cheeks, a scrap of broth kept down … aye. Aranya, what’s troubling you?”

“Nothing.”

“Indeed?”

She could never hide anything from Oyda. Her father, yes. Oyda – no chance.

“Spit it out, petal. You’ll feel better afterward. Cup of redbush tea?”

“You and your tea, Oyda.” Aranya gazed at the wall.

“Shall I guess?” Oyda busied herself with the teapot. “You regret parting on good terms with a man who has tried to kill you multiple times. You’re thinking that with one word of apology from that young Jeradian, your heart is soaring over the Cloudlands. You feel weak and silly. No Dragon, least of all she who rocked the very foundations of Sylakia, should be undone by a mere word.”

“Yes, yes, and yes!”

Aranya jumped as fire roared up the chimney. Oyda clucked irritably. “That’s one less eyebrow for me. Here’s your tea, petal.”

“Sorry, Oyda. Thanks. I’m – well, I feel like a thunderstorm brewing over Immadia.”

“Is he so very evil, petal? Is he Garthion, for example?”

She burst out, “He chose duty over me, Oyda!” Then she stared at the old woman. “Oh, dear. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m insulted because – it’s just plain, ugly vanity, isn’t it?”

“Aye. That young man chased you all over the Cloudlands, yet at the end, prevented his warriors from injuring you unnecessarily. Now he goes to face the Supreme Commander’s displeasure.” Oyda pointed her spoon at Aranya. “You want him to suffer for making you suffer.”

“I do.” Aranya was appalled. “Am I so … terrible, Oyda?”

“You’re probably looking for the word, ‘Human’, Aranya. Yes, you are still Human, and Human hearts will play us all for fools. I made Nak chase me for seven years, Aranya – do you want to know why? I wanted a taller man.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was, petal. Now, maybe you should think about hunting that young man, however Dragonish that might sound. But I’ve a different idea. Zip’s recovery will take at least a week, even with your Dragon magic. So I’m going to suggest a distraction for you. A little journey – to Fra’anior. Nak and I knew the old King of Fra’anior. Your Islands are allied by marriage. I suspect a Princess of Immadia will be well received. You might learn things about your family even the Supreme Commander of the Island-World will never learn.”

What a wonderful idea. Aranya’s heart turned over in her chest. Visit the Islands where her mother grew up? She had never visited because of the war between Sylakia and Immadia. After that, she had been exiled. By all the Islands, she was excited!

“But I can’t fly, Oyda. I can’t travel on my own, surely?”

“You’ll go by Dragonship, escorted by Nak,” said Oyda. “Nelthion has arranged everything.”

“You know Nelthion? The one I know – Tower of Sylakia Nelthion?”

“Better still,” said Oyda, smiling. “He’s our great-grandson.”

Chapter 19: Fra’anior

The following day, Nak and Aranya took a fast carriage up from the village to a town south of Sylakia, where a trader and his Dragonship impatiently awaited them. Over her bandaged wounds, Aranya was dressed from head to toe in Fra’aniorian finery, including the customary face-veil for an unmarried young woman of rank. Only her eyes showed above the face-veil, which felt unaccustomed and not a little strange. She wondered how her mother and father had met. Prince Beran, he would have been, courting the mysterious Izariela of Fra’anior. She wondered if her amethyst eyes would reveal her identity, but nobody they met seemed concerned.

“We’re late for the morning breeze,” the trader greeted them.

“Thank you for waiting for my grandfather and I,” Aranya said, hiding her hot response. “How many days to Fra’anior, trader?”

“Four. Four with this breeze,” he said. “Five or six for the homecoming. Will you be staying long, lady?”

“It’s my home. Ha’athior Island, actually, one of the cluster.”

“Ah, Ha’athior,” he said. “Beautiful place, but dangerous. Home of the dragonets. Fierce little things, but no brains. They can repeat words like the grey parrots of our Sylakia.”

“Dragonets,” Aranya breathed.

The trader’s word was accurate. A straight journey across the Cloudlands with the wind directly from astern, the Dragonship made very good time. The wings were kept fully extended and turned to catch the breeze, while the trader kept his ‘runners’ – his crew – working flat-out on the back-breaker that drove the turbines. No wasting money on meriatite for him, Aranya thought, disliking the man. She did not care for the way he looked at her.

On the evening before they arrived at Fra’anior Island, Aranya and Nak took their meal in their cabin, as usual. Nak had managed to tell her stories about Dragons for four days running without repeating himself once, which was an impressive feat. Nak checked her wrist and pronounced it much better – the benefits of Dragon healing magic, he declared. Even her torn-off toenails were healing rapidly. But, after dinner, Nak said he felt tired and decided to turn in early. The fish had tasted odd, he said. Aranya had tasted nothing amiss.

Aranya tucked him in with a fond kiss on his cheek. Nak declared his undying love and devotion in twenty lines of verse.

During the night, Aranya heard strange sounds in their room. Voices, far away, sounding as though they echoed down a long corridor. She felt cold manacles snap closed upon her wrists and ankles. A hood covered her face. A strange, cloying sweetness stuck in the back of her throat. There was a sensation of movement, but it seemed to be happening to someone else’s body. She did not care. She was passed from hand to hand before being taken somewhere in a carriage. Aranya giggled to herself. What a nice adventure.

Colours reeled across the inside of the hood. Aranya saw lights; someone checked her ears and commented approvingly. The hood closed over her head again. She dreamed of a Dragon attacking huge balloons filled with men; she listened to the many-headed Black Dragon’s urgent roaring, but did not understand anything.

“One for the Prince,” said a man’s voice, in a harsh accent which rolled over its vowels, squashing them into submission. “At last. You’re going to make me rich, my beauty. Get her changed.”

More hands, female hands, changing her clothes. “You’ll like this, my girl. The Prince will pay a high price for you.”

Time drifted by. The sounds were starting to become more distinct. She was in a carriage, driving somewhere. Aranya felt ridiculously giddy. She sang a silly song. When the man’s voice told her to keep quiet, she laughed at him. The world was filled with colours, filled with Dragons flying around inside her head.

They stopped. More voices, demanding to know their business. They moved on again, rattling across cobblestones. Hands helped her alight from the carriage. The humidity immediately made her clothing stick to her skin. The clothes felt strange and light, not at all like she was used to wearing. A hand snapped a collar about her neck and she was jerked forward, forced to follow or fall flat on her face with no hands to catch herself. A short chain linked to her ankles forced her to shuffle awkwardly, while her wrists were chained somehow to her waist. Aranya felt she should be angry about this treatment, but instead, she felt happy and carefree.

They waited a long time somewhere.

“Ah, my King,” said the man’s voice. “This is the one. I’ve kidnapped a young lady of perfect nobility and standing to become your son’s wife.”

Aranya burst into a fit of giggles. Imagine – a kidnapping. Hilarious.

“Drugged, Zarbok? You drugged this one?”

“She’s having a strange reaction to the serbial serum, my King. It’ll wear off.”

“What is this, Zarbok?” said a new, resonant voice. “I told you last time, I’m not marrying some narcotic-addled pretty thing with no brains. We pay you good drals to kidnap the best. An honourable kidnapping is the least you could do. Did you check the ears?”

“Perfect Fra’aniorian ears, Prince Ta’armion,” said Zarbok. Aranya realised he must be some kind of slaver. When she could manage to think about it, she was going to kill him. Zarbok wheedled, “Just take a look at this one, my Prince. She’s a classic Fra’aniorian beauty from Ha’athior Island. As tall and slender as a volcano, young and naïve, eyes of a brilliant hue – you will be amazed. Stupefied, my Lords. This is the one.”

“Very well. Remove the cloak, Zarbok.”

Fabric whispered off her shoulders. Aranya felt a cool breeze against her skin – but she was not cold. There was a short silence.

“She’s volcanic, I’ll grant that,” said the Prince’s voice, full of approval. “Although, Zarbok, even volcanoes have more raiment than you managed to put on this one. Thinking to drive a high bargain by appealing to the baser lusts? Admirable subtlety.”

“Look at the muscle on her, Ta’armion,” said the King’s voice. A finger prodded her stomach. “I’ve seen gladiators with abdominals like this. Where’d you kidnap this one, Zarbok? Is there a female warrior monastery we don’t know about? She’s very pale-skinned for Ha’athior.”

She should be burning them with fire. Fancy poking and prodding her like a prize pet! But her brain would not stop to take the danger into account. Aranya giggled playfully and moved toward the voice of the Prince. “Shall I dance for you, my Prince?” she mumbled beneath the hood.

“Ugh, she’s flying like a dragonet!” said the Prince. “I’ll speak to her if and when she returns with her wits from the Cloudlands.”

“What’s the negotiating position, Zarbok?” demanded the King. “Where’s she from? Which family?”

“Well, she arrived today by Dragonship with her aged grandfather,” said Zarbok. “We’ll start with him. Now, as to her Island –”

“Remove the hood,” ordered the King.

“Father, I would wait –”

“Now!”

A hand clapped her head, not gently. Fingers worked laces behind her neck. Aranya blinked as light entered her eyes. Three faces swam into view – a swarthy man from the Western Islands, probably Zarbok, and two tall blue-eyed men, garbed in sweeping indigo robes of the most resplendent tailoring she had ever seen, one much younger than the other. She guessed they must be the King and his son. The King frowned rather severely.

“Hotter than volcanic!” said the Prince, stroking his neatly-trimmed beard with his fingertips. He looked ready to marry her on the spot. “Why, Zarbok, you’ve outdone yourself this time! What’s your name, beauty?”

The King put his hand on the Prince’s arm. “Indeed, Zarbok has outdone himself, and that by an almighty margin. Guards! Guards! Clap this fool in chains and toss him into the dungeon. Find the Dragonship captain and do the same with him.”

“Her? Father, what –”

“Zarbok,” said the King, “have you any idea who you’ve kidnapped? And you, my son?”

The men stared at her. Aranya simpered. “My Lords, do I meet with your approval? I can be very accommodating. Is this the Prince? He’s very handsome. Want to go flying with me, my Prince?”

The King sighed. “With your leave, Lady, may I remove the face-veil?”

“You can do anything you like with me, o King.”

The Prince snorted. “Zarbok, are you certain it was serbial serum you gave her? This one sounds like you found her in a Sylakian brothel.”

The King unclipped the face-veil and drew it aside delicately. “Now do you see, Ta’armion? Think of the painting in the Hall of Mirrors; consider our Island-allies. Where have you seen such eyes and features before?”

Ta’armion puzzled over this, rubbing his neatly-trimmed beard with his fingers. “Father, I’m baffled,” he admitted. “Which Island rulers married Fra’aniorian women? Oh! No. She’s dead. Can’t be Immadia, who married from Ha’athior Island –”

“Ooh, Immadia!” cried Aranya, clapping her hands together with a jingling of chains. “Clever Princey. Clever boy. You need a great big kiss for being so smart.”

“I don’t,” said Ta’armion, fending her off despite her insistence on a kiss. “Father …”

“I love Immadia. And I love you, nice Princey.”

The slaver Zarbok had turned a pasty shade of grey. He said not a word as two guards escorted him out of the great hall.

The King kissed his fingers, before touching them to Aranya’s forehead, left and right cheek, and chin. For a moment his mien was grave, but it soon gave way to a broad smile. “Welcome to Fra’anior, Princess – it must be Aranya. You can be none other than Izariela’s daughter, or I’m a senile, chattering old dragonet. This is a delight. I must apologise; I’m mortified by these events. We’ll find you clothes, of course …”

Just then, there came a great commotion at the door of the King’s hall. “My King, we couldn’t stop him, sorry – my Lord, please.”

Nak adroitly tripped the flustered herald with his cane and kept right on coming. “My King, there’s been a terrible mistake. The Princess of Immadia has been kidnapped,” he cried. “Break out the Dragonships! Sound the warning gong! Ban all marriages across the Islands. Scour the city for a sight of – oh, my poor old heart, now there’s a revelation. Who art thou, the delight of mine eye, thou paragon of surpassing magnificence?”

“Nak!” Aranya danced in delight. “My old friend, my Prince, my saviour and rescuer. Give me a kiss, thou mighty warrior of yore.”

Nak glared at her. “Stop pinching my ideas. Aranya, why are you wearing just your underwear?”

“The better to seduce my Prince,” she said, sidling up to Ta’armion again. He dashed around to the other side of his father. “Oh, Prince Ta’armion, I crave for but the touch of your hand.”

“Father,” wailed the Prince.

“She’s high on serbial serum,” the King advised. “Nak – you aren’t the Nak, Dragon Rider, who rescued my grandfather from an erupting volcano?”

“I am he!” thundered Nak, swiping the air dangerously with his cane. The herald, sneaking up behind the old man, received a firm poke in the eye. “I am the Nak, the only Nak, and only he who shall ever be the Nak, friend to Fra’anior, and protector of the virtue of Immadia’s Princess, here most scantily and, might I add, fetchingly clad.”

“Er – yes,” agreed the King. “Can we get the Princess decently clothed before my Queen sees this, not to mention King Beran sending envoys demanding reprisals for this insult to his daughter?”

“Aha,” cried Aranya, clutching Ta’armion’s robes. “I have you now.”

“She’s mad!”

Nak grinned hugely. “I’d give her that kiss, pup, before she turns into a Dragon and you have to kiss her fangs.”

The poor Prince cried, “Not by the trees of a thousand Islands!”

“I’m a Dragon?” asked Aranya. “Oh yes, now I remember.”

In a wink, a Dragon leered toothily at the unfortunate Prince. The manacles pinged off in several directions. The pitiful scraps of her clothing fluttered to the marble floor. Prince Ta’armion fainted right into Aranya’s paws.

“Ah,” said Nak, sidling forward, “I forgot to tell you, Aranya, that these Fra’aniorians are notoriously sensitive. Perhaps turning into a Dragon wasn’t the friendliest move, not to mention ruining my enjoyment of what was truly a stupendous choice of outfit for the occasion.”

Aranya looked around her, clear-minded for the first time that day. “Can someone tell me what’s going on? Why’s this King worshipping me?”

* * * *

Aranya thought the Fra’aniorians would never stop apologising. She tried her best to be gracious and had no end of chuckling over the incident later in the royal visitors’ chambers with Nak.

The following day, Prince Ta’armion arrived early at her rooms to escort her and Nak by Dragonship to Ha’athior, her mother’s home Island. He appeared to be over his panic; now the Prince only flinched every time she looked at him. Perhaps he expected a Dragon to leap at him again.

Served him right, having her kidnapped.

Despite the early hour, the day was already muggy and the heat like a Dragon’s breath upon her cheek. Ta’armion passed Aranya a folding fan, beautifully decorated with tiny images of flying Dragons. “The volcano makes Fra’anior hotter than most Islands the year round,” he informed her.

“May I watch from the forward gantry?”

“What’s wrong with inside the navigation cabin?” he suggested, hopefully.

“No breeze.”

Aranya compared Ta’armion uncharitably to Yolathion in her mind. The difference between them might only be a couple of summers – and eight inches of height or so – but in maturity the gap was wider than the Islands spanned east to west. Yolathion was a warrior; a man of action. But she did approve of one thing, which was the Prince’s insistence on getting to know his bride-to-be, even if by that he meant, ‘manacled at my table’. She wondered …

“Ta’armion,” she said, watching preparations being made for unmooring the Dragonship, “have you ever considered not kidnapping your bride?”

He offered a wry smile. “That would flout every tradition of our Islands, Princess Aranya. But you’re right. What if the girl turned out to be a Dragon, for example?” His hands closed white-knuckled on the railing, she noticed, as the Dragonship shifted restlessly with the breeze. “My father is headstrong. I am not the man he is.”

She glanced at Ta’armion, taken aback by his honesty. “I enjoyed your poetry last evening at dinner.”

He bowed at the compliment.

Ta’armion, like her, gazed about as the city revealed itself from their rising perch ahead of the royal Dragonship. Fra’anior was breathtaking. The city itself was constructed of gleaming onyx, malachite and blood-red garnet. Roof edges and garden paths and roads were trimmed in a white stone she did not recognise, perhaps quartz, she thought. Every last spare inch was taken up with gardens. The profusion of flowers, evocative on the breeze, almost overwhelmed the eye. Formal gardens crowned the flat rooftops, while immense, spreading broad-leafed trees provided shade. Birds twittered and cooed in the dense tropical foliage, bright of feather and beak, more varieties and species than she had ever seen in one place before. The tall, elegant Fra’aniorians strolled along beneath their colourful umbrellas, the women trailing five or more feet of train from their exquisite dresses, while the men wore sweeping cloaks and stylishly fitted clothes beneath. Refined, Aranya thought. No wonder her mother had always seemed so graceful.

“Ha’athior Island lies diagonally across the caldera to the southwest,” said Prince Ta’armion, pointing. “Alongside Ha’athior, you will see a new Island rising from the Cloudlands. A new volcano.”

“Is it always this hot?”

“The breath of the Great Dragon,” said the Prince.

“I’m grateful for this cool Fra’aniorian dress.”

“You look resplendent,” Ta’armion noted. Aranya murmured her thanks. “A true lady of Ha’athior, for you have – as I believe you will see – much of the look of that Island about you.”

She twirled her umbrella thoughtfully in her fingers. “Ta’armion, is that the graveyard? It seems busy.”

“We bury our people each beneath a flame-tree, which symbolises a Dragon’s fire. Those, I believe, are the victims of Garthion’s visit here.” Aranya looked sharply at him. “You’ll see that the entire last row, where the people are standing, is freshly planted.”

Aranya gazed out over the graveyard, a vibrant bloom of orange and yellow flowers upon its carefully pruned trees. A low, ravenous hiss of fire accompanied her exclamation, “That’s over forty people!”

“The hand of the conqueror failed to discriminate.” Ta’armion sighed bitterly, his sensitive hands twisting on the guardrail as though he sought to bend the metal with his grief and fury. “He did not find what he sought. When he tired of chasing dragonets, Garthion hunted Islanders instead. You understand why I tell you this hard truth, as Fra’anior to Immadia. Those allied by marriage must be honest with each other.”

Quietly, Aranya told him about her time in the Tower of Sylakia. Ta’armion questioned her at some length about her and Zuziana’s campaign as Dragon and Rider, and told her that the Sylakian Dragonships and forces had been withdrawn from Fra’anior to go and fight the Dragon – for the first time in years, only the Sylakian representative remained with a skeleton force. By his words and manner, Aranya deduced that there was little love for Sylakia around these Islands. His horror at Zuziana’s suffering was real; he wept at that point in her tale.

To her surprise, as she finished telling her story, the royal soldiers manning the Dragonship began to sing an ancient lay about a Dragon called Grandion and his Island love, Hualiama. Their voices wreathed the Dragonship in haunting harmonies. She heard birds, somewhere in the trees not far below, pick up the tune and begin to trill it back to the soldiers, adding their own complexities and harmonies to the song rising about her. Aranya’s mouth hung open; for the first time, a candid grin lit Ta’armion’s features.

“If you have never been to your home, Princess,” he said, “how can you know its wonders?”

He joined in the chorus; Aranya stood spellbound. Ta’armion had a superb tenor – clearly well trained, but even so his voice was finer than any other aboard the vessel – and a range that climbed and climbed without losing an iota of its quality. He encouraged Aranya to join in the singing, which she did, although she found it intimidating to sing beside such a fine musician.

Halfway through the fourteen verses of the lay, Aranya realised that the Dragon Grandion was a Shapeshifter.

Ha’athior was four hours away by Dragonship, across the great caldera that smoked and smouldered constantly. Her Dragon hearts thrilled at the sight. Glowing rivers of lava crisscrossed the floor, far below, from which steam and gases rose in shifting veils, drifting and changing constantly. Pumice and lava blasted out of hidden volcanoes. The Islands stood on the rim, as if they comprised the black, roughly serrated turrets of a mighty fortress – many more than the seven inhabited Islands Aranya knew of. The rim was broken in several places, allowing the volcanic gases to mix with the Cloudlands clouds, creating a toxic brew.

“I was taught there are only seven inhabited Islands,” Aranya said.

The Prince chuckled. “A handy subterfuge, Princess. I would estimate twenty-three. There might be a few isolated warrior monasteries even we don’t know about. The monasteries are filled with men who follow the Path of the Dragon Warrior – the armed and unarmed martial arts for which Fra’anior is famed.”

“I’m surprised the Sylakians ever conquered these Islands.”

Again with refreshing honesty and a sparkle to his vivid blue eyes, Prince Ta’armion replied, “We’d like to think that their hold is tenuous at best. Or that they are caretakers of what was never, and will never, be theirs. They’re after the meriatite, of course. Sylakian prisoners are put to work in the lower mines here. Mostly they last a few months, maybe even a summer or two, before the gases kill them.”

Aranya ground her teeth audibly.

“Aye, I agree.” The Prince pointed. “Down there, do you see the white patch? Through the clouds – oh, it’s gone, now.”

“I saw,” she said. “What was it, Ta’armion?”

“It’s meant to be a Dragon gravesite, Aranya.” She gasped in amazement. “Truly so, Immadia. With a telescope, you can see the bones. Mighty ribcages the size of Dragonships.”

“Surely you jest –”

“Not so, Princess.” But her companion frowned. “Look to Ha’athior’s cone. Dragonets. Swarms of them.”

As the Dragonship pressed on, turbines humming, the dots resolved into swarms of tiny creatures in every imaginable, gleaming colour, moving in ways birds never moved, swirling in the thermals around Ha’athior’s active volcanic cone. Aranya’s Dragon senses prickled.

“Ta’armion, are dragonets dangerous?”

“Not usually.” He frowned. “Although, they seem agitated today. I’ve never seen quite so many out at once.”

Aranya considered the swirling dragonets, coming closer and closer to the Dragonship. She made a decision. “Ta’armion, I’m not going crazy, alright – just trust me. Get me out of this dress, fast. I’m sensing danger.”

“Because you don’t want to ruin a fine dress?”

“Unlace it, now!” Aranya snarled, with more than a hint of fire crackling in her voice. The Prince leaped to obey.

The dragonets winged toward the Dragonship in a great swarm, all different colours – red, green, orange, blue, black, white and yellow – perfect miniature dragons, she saw now, with claws and teeth and wings similar to her own. Ta’armion’s fingers worked with commendable speed. No silly panic this time. Aranya felt the bodice loosen. She shrugged out of the dress and pushed it down to her ankles. There would be no time to loosen the under-dress or the shift beneath that. But they were not worth the fortune the dress must command. She kicked off her slippers.

Aranya thumped Ta’armion on the shoulder. “Get inside. Your men, too.”

The dragonets screamed in chorus as they winged rapidly toward the Dragonship. They resembled a swarm of bats, only this swarm was a hundred times deadlier. She felt their rage, their hatred, the unthinking lust for revenge on the object filling their sky. Garthion. This was his work. Aranya shivered in her bones. He had hunted the dragonets; now the dragonets hunted people.

She meant to stake her life on an instinctive guess.

Ta’armion and his men watched from inside the crysglass of the navigation cabin. The Prince tapped on the window, gesturing for her to come inside to safety.

Instead, Aranya clambered over the guardrail. Now the men began to shout and bang the glass in panic. Dragonets whirred toward the Dragonship, baring their fangs, readying their talons. It was clear the hydrogen sack was about to be shredded by a thousand needle-sharp claws of these miniature Dragons. If she could harness dragonets to attack the Sylakians, that would be a trick.

Aranya leaped into space. She counted in her head: one, two, Dragon!

Dragonets dive-bombed her in their hundreds. Perhaps they confused her with the Dragonship, she did not know. Aranya squeezed her eyes shut and blasted them with a roar. She roared again, battering dragonets with her wings, driving them away from the Dragonship. Some responded by flaring their wings or breathing little gasps of fire at her, but most scattered with high-pitched cries of alarm.

Aranya circled the Dragonship, partly to test her damaged wing and partly to check that none of the dragonets had continued the attack. Her wing did not hurt too badly. There was a definite tenderness in the joint, however. Such speed on the healing …. a large dragonet approached her – a red male. He seemed to be the biggest of them all at perhaps four feet in length and five feet in wingspan. His ruby eyes whirled gently as he examined her from different angles. Aranya had an impression of confusion, surprise and perhaps awe. The dragonet opened his mouth, complete with tiny fangs, and chirped:

Ancient one? Angry?

At least, that was what Aranya understood. Somehow she knew it was speaking a different language, one Human-Aranya did not speak, but Dragon-Aranya understood as easily as her stomach understood how to digest meat. That reminded her, she was hungry. Her Dragon form had not eaten while they flew on the Dragonship to Fra’anior – and, as Nak kept reminding her, she was a young, growing Dragon.

No, it’s just that you attacked our Dragonship. Her Human mind thought, ‘Huh? That’s a language I’ve never spoken aloud before.’

Dragonship kill dragonet-kind.

Um, Humans have different tribes. The different tribes –

Tribes? The dragonet made a neat circle around her muzzle as it said this, showing off. Pretty scales, see?

Colours, said Aranya, marvelling at how Dragonish was almost sung rather than spoken. All those different tonal levels, shades and nuances. Trying to keep track of the buzzing little dragonet was also a good way to put a knot in her neck. Different colours and signs. Windroc sign is bad Humans. Fra’anior Dragon sign is good – purple Humans.

Now Aranya was getting confused. Her Dragon mind had her talking very simply to the dragonet, but her logical mind kept wanting to explain the detail.

Purple bad?

Purple good. Purple cloth good. Humans live with dragonets good.

The dragonet appeared to accept this. Pretty purple Dragon good? Mommy Dragon?

Uh … Aranya was not ready to be mother to anything yet, least of all swarms of dragonets. But it seemed a good analogy. Mommy Dragon is dragonet-friend. Tell other dragonets purple Humans good?

Purple good.

The red dragonet shot off to share the news with his fellows. Within seconds, there were dragonets whizzing in all directions in an explosion of colours and chatter, clearly communicating with each other in a state of high excitement. Aranya blinked. They were not as unintelligent as the Fra’aniorians assumed.

After a short consultation with the bemused and clearly discomfited Prince across the breadth of her left wing, Aranya agreed to transform again. She dropped on top of the Dragonship in her Human form. As she had bid him, Ta’armion met her on the conspicuously unoccupied gantry beneath the hydrogen sack with a cloak held in his hand. But his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

Aranya sighed. “Thank you, Ta’armion. You may look, now.”

“Your mother’s village is around the western point,” said the Prince, acting overly casual – as if Shapeshifters leaping off Dragonships was an everyday affair. Aranya hid her smile as he added, “The town is on the far side of the volcano, not caldera-side like most of our towns. A peculiar lot, the Ha’athior Islanders. Very reclusive.”

Aranya eyed the slender young man, sensing something in him that she warmed to. Ta’armion was tall, topping her height by several inches, but he was clearly not the warrior type. He was slender and graceful, and – her eyes widened – just look at those Fra’aniorian ears! He was the first person she had ever met with ears like hers. She touched her left ear beneath her headscarf. Fra’aniorian women wore their headscarves long, she had noticed, another layer to the elegant, filmy layers of cloth they seemed to prefer, but unlike Immadia, a jewelled skullcap held the headscarf in place.

Ostentatiously flying the flag of royal Fra’anior, the Dragonship rounded the point of the Island and moored outside of a small village of perhaps fifty houses, scattered along the very edge of a half-league tall black cliff. The houses were all simply built in a blue-veined stone. Vegetable patches and flowerbeds alike were perfectly tended. Great walls of vegetation, profuse and verdant from the rich volcanic soils, bordered the village and towered above it to impossible heights – before Aranya remembered they were perched on the edge of a volcanic cone.

The village was deserted. Aranya raised an eyebrow at the Prince.

“Garthion’s visit scared them,” he said. “They’ll be watching.”

“We could scare them a bit more with a Dragon,” Aranya suggested.

“We could talk politely to them before threatening to eat their children,” said the Prince.

“Ta’armion, I don’t eat Humans. I eat ralti sheep, mostly, which is pure torture for someone who dislikes mutton.”

“They don’t know that.”

Aranya sighed. “I’ll go get changed, shall I? Again.”

Aranya, Prince Ta’armion and Nak descended from the Dragonship. Holding a white and a green piece of cloth in each hand, they walked up into the village. Aranya felt eyes watching their every move.

“Good people, I am Prince Ta’armion of Fra’anior,” called the Prince, using his trained singer’s voice to pitch his words right over the houses and into the jungle beyond. “I come in peace. I bear no weapons, nor do my men mean any harm. I bring you warm and sulphurous greetings in the name of the Great Dragon, Fra’anior Himself.”

Aranya fought an urge to smile and lost. What manner of greeting was this? Greetings that stank like rotten eggs?

“I have brought you a very special visitor, the daughter of one dear to your hearts, who was born in this village. Will you come greet her?”

How strange, to be standing in the very place her mother was born. The location felt queerly familiar, as though she had absorbed something of this place through her mother’s milk – which was impossible, but there it was. Aranya turned a complete circle. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

“That house,” she said, pointing.

Nak and Ta’armion gasped in concert. Nak blurted out, “I thought you said –”

“I did, and I spoke the truth. I understand it less than you do, Nak.”

Putting her hands to her head, Aranya unpinned the unfamiliar skullcap and unwound her headscarf. She put the face-veil aside. Ta’armion had the grace not to look too scandalised. Nak just grinned, probably imagining her nude, she thought crossly. She loosened her braids and shook out her hair.

The silence surrounding them became so deep, it seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

In a loud voice, Aranya called, “I wonder if anyone here remembers a woman with hair like mine? I wonder if any hand wiped her nose or changed her wet-cloths?”

A bird trilled in the thicket nearby, while a dragonet sang a wordless song somewhere in a tree above their heads. Aranya called to the dragonet. Come to me. A tiny, foot-long sapphire juvenile flew to land on her upheld wrist. Claws pricked her skin. Aranya’s heart turned over in her chest. The dragonet was beautiful; her jewel-eyes watched Aranya patiently, utterly content on her wrist. She was perfect in every detail, a miniature Dragon.

“I wonder if you remember one who spoke to dragonets, as I do?”

She slowly rotated in a full circle, but was greeted only by silence.

“Would someone like to come and pull on my pointy Fra’aniorian ears to check if they are real?”

Her irritated shout raised no comment.

“I know you fear Sylakia,” said Aranya. “But I have come to tell you that a Dragon flies the skies of the Island-World once more. The Sylakians cower in fear.”

This time, a querulous voice shot back, “You lie!”

Nak twirled his cane in his hand. “I am Nak, who flew these very skies upon the Dragon Shimmerith in the days of your grandfathers. I, Nak the Dragon Rider, say that she does not lie. Here before you stands Aranya, the daughter of Izariela of Ha’athior Island. See for yourselves, their resemblance is as the twin sun-Dragons are alike.”

“You’re lying, too.”

“Bah!” snorted Nak. Affecting an insolent air, he commented, “Bunch of white-hearted worms we’ve found here, Aranya. This lot are content to grub in the dirt and disrespect their Lord Prince. They’ve turned to the Path of the Hairy Worm, for the Islands’ sake. Why, their grandfathers flew Dragonback. They have forgotten who they are. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”

“Nak,” Aranya hissed at him.

But a slow movement began all around them. The street filled with villagers, young and old, coming from the houses and the woods, until they surrounded the trio of visitors. Aranya looked about her with lively curiosity; finding many of the people were similar to her in height, build and physical characteristics. Their clothes were plain but fine, the women wearing long dresses dominated by turquoise, indigo and azure colours and unadorned skullcaps in royal blue; the children clean and happy, the men tall and bright of eye. Suddenly, amidst the crowd, she saw a girl of her own age gazing wide-eyed, violet-eyed, back at her. The connection between them was immediate, as sharp as a blade. The man beside her pulled the girl behind him with a stern word.

An old man, older even than Nak, tottered out of the crowd. Without further ado, he fell upon Nak’s shoulder and began to sob, “Nak. Little Nak. You saved my life at the battle of Ermiada Island, my friend. When my Bronze Dragon Ferrial was slain by the treacherous war-band of Herimor, you carried me off the field. I could never forget.”

“Aye,” said Nak, wiping his eyes. “I remember, now. You are Tra’ibel. Everyone called you Trouble.”

“I will convince these unbelievers. This is Nak, my brethren. He is a Rider, and a man of the highest honour.”

“I nursed thy mother when she was ill,” said another woman, moving forward. Aranya gasped. She sounded exactly like her mother!

“And I played with her. I’d know Izariela’s daughter anywhere.”

“Then she must be tested.”

His was a quiet voice, but it carried a rasp that curbed the rising babble. Aranya turned. It was the stern man, he of the strange, blazing yellow eyes, whose gaze spoke directly to the fires within her and bade them stir from their slumber.

He said, “All Fra’aniorian children are tested in the summer of their seventh year. You are past the age, Aranya, who claims to be the daughter of Izariela. But I would know what the Nameless Man says about your gifts before we of Ha’athior Island reveal any more of our secrets.”

It was as though his words cast a spell over the villagers, conveying a strange power of command, which broke up the assembly. But he and the girl remained, watching her along with Nak and Ta’armion, until with a curt bow, the man said:

“Come. The Nameless Man awaits.”

Chapter 20: Testing

Aranya’s eyes followed the girl compulsively as she entered the same dwelling she was convinced had been her mother’s. The girl could have been her sister. The family likeness was too striking, too accurate in every detail to be mistaken. She emerged from her home carrying a musical instrument, a large harp by the shape of the carrying-bag, which she lifted herself despite Prince Ta’armion’s low offer of assistance and placed upon her shoulder.

But the man was not her father. Her ward, perhaps? Was it as she feared, that the Sylakians had destroyed her heritage here in the Fra’aniorian Islands? Was this girl the only one left?

“What’s your name?” she asked.

The girl made a sign toward her mouth and followed it with a complex set of hand signals. Aranya blinked.

“May I present the gracious Lyriela of Ha’athior,” said the Prince, falling into step with them. His hands made the signs for his words as he spoke. “I am Prince Ta’armion. I have the honour of accompanying Aranya, Princess of Immadia, to your Island home, my gracious lady.”

“Follow me,” said the flame-eyed man, who had introduced himself as Ja’alion. He cast Lyriela a pointed look, making her hide her face – and a shy smile, meant for the Prince?

After that Lyriela fell a little behind them, leaving the Prince to speak with Ja’alion as Aranya followed him along a narrow trail leading out of the village.

The trail led for some distance between walls of tumbling jungle vegetation and veils of hanging vines, before a towering black cliff rose from the greenery, and they broke out upon a narrow ledge that skirted the very edge of the abyss. Red, orange and emerald-green Dragonets played above and beneath them, darting acrobatically into tiny caves and catching insects in the air. The cliffs were alive with birds and small, scurrying mammals feasting on the abundant hanging fruits, many of which Aranya could not have named. Without being bidden, her steps lagged slightly, until Lyriela bumped against her back. She must have been watching her footing.

Aranya caught Lyriela’s hand to steady her. Not everyone could be a Dragon, unafraid of heights. Lyriela’s eyes, violet to her amethyst, yet so alike in their depths, flashed a smile at her – she seemed just as curious about Aranya as Aranya was about her potential relative. Her eyebrows lifted. Lyriela pointed back past Aranya’s shoulder.

The sapphire dragonet hung upside-down from a branch just above the trail, watching them with her head askance. She looked very pleased to be noticed. Aranya had barely begun to frame a word of greeting when the dragonet swooped, darted three times around her head with the speed and manoeuvrability of a bat, and settled upon her right shoulder. Claws dug into her shoulder. The tail curled possessively around her neck, its spines pricking her skin not unpleasantly. Evidently, Aranya had made a friend.

Aranya chuckled softly. “Oh, making ourselves comfortable at home and hearth, are we? Shall I hunt for you when I’m a Dragon? Must I name you if you stay? How shall you be named: Blue, or Beauty? For you are beautiful.”

The tiny mouth opened and the fangs pricked her earlobe.

“Ouch! Have it your way, then.” Addressing the girl, she asked, “Lyriela, is this normal dragonet behaviour?”

The girl watched Aranya’s lips before shaking her head.

But as she turned to the trail again, Ja’alion’s yellow-eyed gaze examined her from an expressionless face, conveying austere disapproval. Aranya arched an eyebrow and mentally suggested he go find someone else to intimidate. She was not afraid. Ja’alion stalked on.

Nak chattered away to the men coming along behind them, telling a tale of his exploits as a Dragon Rider when he campaigned with the ancient King of Fra’anior, Ta’armion’s great-grandfather. Aranya gazed hungrily over the cliff-edge to the Cloudlands below, hidden in a mist or humidity that gathered about them as they walked along the trail; the day grew dimmer, but no less sultry. Aranya smelled damp and moss as they walked past the entrance of a cave. She would have loved to explore these Islands in her Dragon-form. There was a surprise around every corner.

“The Dragon’s Lair,” said Ja’alion, indicating the cave. “Come, the crossing is just ahead.”

Lyriela did not release Aranya’s hand. Aranya wondered suddenly what colour her hair was. Aranya was three or four inches taller, but Lyriela had that Fra’aniorian grace about her, as though she walked to an inner melody. Her mouth, even at rest, seemed never to stop smiling. She was golden of skin in the way of the Fra’aniorians, unlike the pale Northern cast which was Beran’s bequest to Aranya. Her eyes were vibrant, full of life and laughter and mystery – and magic, Aranya thought suddenly. But she had never felt such a sense of a kindred spirit. She longed to speak with her, but did not know the sign-language which came so easily to Ta’armion.

Rounding a huge outcropping, they came to a rope bridge, a simple hawser with two guide-ropes spanning an unknown abyss, leading from the main Island to a slim volcanic cone some two hundred feet distant, sheathed in mists that coiled in sinister ways about the bearded green foliage which rose sheer from the depths and towered above them. Aranya’s Dragon senses prickled. What place was this?

Prince Ta’armion moved back through the group to offer Lyriela aid, and when she shook her head with a slight smile and a gesture that Aranya interpreted as gratitude, he approached Nak.

The Prince said, “Will you shelve your pride this once, Dragon Rider, to ride upon a man’s shoulders across the abyss? I am no Shimmerith, truly, but I would be honoured to bear you.”

“Ha!” cried Nak. “Am I so unsteady, pup?”

“Yes,” said Aranya. “Nak, please. Or I’ll have Oyda to answer to.”

“Ah, very well, for your sake, Immadia, I shall accept the offer of a brave soul.” He bowed with one of his flourishes. “Arise, Prince Ta’armion, to thy acceptable service.”

Prince Ta’armion caught Nak’s arm as the old man slipped on a patch of moss. Aranya’s heart leaped into her throat, thinking she’d have to transform to go fetch Nak from an unfortunate flight, but the quick-thinking Prince saw him safe. Ta’armion was a strange one. Afeared of kisses, but full of hidden strengths. How she had misjudged him.

They crossed over the rope bridge to the volcanic cone. Lyriela came pale and trembling to the far side, but none of the other Islanders seemed concerned.

“This is the home of the Nameless Man,” said Ja’alion, indicating a narrow cleft in the mountainside. “It is a warrior monastery, as you may have guessed. This is the place where all Ha’athior Islanders come to test their children, the place where the spirit of the Great Dragon Fra’anior resides in power. Haste, now. The Nameless Man must not be kept waiting.”

With a word, Ja’alion lit a globe of fire upon his right palm. He raised his hand above his head to light their way as they filed into the mountain. But the tunnel was broad and easy, twisting several times before Aranya saw light filtering through a curtain of greenery ahead. When they pushed through they found themselves standing on the shores of a round, lime-green lake, directly across from a low building opposite, a place of curved pagodas and vaulting columns, roofed in a carpet of vibrant orange flowers Aranya smelled right across the lake. The walls of the building were constructed of unrelenting onyx, giving it a brooding, ancient air. There men trained at a form of combat she had never seen before, working with a short stave in either hand as though war were an expressive dance designed to dazzle the eye.

A rowboat bobbed at the lake shore, tied to a stake hammered in between the rocks. Ja’alion took up the oars and gestured for them to board.

Prince Ta’armion sat beside Aranya, with Lyriela and Nak opposite. Aranya would have been a fool to miss the dewy eyes the Prince tried very hard not to make at Lyriela. He also tried to keep well away from the dragonet, which seemed intent on examining his hair for edibles – lice, perhaps, Aranya thought with an ill-disguised snort.

“Ja’alion,” she asked, “am I permitted to ask what relation Lyriela might be to me?”

“No.”

“A cousin, perhaps?”

Ja’alion bent his back to the oars. “I see that patience comes poorly to the House of Immadia.”

Aranya wanted to reply, ‘And discourtesy to the house of Ja’alion,’ but her eye caught a sign Lyriela made in her lap. Beside her, Ta’armion’s chin bobbed almost imperceptibly. Ha. So, she was right. Ja’alion could just stuff his rudeness back down his volcanic pipe. Lyriela must have followed her thoughts, for her smile widened until her eyes crinkled. Her hands moved fluidly.

Ta’armion cleared his throat. “Princess, Lyriela asks how you came to hurt your wrist.”

“In battle against the Sylakians,” Aranya replied.

“You’re a warrior?” the Prince interpreted for Lyriela.

“As much a warrior as this little dragonet here,” said Aranya, trying to work out how not to tell a lie. “The Sylakians had captured me in a net and dragged me aboard their Dragonship. The Third War-Hammer Yolathion – a Jeradian warrior – stood over me, demanding my surrender for acts of unspeakable violence against Sylakia’s tyranny –”

“Looking unspeakably handsome,” Nak interrupted, resentfully.

Lyriela’s eyes jumped. Prince Ta’armion again interpreted for her. “Handsome?”

“Jeradians are very tall. Yolathion told me he had been a warrior from his youth. He’s seven feet tall, perhaps a couple of inches over.”

“And devilishly handsome,” Nak sighed.

Aranya developed pink spots on her cheeks. “Nak, I do not consort with the enemy. He tried to kill me. His soldiers smashed my – uh, wrist – with their huge Sylakian hammers.”

“He’s a poet, too,” added Nak. “Did he not say, ‘I shall watch the dawn skies for the sign of Immadia?’ A warrior-poet hath stolen thy heart, and I am bereft, o Immadia.”

“Nak! You’re happily married.”

“Ah, young love,” said Nak.

Lyriela laughed soundlessly, opposite, as Aranya blushed furiously.

The oars plopped and water gurgled against the hull as Ja’alion propelled the rowboat across the circular caldera lake. Aranya trailed her hand in the warm water. It was full of algae drifting beneath the surface. She saw bubbles rising from below. The lake was just a few hundred paces in diameter, surrounded on all sides by a rim so steep and tall that the monastery building lay in shadow even toward midday.

At length they came to a small beach of black, sparkling sand. Ja’alion and Ta’armion leaped out to pull the rowboat ashore. The Prince offered his arm; first Lyriela, and then Nak accepted his aid. Ta’armion lifted Lyriela’s instrument from the bottom of the boat, eager to help – and as transparent as crysglass, Aranya chuckled to herself.

They walked up a set of worn stairs, centuries old, coming to an open patio area where the monks were training. They did not stop fighting to acknowledge the visitors. Young and old, they wore but a brief loincloth. Their muscular bodies glistened in the late morning heat. Aranya saw they were not withholding their blows; even as she watched, a staff shattered beneath a bone-crushing blow and a young monk fell, bleeding freely from his temple. Dazed, he still slithered beneath the follow-up blow and threw himself upon his attacker, striking with a bewildering array of knees, elbows and blows of his hard-edged hands.

The monks froze. Weapons came to rest; the monks darted into rows and knelt on the flagstones, their shaven, tattooed heads bowed, hushed in expectation. Aranya saw that a black-robed man had appeared in an archway. His head was clean-shaven and tattooed in blue swirls like his fellow-monks. His deep blue eyes came to rest upon the visitors. Aranya sensed a colossal, forbidding power behind the man; his gaze fell with a profound weight upon her mind and body.

Ja’alion knelt, too, and Lyriela alongside him. Only Aranya and Ta’armion stood upright. The Prince hesitated before he knelt, but he did not abase himself. Aranya opted for a formal genuflection, a deep bow of Immadian respect. Her Dragon form bowed its head, while her inner fires flared and died as though to mimic the action.

Aranya’s breathing came hard in her throat. She felt a stab of real fear. Who was this man? How did he have the power to see through her?

“The Nameless Man,” Ja’alion intoned. To Aranya, he said, “He has taken a secret vow and has never been known to speak.”

“He’s younger than I imagined,” Aranya said.

“He is also the mightiest warrior amongst a mighty brethren,” said Ja’alion, making his displeasure at her comment plain. “He’s not a man to be trifled with.” Raising his voice he called, “Nameless Man, we bring Aranya, Princess of Immadia, to be tested. May the Great Dragon speak with wisdom through your testing.”

The man beckoned to Aranya.

After a moment, her legs managed to obey. The others followed at a small distance.

Aranya ascended the steps to the archway from which the man had appeared. He led her through a short stone corridor to an open amphitheatre, similar to the place where Aranya had fought Zuziana. She saw a black sandy arena, ringed with seats that rose right from the sand a dozen or so levels to a series of recessed alcoves set around its circumference. Each alcove housed a different Dragon statue.

With a soft susurration of footsteps the monks filed in and sat around the lowest two levels of seats. The Nameless Man directed Nak and Prince Ta’armion to be seated. Lyriela uncovered her instrument, a beautiful harp, and seated herself on the topmost level, on a low pedestal within an otherwise empty alcove. The Nameless Man pointed to the arena floor.

Swallowing hard, Aranya walked down to the indicated spot. Did they scare seven summers-old children like this? She hated the testing already and it had not even started.

Ja’alion called, “Is the candidate ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Liar, Aranya told herself. All the watching eyes made her nervous. She wished she could have taken a sip of water beforehand.

The Nameless Man’s hands clapped together above his head.

An immense pressure squeezed her temples. Aranya cried out, falling to her knees on the soft sand. The sapphire dragonet screeched in anger and fled. Abruptly, fire erupted from her fingers and scorched the midday heat to light up one of the Dragon statues. It turned red.

“The gift of fire,” Ja’alion intoned.

The Nameless Man bowed slightly to his left hand. Aranya heard Lyriela’s fingers form an intricate glissade of sound that surrounded her with images of the green grasses of an Immadian meadow in the springtime. She saw her mother walking toward her, garbed in a beautiful Fra’aniorian gown, smiling. But as Izariela approached, her face began to change. Cracks appeared in her skin. Orange fires appeared in the cracks, similar to the fires of the caldera between Fra’anior’s Islands, and her skin dried out until it resembled lizard skin. Her face crumbled.

Aranya raised her hands, splashed with tears. She ran to her mother’s side to heal her. Then Izariela was gone.

“The gift of healing,” said Ja’alion.

She glowered at the Nameless Man. How dare he summon up her mother?

Suddenly, Aranya’s ears buzzed. Her scalp crawled. Every hair on her head lifted as unnatural energies surged through her body. She fought a presence in her mind, screamed at it, ripped it loose and sent it spinning into the air. An arc of lightning burst across the arena. Every monk on that side ducked reflexively as the bolt hurtled into the statue above them, turning it blue.

“The gift of lightning.”

Now the green eyes bore down on her, pits of pitiless evil, eyes that reminded her of a foul swamp which housed a green Dragon. Surging toward her, the Dragon’s mouth opened to display a set of poisonous fangs. Aranya found herself tied to a log, lying prone. She was helpless. The presence assaulted her mind once more; she denied it, although it was much harder this time. Blood seeped from her nostrils. She spat at the Nameless Man.

A gobbet of green poison splattered against a statue to her left. The statue instantly became a vivid green, the colour of springtime sword grass.

“The gift of living things.”

Aranya heard a murmuring rise about her ears, but the Nameless Man pinned her with his eyes. He made a peremptory gesture and signed something at Ja’alion.

“The Nameless Man demands you allow him into your mind for the testing.”

“Well, I’m trying, but he’s hurting me.”

“The Nameless Man says he will not be denied.”

Suddenly, Aranya stood upon an isolated spit of rock above the Cloudlands. A horizon-spanning storm whistled toward her, great cumulonimbus clouds reaching to the heavens, dark and pregnant with a load of hail and wind and rain. Out of the storm came a Dragon, a mighty grey Dragon who menaced her as if he were a thunderhead full of snow and ice and wintery winds, and his breath was the storm that slammed into her frail Human body, sending it tumbling away into the clouds.

Her head slammed against the arena floor. The sand felt as hard as rock. Pain exploded behind her eyes; pain that surged out of her in a wave of sound, a titanic thunderclap amplified in the small space of the arena. A Dragon statue opposite her quivered and turned black. Lightning crackled crazily from column to column above the alcoves. A chill wind whipped across the arena just once, blasting sand against the watchers to Aranya’s right as a grey Dragon statue came alive to its colour, too.

Ja’alion’s voice shook as he called, “And, the gifts of ice and storm.”

The Nameless Man threw off his black robe and strode down to join her on the sand. He was sweating freely, Aranya saw, runnels of sweat pouring down the slender column of his muscled torso. He raised his arms to the sky as if beseeching the spirit of the Great Dragon to imbue him with power – and her skin crawled as something entered him or emanated from him, a presence of immense, brooding power. It was neither good nor evil, but it was unstoppable, a gathering of elemental forces into the person of the Nameless Man.

His hands lowered to point at her.

Aranya quailed. This was leagues beyond anything she had endured so far. The force that bore down upon her could not be withstood by Human flesh. Through it she sensed the Nameless Man’s frustration. Never before had a candidate rebuffed him. The humiliation moved him beyond his testing to a vengeful fury, seeking to beat her down, launching the all-out assault of a warrior in the awesome peak of his power. He struck out. An unseen force smashed her across the arena. Before she could move he soared across the space between them and grasped her throat with his hand, crushing the breath out of her.

The world moved. Aranya saw a storm, a dark, boiling maelstrom of clouds out of which the many-headed Black Dragon burst forth, writhing and thundering amidst blinding bolts of forked lightning. Its voice resounded across space and time: Why do you not yield, little one?

She could speak to the Dragon of her dreams! I’m hurting, o mighty Black Dragon – but there’s more, isn’t there?

More gifts? The great mouths opened in laughter, but it was neither cruel nor mocking. The Black Dragon’s heads examined her from many angles, eyes of many colours stripping her defences bare. Yet though his power was utterly dominant, he did not dominate her. He withheld. Perceptive, little one. It is not the Nameless Man’s place to usurp the dictates of time. Open your mouth and tell him Fra’anior named him at his birth, Ri’arion. Say, ‘Follow me’. He will understand.

Aranya felt herself fading. Wait! She cried, You’ve always helped me – why? Are you not an Ancient One? Why am I important to you?

No Dragon should seek to grow larger than her wings, he censured her.

No. I meant, how can I thank you?

Thank me? She saw an image of herself, many times smaller than a dragonet, flying amidst the titanic black heads. Little one, I like your spirit. Only promise to heed my call when it comes.

She had made a mistake, Aranya feared. She had offered unconditional service to this ancient being, who had evidently accepted. What his call might unleash in her life … she trembled. But she mustered her courage. Agreed, Fra’anior.

Abruptly, she found herself back on the black arena sands, having the life choked out of her. Aranya gasped a word of Dragonish power; a word unheard in the Island-World for hundreds or even thousands of summers. Had she been asked directly afterward, she would not have been able to repeat the word, for it fled her mind the instant it was spoken.

The Nameless Man flew off her as though she had shot him from a war crossbow. She stood, dusted off her Fra’aniorian gown, and strode across the arena sands toward the astonished monk. As she walked, her hands unlaced the back of the gown – she had the laces tied with a slip knot this time, in case she had to transform quickly. He raised his hands like blades, taking a warrior’s stance. His muscles trembled with readiness.

“You are not the Nameless Man,” she said, “for the Great Dragon Fra’anior named you at your birth. Your name is Ri’arion.”

No blow of hers could have struck him harder than those words. The monk’s façade crumbled. His body sagged as though bereft of the power to hold itself upright. She saw fear flash into his eyes, then anger, resignation and finally, wonder.

As though speech came to him with difficulty, he croaked, “I am Ri’arion. I am reborn.”

“HE IS BORN!” shouted the monks. “HE IS BORN!”

Ja’alion’s face lost its colour. He sat abruptly and buried his head in his hands. Aranya wondered if he feared for his life; she sensed it keenly.

The man called Ri’arion cast himself at her feet. “What is my purpose?”

“Follow me.”

“I am reborn. I am named Ri’arion. I will follow you.”

Strangely, Aranya too felt reborn. Gazing around her, the world struck her as a different place to when she had stepped into the arena to face the Nameless Man. She could not say how or why.

Ri’arion looked to the sky. From every side, the monks watched him as though his merest word could jolt them into an explosion of activity. He said, “Brothers, we have angered the Great Dragon this day. I am no longer fit to be called the Nameless Man. A new Nameless Man must be chosen. I call upon our musicians to soothe the Dragon. Is there one among us who will give a song-offering?”

“I will sing,” said Prince Ta’armion, rising eagerly to his feet.

The monk turned to Aranya. “Would you honour the Great Dragon by revealing to us your true form? Many of my brothers have never seen the Dragon-kind, except for dragonets. Will you also summon the dragonets to celebrate with us?”

There was only silence inside the caldera. The twin suns blazed down, pressing their heat and light into the gathering. The day waited in serenity for what would come.

“I have one more gift,” Aranya said, at last. She stepped out of her gown. “The gift of transformation.”

An Amethyst Dragon stood upon the black sands of Ha’athior Island. Her triumphant bugle thundered up the throat of the volcano, echoing around that immense natural chamber. To her surprise, many thousands of tiny voices responded. The dragonets came winging down from the clear skies in their myriads, a glorious riot of colours, flitting playfully about the watching Humans. Lyriela plucked a chord upon her harp, a harmonic minor of exquisite intricacy, which the dragonets picked up and began to hum along to before branching out into a dozen harmonic lines. Lyriela’s head bowed over the instrument as though her soul were weeping the music she began to play, for her music moved the world in ways of which Aranya could barely grasp the beginning. Prince Ta’armion, standing beside the harpist as though they had played together a thousand times, raised his voice to the heavens in a lyrical torrent.

Every scale on Aranya’s body thrilled to the sound. And her fires danced within her.

Chapter 21: Race to Sylakia

Ri’arion stared unblinkingly out of the Dragonship’s forward crysglass window during their approach to Fra’anior’s main Island. Aranya watched him covertly. Scary man. The monk never seemed to sleep. The sword which he carried strapped crosswise to his back had to be five feet long. He carried eighteen daggers. He practised chopping obsidian blocks to harden the edges of his hands. He said little, but clearly considered himself her slave.

Aranya did not want a slave.

She turned to Prince Ta’armion. “If you will ask Nak for advice, what do you expect? Besides, did I not hear you wonder if I’d been found in a Sylakian brothel?”

Ta’armion flushed a fine colour. “We kidnapped the wrong woman.”

“When my father hears about this –”

“My life won’t be worth a brass dral,” he moaned. “King Beran, he who withstood the Sylakians for twelve summers, will –”

“Laugh his beard off and demand an invite to the wedding,” said Aranya. Ta’armion really was too ridiculous, she thought. “What did Nak tell you?”

“I’d rather not repeat it in polite company,” said the Prince. “Aranya, what am I to do about your cousin? I can’t just kidnap her, can I? Look what a fine mess that turned out to be the last time. Ah, she’s a goddess. I’m in love. I’m besotted. Smitten, bitten …”

Aranya rolled her eyes inwardly. “Indeed. Ta’armion, here’s my advice. Firstly, kidnap her heart by wooing her. Sing to her, write her silly poetry, whatever you Fra’aniorians do. In a week or two the Prince might visit the village again to consult with the monks. Of course, the moment you start travelling regularly to Ha’athior, tongues will start wagging. You might invite her to perform in a concert, where she might meet your parents. That’s when you start getting devious. When you know she’s willing to be kidnapped, that’s when you – not some obnoxious, revolting slaver – go out there and kidnap her as though you are handling the most delicate flower in all creation and whisk her off to the royal palace. At every stage, you must treat her like the princess she’s about to become.”

“Oh! Oh, oh …” he sighed. “Do you think she likes me?”

“Ta’armion! I’ll toss you into the caldera myself if you ask that question one more time.”

Lyriela had asked exactly the same question, once Aranya figured out her signs. The wedding gong would sound for them, she had whispered back. Here she was, approaching her seventeenth summer of age, and she was acting like some nasty old matchmaker. She longed to fly away from it all.

A nip on her ear reminded her that Beauty was on her shoulder. She was another problem. How could Aranya carry off any kind of disguise with a dragonet perched upon her shoulder, a jewel of a creature that would not let her alone for a second? A picture popped into her head of Yolathion discovering a dragonet in his bed. She chuckled aloud.

“Plotting my demise?” asked the Prince.

“Ah, I’m working on my wicked-Dragon chuckle. How was that one?”

“Bad,” said Nak, suddenly startling awake from his snooze in the corner. “Aranya, I’ve a bad feeling we need to get back to Sylakia. Fast.”

“What?”

“I had a dream – look, petal, you might not believe this, but after a few years of being with Dragons, Dragon Riders start to pick up some of their magic, like something just absorbs right into – like I could absorb a kiss from thee, o jewel of Immadia’s crown.”

Aranya pecked his cheek.

“Don’t know how you put up with him,” muttered Ta’armion.

“Would you run away again if I did the same to you?”

The Prince made a very un-Princely face at her.

“I have procured thee a present for thy nuptial night, o jewel of Immadia,” Nak said, with so much glee that Aranya stared at him. “What, thou inquirest? Merely a copy of the outfit – barely an outfit – you wore to impress Prince Ta’armion when first he laid eyes upon your wholesome beauty.”

“N-Nak … Nak, I … Nak!”

“’Tis my name, o Princess of Perfection. Don’t mangle it so.”

“Oh, go bury your head in a volcano!”

“Aye,” sighed Nak. “It struck me as a fine idea at the time.”

“Nak, after a hundred and however many years, how do you still have no clue about women?”

Her fuming only made him laugh. “Aye, but I do know what turns a man’s head, petal. Would you look at that sweet Island out there? There’s another kind of beauty. Bet you we’ve received a coded scroll from Nelthion telling us to hurry back. It’s a premonition, just like you Dragons have. Mine always make my teeth ache.”

“You just want to ride Dragonback, back to Sylakia – admit it,” said Aranya. “I’m glad the monks found that old training saddle that fits me, but it’s only made for one Rider.”

Without turning, Ri’arion said, “I’ll give up my place to the old man.”

“He would sit on a thorn bush and call himself comfortable,” said Nak, deliberately loud enough for the monk to hear.

“My Rider is Zuziana,” Aranya said, crisply. “But Nak – we must heed your intuition. You could return separately, but if you felt able to make the flight, I would consider it a high privilege to carry you.”

“Bah, make the flight? The brass-faced effrontery; you rascally pipsqueak of a Dragon.”

But Aranya saw him wipe his eye surreptitiously.

Fra’anior in the light of suns-set was even more picturesque than when they had departed at dawn, if that were possible. Luminous sunbeams lent the Island and its town a golden serenity. Aranya allowed a heartfelt sigh to escape her lips. How was it that a place visited only once, so briefly, could immediately feel like home? Had she built up Fra’anior so much in her mind over the years … and the reality exceeded her expectations so spectacularly?

But then her eye picked out the graveyard. The flame trees marking the graves glowed as though they were truly aflame. She remembered who had visited this paradise before her.

There was no message scroll awaiting them at the Palace, but Aranya made her apologies to the King anyway, saying that she would fly at first light. “If I am able,” she said, “I will return – for Immadia and Fra’anior should not be strangers.” To Prince Ta’armion, she whispered, “I shall await word of a royal wedding in Fra’anior.”

Ri’arion helped her with preparations, packing provisions and checking the saddle straps for defects in the leather, for the saddle had been stored in a dry cave for many years. They dined with the Fra’aniorian King and Queen, and Prince Ta’armion, before she retired to bed earlier than usual.

Aranya fell asleep worrying about her wing joint.

* * * *

She awoke before dawn worrying she had not hunted recently as a Dragon. She found Ri’arion already awake, doing exercises in the private courtyard in the midst of the royal apartments. He greeted her with a nod, back to his taciturn self.

Aranya readied herself swiftly. Nak arose early, too, still the alert Dragon Rider. The King had supplied him with a thick fur-lined robe, gloves, hat and boots for the journey. They walked silently to the private gardens behind the Palace, where Aranya transformed and Ri’arion loaded her up and fixed the saddle in place. Nak mounted carefully. Ri’arion tied the old man’s canes behind Aranya’s spine-spikes and settled himself in the second position, one spike behind Nak.

Prince Ta’armion said, “Farewell. May the sulphurous breath of the Great Dragon speed your flight.”

Nak saluted jauntily. He was so excited!

Aranya gazed at the dawn. Beyond the eastern horizon lay Sylakia, where her Rider awaited her. Zuziana would be so disappointed to have missed out on Fra’anior, she thought. Her Dragon brows drew down. What was that – a flash of sapphire up there in the clouds? The dragonet?

Taking two steps forward, Aranya launched herself powerfully into the air. The additional weight was unexpected. Zip and Nak were similar in weight, but Ri’arion was a tall, muscular warrior-monk. She pressed harder than she was used to in order to gain height. Why not raise another rumour, she thought? Her throat swelled as she bugled a greeting to the dawn, making birds across the city take off in panicked flocks.

The dragonet hurtled down to greet Aranya with ecstatic somersaults and little bursts of fire from her nostrils.

“Is your wing a little stiff?” asked Nak.

“Yes.” Aranya grinned back at him. “How does it feel, Nak?”

“Blasted wind’s making my eyes tear up,” he said. “Aye, I lie. I thought I’d never fly again. This is a gift, petal. Just don’t scare our Ri’arion too much, alright?”

Seen over Nak’s shoulder, the monk’s smile was a thin grimace. “I’m fine.”

He was not. Aranya heard his heart thumping away double-time. A naughty smile curled her lips back from her fangs. So the mighty Nameless Man had a weakness – why was she so pleased about that? She stretched out her neck and beat her wings in slow, deep strokes, accelerating as she took them up to meet the dawn. She looked back at the yawning caldera between Fra’anior’s Islands, already diminishing as they gained height, and told herself that a Dragon would fly the skies of these beautiful Islands once more – if only to assist in a little kidnapping, should the need arise. Even without that, Lyriela did not deserve to go through life without knowing her family. Maybe she’d like to see Immadia.

Aranya wondered what rumours had reached Immadia. How soon would it be before the Island-World knew, as all of the Sylakian Hammers in Yolathion’s fleet knew, that the Dragon Shapeshifter was none other than the lost Princess of Immadia? What would the Supreme Commander’s response be? She pictured Dragonships bearing the sign of the screaming windroc spreading across Iridith’s broad face, with a violent shudder. Her little brothers … the baby, King Beran and Queen Silha … hammers rising and falling in a crushing rhythm, and blood, so much blood …

“Aranya?” said Nak. “What’s the matter, my Dragon-heart?”

He was so perceptive. Nak must know Dragons extremely well for that note of warning and concern to shade his voice at once, Aranya realised.

“An ill feeling,” she replied.

“A Dragon must hasten but husband her strength for the crossing,” he said, gently. “When last did you hunt?”

“I am hungry.”

“Aye. So, I will act as your Rider. I can feel by the cadence of your wing beats, Aranya, and by the sounds of your belly, that you need to hunt. We must teach Zuziana these things. Xinidia Island is but ten leagues ahead. There we should hunt and rest a little, before undertaking the longer stretch to Erigar Island. That’s a Sylakian outpost, a place to be wary.”

“Nak, how many summers did you ride Shimmerith?”

The old man was silent for a very long time before he replied, “One hundred and forty-one summers, Aranya.”

“Dragon Riders live that long?”

“Aye. Longer, if their Dragon lives.”

Aranya swallowed a huge lump in her throat. “Nak, would you be willing to tell me about Shimmerith? What was she like? Her personality? How did she fight? And speak to you? What you shared … Nak, you’ve so much experience. I’ve been a Dragon for just a few weeks. I need what’s inside your head. Can you just squeeze all of that wisdom into a prekki-fruit and give it to me to eat?”

“Aye,” said Nak. “Let me be alone with my thoughts until Xinidia Island, I beg you. After that, I will talk until the sheep stand up to sing to the moons.”

Aranya wanted to laugh, but could not – not when he sounded so melancholy. Instead, she summoned the dragonet to her and bade her curl up in her Rider’s lap. The little creature already showed signs of tiring.

The Great Dragon’s breath, unseasonably, came from the northwest, speeding their passage to Xinidia, a hilly, boot-shaped Island not a quarter-league above the Cloudlands. There they rested and Aranya hunted, sharing a large wild deer with the dragonet, who ate delicately, but with a surprising appetite for such a tiny creature. After that she launched off a steep hillside, to Nak’s whoop of delight, bearing more southerly toward Erigar. True to his word, Nak talked non-stop all the way from Xinidia to Erigar, sharing with her as many stories and anecdotes and snippets of wisdom as she asked for, until her head felt so stuffed with wisdom that it might start leaking out of her ears. She ignored the times he called her Shimmerith; as his mind wandered from topic, Aranya would gently prompt him back on course.

The wind continued to assist, allowing her to rest from time to time on the wing, but twilight was already well advanced before she spotted Erigar Island’s forested brow in the distance. She took them in for a careful approach and a concealed landing alongside a tall, coniferous forest.

After a dreamless sleep, Aranya woke before dawn and hunted a small hare in a nearby field for the dragonet, whose eyes whirled with delight at the offering. Aranya finished off the remains in a single bite.

That was when her ears caught a clink of metal on stone.

Her head whipped around. “Nak! Beware!”

Sylakian Crimson Hammers boiled out of the forest near their campsite, raising their hammers as they rushed Nak and Ri’arion. Aranya growled as she launched herself across the field toward them. How had the soldiers crept so close without her hearing them? She had been sleeping too deeply; not listening, unaware of any unfamiliar sounds. She was too far. Too slow.

Ri’arion burst from beneath his cloak, swinging that great sword of his in a deadly arc. He danced between the oncoming Sylakians, making them resemble lumbering ralti sheep to his lithe rajal form. The Sylakians dropped in twos and threes, pierced by the sword or struck down by crackling energies cast from his left hand. When his blade stuck in a Sylakian’s armour, the monk abandoned it. Now the daggers whirred out in short arcs, terminating in throats and bellies and knee-joints. The Sylakian charge faltered. Aranya slammed into those who hesitated at the rear, striking with her claws and snapping at a fleeing soldier’s leg. She spat out the limb.

The monk moved quickly amongst the fallen, finishing off the few he had not killed. Then he looked up. “You didn’t hear them, Dragon?”

“No. Sorry.” Aranya looked away. “Ri’arion, I’ve not long been a Dragon –”

“Feeble excuses hurt my ears,” he spat, retrieving his sword.

To her surprise, Aranya felt her lower lip quiver at the sting of his words. What? She was not six summers old, to be scolded like a child! To cover her chagrin, she pretended to check on Beauty. The dragonet perched on her nose and made silly faces at her until she cheered up. Her speech was a baby-like chirping. Aranya wondered if the dragonet had not yet learned to speak, or could not. A question about her age received no answer other than a backward flip in the air.

“Very clever,” said Aranya.

From Erigar Island was the longest leg of all, a day-long labour against a rising headwind that truly tested Aranya’s newly healed wing. Nak continued to hold forth as though he had never stopped talking, now with stories and legends he knew about Dragons and their Riders. The imagined heat of Ri’arion’s disapproval fuelled Aranya’s efforts, so that they sighted Archion Island by late evening of that second day. Archion was since ancient times a Sylakian ally, named for the great arch its Island made over the Cloudlands, as though two tall mountains had once leaned together to make a perfect natural archway though which the companions saw the White moon’s rising. Huge layers of terraced lakes surrounded its twin pillars, making the whole Island resemble the legs and torso of a warrior wearing banded metal armour such as Zuziana wore. Even from afar the sleepy twittering and croaking of the millions of great-billed herons, blackwing storks and blue-banded mallards filled her ears with a restless cacophony of birdcalls.

During the daytime millions of bats roosted in the cave-riddled underbelly of the Island. They flitted around the Dragon and her riders in sharp flurries of attacks. Nak cursed furiously as the bats scratched at his face; Ri’arion struck out efficiently with his daggers, extending his protection to Nak. Aranya tried eating a couple, but it was like trying to chew leather bags stuffed with bones. She spat them out at once.

Aranya brought them to a safe landing in an isolated spot alongside the second-from-bottom terrace lake. Ri’arion had to carry Nak off her back. After a day in the saddle, the old man was too stiff to move his legs.

“Not as young as I used to be,” he wheezed, stretching out his legs before him. “Used to fly for days without giving it a thought.”

Ri’arion passed him a prekki fruit and the waterskin. “Refresh yourself, old man.”

After slaking her thirst at the lake, Aranya returned to her companions. Nak was on his stomach, groaning as Ri’arion thumped his legs with a massage that to Aranya looked more painful than helpful. “Nak, Ri’arion, why was everyone so surprised at my testing? Aren’t the gifts – fire, lightning, life and healing magic – common among Dragons?”

“Aye, those are,” said Nak.

“But not all together,” said Ri’arion. “Nor has any candidate ever displayed the power to reject the testing.”

“Perhaps it is a Shapeshifter power,” Nak suggested.

Ri’arion pointed his finger at Nak. “Or an Amethyst Dragon power, Nak. Our records, covering a span of nigh on two thousand summers, show no record of an Amethyst Dragon in the Islands – I had our scholars check before we departed. But I do know this, old man. When a Dragon of such power rises, great events are afoot. The Island-World quakes at its roots. It is a portent we must labour to understand. Where did you find her?”

Aranya fidgeted at his words. Great. Ri’arion’s expectations of her only reached to the moons.

“Her roots are in Ha’athior,” said Nak. “You tell me, Ri’arion.” The monk scowled and kept his silence. Nak added, “Lightning and ice are rare enough. But storm power is almost unheard-of, Aranya. Offhand, I can’t remember ever meeting a Storm Dragon.”

“Fra’anior has storm powers,” she said. Ri’arion gasped and made a strange sign with his hands. “A vast, Black Dragon who appears in a storm of boiling black clouds, his many heads lashing about –”

“Stop!” Ri’arion barked, leaping to his feet, cold sweat clearly beaded on his forehead. “Stop, stop … please.”

When it was clear that he would not reveal why her description of the Black Dragon had disturbed him so severely, Aranya said, “Ri’arion, why did Fra’anior demand that you follow me?”

“Fra’anior asked this?” Nak’s tone clearly communicated his disbelief.

“I’ve dreamed of a Black Dragon since I was a child,” Aranya said. “I remember my mother once sketching such a Dragon for me and telling me stories about him. I used to think it was just a childhood fantasy, but then, when I was coming into my powers –”

“You said you saw the Black Dragon when you were falling from the Last Walk,” Nak interrupted.

“Yes, I did. I dreamed intensely about him in the months before I died.” Aranya swallowed. It had been a death, of sorts. “I mean, almost died. I thought I heard him say, ‘It is time,’ in a voice that, as Ri’arion put it, quaked the Islands. Obviously, I don’t know what that time is, unless either of you – no? Not even the Nameless Man?”

“It is not revealed,” said the monk.

Aranya wanted to slap him when he talked like that. “Ri’arion, why must you follow me?”

Ri’arion said, “I follow because I am named. It is my destiny.”

The thought of this intense, unsmiling man shadowing her because an ancient Dragon had declared it was his destiny, made Aranya shudder. Ri’arion would obey with unflinching faith. His world saw only Islands and Cloudlands, and nothing more. He saw destiny as an irresistible force. Perhaps it was, but Aranya wanted to fly free. She wanted to fight a destiny that pitted her against Sylakia, her against the powers of the Island-World and against her own kind, Humankind. According to Oyda, she wasn’t even Human. Or Dragon. Shapeshifters were a third category, truly other.

‘Your new life has begun,’ was how Oyda had put it. How right she had been. What would King Beran say? ‘Um, Dad, I’m actually a Dragon.’ Aranya longed to journey to Immadia Island. How they must have sorrowed. Yet here she was, arguing with an old man and an inscrutable monk.

Maybe staying away from her family was the wisest course of action.

She dreamed about the Black Dragon all night and woke with one thought in her mind: she must hurry back to Sylakia. Something had happened; something bad. She prayed it was not Zuziana. Had Zip not recovered from the Green Death? She had given her tears. But her mind’s eye could not help seeing Zip pushing up a flame tree, just one more fresh grave in Fra’anior’s graveyard. She woke Nak and Ri’arion long before dawn.

“I’ve had a dream,” she said. “We must hurry.”

Beauty rode on her nose for the ascent toward the low-lying clouds. Aranya smiled as the little dragonet preened and admired her reflection in the much larger Amethyst Dragon-eyes looking at her – well, through her, really, keeping a Dragon’s eye on the way ahead.

“Keep heading upward,” said Nak. “There should be an airstream up here – a Dragons’ Highway, we used to call them. I completely forgot to tell you about it yesterday, petal.”

“A Dragons’ Highway?”

“A very fast-moving wind,” said Nak. “You’ll need to go higher.”

“You’ll tell me if you’re struggling to breathe?”

“Aranya –”

“Nak! You will tell me.”

He grumbled non-stop for half an hour after that.

Aranya climbed through the damp greyness into a starlit wonderland beyond, so high above the world that she imagined she could see it curving away to the horizon. The air became bitterly cold. Ri’arion hardly appeared to notice, but Nak huddled in his cloak and the dragonet with him. The perfect white carpet of puffy little clouds beneath them lay serene by the starlight. Only the Mystic moon was aloft, casting its gentle, eerie light over the stillness.

They rose into the airstream.

“Great Islands,” gasped Aranya, feeling the blast upon her tail and wings.

“Aye!” shouted Nak. “It’s pushing a little from the right wing. Don’t fight it; use it.”

Dragon-Aranya wanted to shout at him that it was one thing to talk, but her mind was fully preoccupied with learning how to fly all over again as the wind whistled over her body in an unaccustomed direction, from behind. It changed the natural flow and lift of air over her wings. But with Nak shouting in her ear, mostly encouraging words but with a few typically Nak insults thrown in for good measure, she figured out how to adjust and accelerate to what she knew must be a tremendous velocity.

The cloud cover disappeared with the dawn. Aranya covered the gap to Sylakia in what Nak averred was a third of the usual flying time. She fell upon the dell like a purple thunderbolt out of the bright mid-morning sky. Her Dragon claws tore the sward next to the prekki-fruit tree.

Zip came running out of the hut to meet her.

Aranya bugled her happiness and relief before remembering she could speak.

Chapter 22: Betrayed

If Zuziana was well, what could there be to fear? Aranya’s three hearts thumped in concert as she waited for Ri’arion to help Nak alight. There was Oyda, dusting her hands on her apron, obviously caught halfway through baking something. Her Dragon form did not think much of that smell coming from the chimney, but Human-Aranya found it delicious.

Zip waved a cloak in front of her nose. “Actual clothes, your highness?”

“I missed you too, Zip.”

“New saddle? New Rider?”

Aranya scowled at the reproachful look Zuziana cast her. “It’s a long story, I’m bushed and I have one Rider – you.”

“He looks like he’s fresh from Dragon Rider warrior school.”

“I have one Rider!” She had to jerk her head aside to let her fire singe the grass. Zuziana jumped. “I spend two and a half days breaking my wings to get here in a hurry because I’m worried about my Rider, and you’re snivelling about a monk who hitched a ride?”

“Sorry.”

Oyda called, “Aranya, will you transform and come inside, please? Right away.”

Aranya’s hearts lurched into a gallop. “Zip? What’s the matter?” Her friend just looked at the ground. “Oyda? Zip?”

“There’s a visitor,” Zuziana said.

Having transformed, Aranya quickly drew the cloak over her shoulders and closed the front. “Yolathion? Er, the Supreme Commander?”

Zuziana shook her head.

Aranya almost stumbled at her first step. She needed to eat. She needed to sit down. Where was the dragonet? She probably needed to feed, too.

“Take my arm, Aranya. Wow, what’s this? A miniature Dragon?”

“She’s a dragonet. I call her Beauty,” said Aranya. The dragonet landed on her shoulder and hissed into her ear. “Hey, stop that, Beauty.”

“She prefers the name Sapphire,” said the Remoyan Princess.

Fire surged within her. Aranya slumped against the doorframe, shocked to her core. “What did you say, Zip?”

Zuziana did not seem to notice. “Inside, Aranya.”

As her eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior of the hut, she saw a man sitting in the light streaming through the door. “Nelthion? It is you, isn’t it?”

“Cup of tea, petal?” asked Oyda.

“Of course. Oh, Nelthion, I’m … sorry I burgled your Tower. Did it cause you much trouble?”

“A mild but official censure from the Supreme Commander,” said Nelthion, blowing on her knuckles. “Aranya of Immadia, I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to see you again, even under the circumstances. I –”

“What? Is it my family? My family are dead?”

Zuziana pushed her forcefully into the nearest chair. “Sit. Listen.”

Nelthion sighed, easing his back. “The answer to your question – oh, Aranya. Your family is fine, for now. Immadia Island is safe, but not for long. Listen to me carefully. I believe that Garthion is on his way to Immadia with a fleet of Sylakian Dragonships.”

“No. Garthion …”

“Aye. It was all over Sylakia Town when the Third War-Hammer Yolathion returned to explain to the Supreme Commander what happened to his best and finest Dragonships out there around Remoy and the Crescent. You two made yourselves mighty unpopular. But that was nothing compared to your rising from the dead as a Dragon Shapeshifter, Princess. Some thought the Supreme Commander had thrown a fit at that point. Between the Immadian forked dagger found on the battlements on the night you stole the Princess of Remoy and an Immadian Shapeshifter on the loose, destroying Sylakia’s forces – the Supreme Commander could not let it go unpunished. Garthion begged to be the instrument of his revenge. The Supreme Commander despatched him with all haste to Immadia.”

Aranya trembled. She whispered, “To take revenge on King Beran?”

“To obliterate the Kingdom of Immadia, Princess.”

Aranya could not speak. Her mouth opened and closed; her throat constricted in horror. The gravity on Nelthion’s face struck her like a physical blow.

“Burn him beneath the Cloudlands,” Nak hissed.

“The entire Northern Dragonship fleet has gathered at Yorbik Island, Aranya,” said Nelthion. “That’s upward of two hundred fully armed Dragonships. They’ve left the thinnest of garrisons around the Islands as they take ten thousand warriors to wage war on Immadia.”

Zuziana laid a hand on Aranya’s arm. “Garthion left four days ago, Aranya. Today’s the fifth morning. We’ve been waiting; how did you know …”

“Five days behind on a fifteen-day flight?” Ri’arion said. “Can that be caught up?”

Oyda, Aranya and Zuziana all shook their heads. Nak scratched his beard and tried to look sage, but only managed to appear befuddled.

“And Yolathion?” Aranya grated. “What of Yolathion?”

She could read the answer right off her friends’ faces. Oyda moved around the table to put her arm around Aranya’s shoulder. “He flew north with Garthion, petal.”

“No, Oyda. No, no, he … it’s a lie. Tell me –”

“He flew on Garthion’s own Dragonship.”

Surging to her feet, Aranya screamed, “NO!”

A towering fire blasted up the chimney. The world closed in, dark-winged and vengeful. The table rose up to smack her forehead. Then all went dark.

* * * *

Aranya awoke with a horrible jolt, weeping uncontrollably. Immadia!

She had dreamed of standing on the battlement of Immadia’s castle as the Sylakian fleet swept in. This time it was not First War-Hammer Ignathion who strode into the square, but his son Yolathion. He stamped right over the green cloth to where King Beran stood.

“Surrender is not an option,” roared the Third War-Hammer. “Kill them all!”

She tried to stifle her sobs with her fist. But Oyda had heard. She came into Aranya’s bedroom. “Petal. My poor petal.” She put her arms around Aranya. “Come now.”

Her gentle tone broke the retaining walls of a terrace lake within Aranya. The keening of her grief and pain, torn from deep within as though wrenched forth by a Dragon’s claws, shook her with appalling violence. She had never wept like this. Not even at her exile. Perhaps over Zip, but that was different. She hurt to cry. The more she cried, the more she hurt. Sparks and whirlwinds raced around the room, fighting and clashing with each other. Thunder growled nearby.

Yolathion was going to destroy her people. Yolathion, who she had somehow hoped in her heart of hearts, would renounce his duty to Sylakia and pursue her for love. All that stupid talk of honour and regret – it had all been a lie. Standing before the Supreme Commander, he must have blamed it all on her. That was the easy lie, the lie that regained his honour in the eyes of his masters. He hated her. He hated her Dragon-ness. He hated how she and Zip had shamed and defeated him. Now he would prove his loyalty to Sylakia in the most unequivocal terms.

She’d had that premonition. Had she not said, ‘Watch out that the hunter does not become the hunted’? She would hunt him. She’d hunt him and kill him.

But that would be all too late for her family, and for Immadia.

Aranya groaned.

Suddenly, a flash of blue streaked into the room. Shrieking piteously, the little sapphire dragonet crash-landed on the bed.

“Oh, poor darling,” whispered Aranya.

“Sorry, I couldn’t stop her,” said Zip. She had a three-clawed wound on her cheek, like a deep cat-scratch.

Aranya soothed the hissing, spitting little dragonet until she calmed down enough to be held in her arms. It soothed her too, a little – which helped, as the room smelled of smoke.

“So, exciting trip?” said Zuziana, with false brightness. “A little kidnapping cunningly avoided and a cousin found? You brought home a dragonet in one pocket and a tame monk in the other?” She held up a couple of scraps of cloth. “Nak left us in no doubt as to what he thought of this outfit. Yolathion might appreciate it – like the time you two were chained together for the dance. You don’t think there’s a chance, some little chance …”

Her headshake made tears fly off Aranya’s cheeks. “I’ve been a fool, Zip. As big a fool as ever walked the Islands. I don’t want to talk about Yolathion. Next time we meet, he’ll be the first Human I eat. I’m going to tear his head off and feast on his –”

Zip looked alarmed, but it was Oyda who snapped, “Shut that foolish talk, petal. Burning Dragonships is one thing. Eating Human flesh – you cross to that Island, you’re never coming back. You hear me?”

Oyda struck her as so vehement, that Aranya saw a curl of fear-born flame burst into life across the room. She swallowed and willed the flame to wink out. “Oyda –”

“Promise me!”

Aranya nodded, wide-eyed and trembling. “I promise and swear with all my heart. Er, hearts, Dragon and Human.”

But her hearts were torn so deeply she knew they would never be whole again. How glibly she had told herself she understood how her father must have grieved at the betrayal of his friend, the King of Rolodia Island. Rolodia had been crushed by the Sylakians. Her soul had been crushed, a pyre spent and burned to ashes, like Immadia’s soon-to-be fate. Oh, Yolathion!

“Good. Now, Nak thinks he has an idea. Come and listen, petal.”

“What?” Aranya’s eyes were leaking again. Her brothers, her little brothers! What had she done to them? “Reach Immadia in time? That’s impossible, isn’t it?”

“Nak doesn’t think so.” Oyda clapped her hands sharply. “Up with you, Princess of Immadia. Do your duty.”

Aranya stared at her. Duty was the last thing she wanted to think about. Yolathion was doing his duty. But his was duty with neither heart nor honour. Quickly, she pushed her aching body out of the bed. She took the dress Oyda held out for her and scooped up the dragonet on her way to the kitchen, where Nak and Nelthion pored over a map.

“Aha,” said Nak. “How’s about a kiss for clever old Nak, then?”

“Nak, I’ll give you ten kisses if you’ve figured out a miracle. And a Dragon kiss if not.”

Nak did his little dance. “It’s dangerous, Aranya. But it’s the only chance you have. Look.” His fingers traced a route Aranya had travelled once before. “North of Sylakia, we traverse the Spits on the way to the Twenty-Seven Sisters. Plenty of windrocs up there. Then up through the Sisters toward Yorbik Island. But look what happens now. First you travel north and two points easterly to Helyon via Ferial Island, then directly northeast to Gemalka on this long crossing, then you turn your Dragon’s nose over to four points north of west – not quite northwest – and cross to Immadia.”

Aranya nodded soberly. “There’s a sound reason for that big loop, Nak – there’s no other viable route to Immadia, unless you travel up from the far Western Islands.”

“If you had a long-range Dragonship, you could cross directly from Helyon – or even earlier, from Ferial Island – to Immadia, skipping Gemalka.” His hand swept the blank section of map that his suggested route traversed. “But there’s nothing here, right? No Islands.”

Biting her lip, Aranya nodded. “Unless your name’s Nak?”

Ri’arion said, “We call it Immadior’s Sea, after the great White Dragon for which Immadia was named. Powers of winter’s ice and –”

Nak shushed him irritably even as Aranya threw him a look of amazement. She had never heard this tale of the origins of Immadia’s name. Gleaming of eye and clearly hopping with excitement, Nak continued, “But if you could skip Gemalka, it’s elementary to see that you’d be taking the third side of the triangle – the long side, granted. Overall, it’s shorter than the route via Gemalka.”

Aranya measured the gap with her eyes. “By a full day, perhaps two?”

“Aye, there we are, my petal. Not just a pretty nose.”

Zuziana said, “Nak said that with the trade winds or a Dragons’ Highway, we could cut up to three days –”

“Imp. Whelp of a chattering sparrow. Let your elders and betters speak.” But Nak smiled at Zip. “I’ll have a kiss from thee later, o ravishing Remoyan. So, here’s the plan.”

Aranya calculated in her mind, remembering how she had discussed the navigation of this same route with Ignathion. Sylakia to the Spits, four days. Two days for the Twenty-Seven Sisters, clustered closely together. Another two up to Yorbik Island. One day further to Helyon, past Ferial Island. After that, six days, give or take, from Helyon via Gemalka to Immadia Island.

Impossible. Why were they even talking about it? “Nak, I’d have to land in that enormous gap – Immadior’s Sea – between Helyon and –”

“Aye, you couldn’t do four days on the wing, Aranya. Oyda’s Emblazon could do two and a half, but he was as strong as – well, an Island. But what if I told you there are two possible landing spots in that nice blank expanse? Not big ones.”

Aranya opened and closed her mouth as hope flared ridiculously in her breast. Landing places?

Oyda said, “Nak, it’s still a haul and a half for a young Dragon.”

“If you miss them, you’re dead.”

Zuziana scowled at Ri’arion’s contribution. “Thanks for the dose of cheer, monk.”

Nak added, “Let’s say you push hard through the Spits and by Yorbik, have gained two days. We assume Garthion will require a day to gather his forces. Moving that many Dragonships and men about the Islands is no mean feat. You then cut the corner and gain somewhere between two and three days. That lands you in Immadia either just ahead of the fleet, or as much as a day ahead.”

Aranya searched his gaze with her eyes. “You’re serious, Nak. You think this could work, don’t you?”

Nak nodded.

Zip put in, “Nak thinks we need to take Ri’arion. We need two archers for the Spits, or we’re dead. Windrocs like Dragons a lot less than they like Dragonships.”

“He’ll slow us down,” said Aranya.

“Staying alive is recommended, however,” Nak quipped. “Then, all you need to do is land on an active volcano and find a tiny patch of rocks called the Dragon’s Foot, way out there in a few thousand leagues of emptiness.”

“Sounds easy.” Aranya tried a chuckle. It convinced nobody, least of all herself.

“Which might put us in Immadia just the snap of a rajal’s fang ahead of two hundred Dragonships,” said Zip. Her eyes sparkled. Aranya knew what her Rider wanted to do.

“Easier than learning to fly,” she said. Then all she had to do was face Yolathion in battle. Aranya thought she might just throw up. “Rider? Are you ready to fly to Immadia’s aid?”

“Ready, my Dragon-friend.”

“Ri’arion?”

“I am sworn to follow,” said the monk.

Aranya said, “In the absence of any further craziness, Nak, will you tell us how to find these places you mentioned? You have flown that way before, haven’t you?”

“Not as such, no,” said Nak.

Gasps of shock and outrage sounded around the table. Oyda snatched up her rolling pin and chased Nak out of the door, fulminating dire threats to toss him off the nearest cliff.

“Mercy, mercy,” cried Nak, wobbling along on his canes.

“Mercy for thee, thou buffoon?” But Oyda did not chase him as hard as she might have.

* * * *

By evening, their preparations were complete. Aranya wished she felt more ready. After pushing so hard all the way from Fra’anior, she was about to undertake a journey of four times that length. As Nak put it, an exhausted plunge into the Cloudlands would not serve Immadia well. After raising all of their hopes, Nak had revealed his great plan was based on a bet he once lost to another Dragon Rider. Still being sore about his loss seventy years after the fact had sharpened his memory, he claimed.

It was good to know how sound and workable their plan was.

“Fact is, that Rider beat him to Helyon Island,” said Zuziana, picking up a conversation she had been having with herself all afternoon. “Are we taking the dragonet?”

“Are we taking the chattering Princess?” Aranya shot back.

“I wonder what you’d look like with all your scales plucked?” mused her friend.

“I wonder what you’d look like fried in a fireball?”

Ri’arion tested the draw of the Pygmy bow. “Nice weapon.”

“It’s a Pygmy bow,” said Zuziana. “Are you sure you can compete with a Pygmy?”

Zip had also spent the afternoon baiting Ri’arion. Apparently, provoking a deadly magic-wielding warrior monk was all part of the fun for a Remoyan Princess. Aranya wondered if she would cause an explosion at some point. Even stoic monks must have their limits. That she had not found Ri’arion’s limits as yet apparently only encouraged Zuziana. Aranya reminded herself not to mention how Ri’arion feared the Black Dragon. That would add kindling to the fire.

After saying fond farewells to Nak, Oyda and Nelthion, Aranya walked over to the precipice from which she had learned to fly. She spread her wings. Come, Sapphire, she called in her mind. The dragonet immediately launched herself off Nak’s shoulder and darted over to land – not without the customary showy backward double-flip – on Zuziana’s armoured thigh.

Aranya checked her Riders. It felt strange to be carrying two saddles. Ri’arion’s seat, behind Zip, was really just a pad fitted between her spine-spikes with a decent leather strap leading beneath her chest, but Zip had a real Dragon Rider saddle. It fit as though it had been made for them. It had additional straps that buckled around Aranya’s spikes, front and rear, and a clever catch mechanism for the Rider’s thigh and waist belts. Ri’arion had no such luxuries, nor would he want any. Judging by his expression, he thought Zuziana a frivolous piece of fluff and was uninspired to be landed with the job of protecting her. Aranya’s fangs showed in a grin. Zuziana would show him a thing or three about fighting Dragonback.

With a final round of fond farewells, Aranya flexed her formidable thigh muscles and launched them toward the suns-set, hidden behind a bank of gold-trimmed clouds. A sly peek over her shoulder as they dove a thousand feet had Zip grinning her madcap grin and Ri’arion grimacing as though he had a stomach-ache.

“Did you know there are men living down the cliffs here?” she called. “I’ll show you.”

“There are no Humans living beneath the Islands,” said Ri’arion.

Everything was always so definite with him, Aranya thought, even when he was wrong. She hoped having him travel with them would not spoil one of her favourite activities, flying and travelling with her best friend. Why had Fra’anior demanded that she take the Nameless Man under her wing?

Feeling glum, Aranya arrowed northward, enjoying a slight helping wind.

They passed by the caves of the cliff-men as dusk mellowed toward full night. Aranya drew in close, but not close enough for a speculative arrow-shot, for her companions to take a good look with their inferior eyesight. Even Sapphire peered at them in apparent interest. Zip waved impishly; her gesture raised howls of anger from the men swinging on their vines.

Unexpectedly, Ri’arion muttered, “I owe you an apology, Aranya.”

“Accepted,” she growled.

Several hours later, Aranya winged silently beneath the Last Walk.

“Feels like another lifetime,” said Zip. Aranya knew she was thinking about Garthion. Suddenly, without warning, Zuziana began to talk about their experiences in the Tower; of meeting Aranya, of her paintings, of Garthion’s torture and that fateful dance. It was the first time she had ever spoken voluntarily about Garthion, Aranya thought. Was it a different, cathartic kind of healing? She wanted to weep when Zip described how she, Beri and Nelthion had watched Aranya being thrown over the edge of the Last Walk.

Aranya quietly filled in a few experiences of her own, mostly for Ri’arion’s benefit, telling of how she had escaped, nearly crash-landed on Nak and Oyda’s hut, and how they had taught her about being a Dragon. After that, Zuziana described their travels to and from Remoy. By the time she finished, they had rounded the northern tip of Sylakia, three hours before dawn.

Aranya found a safe place to roost. Zuziana curled up in her customary position beneath Aranya’s neck. But Ri’arion slept outside of that protective nook.

Chapter 23: The Spits

As dawn struggled to find a way past Iridith’s horizon-spanning sphere, Aranya set off for the Spits. Nak’s advice was to cover the first leg during the daytime and then as much of the southerly Spits as possible during the hours of darkness. Windrocs were rarely abroad at night, but that also depended on Iridith’s brightness and the cloud cover. Iridith was waxing toward fullness. There was not a wisp of cloud above.

“Look, a Dragonship,” said Zuziana.

“A trader, I think,” said Aranya, who had spotted the Dragonship an hour before. “I’m trying my best not to look menacing.”

“Fat, scaly, many-clawed, Dragon-sized chance,” snorted Zip.

“Zip, how come you understand the dragonet?”

“You don’t?”

Aranya said, “She doesn’t speak. She never told me she likes the name Sapphire. You seem to know when she’s hungry as well.”

Zuziana thought about this for a while. “I’m not developing Dragon powers, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

Aren’t you?

“No.”

Her belly lurched when Zip answered her mental voice. But Aranya realised she might have spoken in Human, not Dragonish. She tried to summon up words similar to those Fra’anior had spoken to her. No, she needed to catch Zip unawares.

Your brother’s a ralti sheep. Zip burst out laughing. A Shapeshifter.

“Aranya, don’t be ridiculous. There are no powers in my family. None. Remoyans were always good Dragon Riders, though. I am just picking up a few things from you – it’s a Dragon and Rider thing. Nak’s always said that, hasn’t he?”

“You aren’t, er, lighting any fires?”

Zip laughed merrily. “Aranya, you’re too funny. Just because you healed me with Dragon tears … petal, are you feeling lonely? Like you’re the only Shapeshifter Dragon in the Island-World and now you’re wishing I would turn into a Dragon, too? Please, I’d as likely fly around the Jade moon.”

Ri’arion cleared his throat. “Dragons cry?”

“She does,” said Zip. “Healing tears.” Ri’arion’s expression switched quickly from befuddled to serene. The Princess sighed. “Ri’arion, if you imply I’m lying one more time …”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face said everything.”

Aranya smiled at them both. “Children, no squabbling on my back.”

A mutinous silence descended.

At least an hour passed before Aranya asked, “But Zip – don’t you think you’d want to be a Dragon?”

Zuziana leaned forward to pat Aranya’s neck. “Petal, I love the fact that you’re a Dragon and I wouldn’t swap you for anything in the Island-World.”

“Petal?” chortled Ri’arion. “You call this beast ‘petal’?”

Now it was the Dragon’s turn to fly on in an infuriated silence.

The day was old before Aranya sighted the Spits. She had tried different altitudes, but as Nak had suggested, there was no helping wind to be found. In the higher altitudes the wind was directly against them, while lower down, the air remained hot and still. From time to time Aranya rested on the wing, but she pushed the pace steadily. One thought dominated her mind. Garthion was ahead, five days ahead. She needed to pace herself wisely.

Even then, what hope did Immadia Island have?

Was that feeling that had struck her in Oyda’s doorway when Zuziana so casually interpreted Sapphire’s name, a presentiment or just surprise? She wished she knew the true power of Dragon tears. It scared her ralti-stupid, as the Immadian shepherds loved to say, to consider what she might have done to Zuziana. Was there still a price to be exacted for her life?

She knew far too little about Dragon magic.

Seen from afar, the Spits were a rock-forest whose winding paths made no sense. Aranya imagined they might once have been an Island which had cracked along fault lines to make the strange patterns which resulted. It was unnatural. Tall, regular columns of rock, broken off at different heights, leaning together as if in secretive conversation. Her eye would just begin to find a pattern, before the columns descended into chaos. That regularity was an illusion – wasn’t it? The only thing she could tell with certainty was that it gave her a headache.

“There,” said Zip. “The ancient Dragon Riders marked the tops of the columns with green paint, Just as Nak told us.”

“It has faded almost to nothing, Zip. How did you see that?”

“Dragon eyes.”

Aranya snorted at the joke, but still squirmed uneasily. Zip might deny it … Aranya would watch her closely. “Windrocs. Look, nesting along the edge.”

Zip asked, “How are you doing, Aranya?”

“I can keep flying for a while yet, but I should rest soon.”

They pressed on into the Spits, following the ancient trail. They rested on a rocky ledge which was no more than eight feet wide and an impossible drop into the khaki-tinged Cloudlands below. Ri’arion found a few twigs and conjured up a tiny fire, first brewing tea and then mixing up a stew prepared from a rock hyrax he downed with a swift flip of his dagger.

Aranya nosed about hungrily. “Mmm, what’s that?”

“There’ll be none left for us,” Ri’arion said.

“Heavens, a joke from the stone of stones himself?” asked Zip.

Muttering something rude beneath his breath, Ri’arion stalked off along the ledge to hunt for a few more hyraxes for Aranya. The plant-eating rodents were a foot to a foot and a half long, and plump enough to look appetising.

Zuziana gazed out at the Blue moon. “I just don’t see those rings you told me about, Aranya.”

“Dragon sight is amazing, Zip. I can count the feathers on those windrocs nesting down there. When I look at the stars without Iridith’s light, I see so many that they appear like the frosting of winter snows upon Immadia’s mountains.”

“I miss it being just us two, Aranya.”

“I know.”

“You scaly excuse for a lizard,” Zip grinned at Aranya and pushed her nose playfully. “How do you know?”

Aranya took a mock-snap at her friend’s hand. “You’re being mean to Ri’arion, that’s how. He’s a good man. Dull as a stick, but a good man.”

Zip chuckled. “Now who’s being mean? The depths of his Island lie deep, Aranya.”

Really? Aranya blinked in surprise at her choice of words. “Well, let’s both try to be less unkind to him, then. I won’t be jealous that I have to share you. I’ll try not to let fear rule my hearts.”

Zuziana’s vivid blue eyes examined hers from a few inches away. “You know what I love best about you, Aranya? Your one heart was big enough. Now you have three.”

Aranya did not think it was possible for a Dragon to blush, but she did.

Ri’arion returned with four hyraxes piled in his arms. “Snack, Dragon? Cooked or raw?”

“Raw,” said Aranya. She could hardly wait for him to deposit her portion beside her nose before gobbling up the offering. “Thanks, Ri’arion.”

“What do you do with the fur and bones, Aranya?” asked Zip.

“Spit them at curious Princesses,” laughed Aranya. “No, I think I digest just about everything. Weird, isn’t it?”

“Efficient,” said Ri’arion.

The monk moved off a few feet to begin his exercises. Zip sampled the stew. “Wow, you can turn rock hyrax into this, Ri’arion? It’s good.”

Ri’arion did not pause his handstand press-ups. “Good. You finish it.”

Before midnight, the travellers left that small pile of charred sticks on the ledge and glided on through the Spits, meandering through a rocky wonderland. Iridith and Blue made the night glow, so that their passing disturbed the windrocs, but none of the birds dared attack them – yet. Aranya wondered if that would change come the dawn. She increased the pace of her wing beats, weaving between spires and tracking past tumble-down cliffs covered in scratchy bushes and vines with thorns ten inches long.

“Smoothly,” said Zip. “Ease into the corners like Nak taught you.”

“The greater the change in direction, the greater the cost in velocity,” Aranya quoted back. “Velocity equals energy. The best fliers are also the most graceful for a reason, you stubborn, gawky excuse for a teenage Dragon.”

Both of her Riders burst into laughter. Zip was so surprised at Ri’arion’s dry guffaws behind her that she laughed a second time.

Dawn brought the first attack.

Aranya, having broken out into a valley among the rocky spires, ledges and mesas of the Spits, had taken the opportunity to close her eyes briefly when Ri’arion shouted the alarm.

Her startle reflex flared her wings and a windroc plummeted past, missing the attack by a rajal’s whisker. “Phew,” said Aranya. “Air brakes.”

“Nice manoeuvre, Dragon,” said Ri’arion, scanning the sky.

Aranya watched the windroc flapping hard to gain height. “He’ll be back. That’s a mad one.”

“How can you tell?” asked Zip.

“The eyes,” Aranya replied.

“We should take turns to shoot,” said the monk, nocking an arrow to his bow. “We’ve limited arrows, so let’s make each shot count. Can you shoot, Princess?”

“Passably,” Zip said, through clenched teeth.

“Good,” said Ri’arion. “Call your target and take the shot.”

Aranya felt compelled to add, “We used flaming arrows on armoured Dragonships, Ri’arion. Zip can do more than just land an arrow in a huge balloon.”

A raised eyebrow signalled his displeasure. “I said I trusted her. Is that not enough?”

Fire boiled in Aranya’s belly. But she said, “Ri’arion, we would hear and learn from you. Nak had a hundred summers and more Dragonback. In comparison, we have days.”

“A warrior watches how his companions handle their weapons. A wise warrior watches how they handle their hearts.” Ri’arion stretched out his arm. “I believe it is common Island manners to allow a lady the first opportunity. Ready, Zuziana?”

The windroc screamed as it rose to accost them. Aranya told herself that she’d have to take care of that cruel beak and hooked claws, or a wing could easily be shredded. Her torn wing was fine now. The Pygmy glue had disintegrated with the help of prekki-fruit juice, revealing completely healed wing membrane beneath. Even Nak had not known the Pygmy glue-trick. “Dragon scales and hide renew themselves just like Human skin,” he had said. “The glue would eventually have peeled off the layer of new membrane beneath.”

Zuziana aimed and released. The windroc spiralled down into the Cloudlands.

“Hmm,” was the monk’s response.

Throughout the morning, windrocs rose from their nests in the surrounding towers of rock or swirled in from the strong winds above the Spits, either to investigate and leave the Dragon well alone, or to attack with their favourite dive-and-shred assault. Aranya decided that Zip was the better archer, while Ri’arion was faster on the draw and reload.

They rested in a shallow cave from midday to suns-set. Aranya dreamed about giant windrocs eating her wings. She was unable to fight back, somehow mute and powerless. Aranya awoke to find Zuziana and Ri’arion both patting her with concern and asking what was wrong. Embarrassed, she hung her head and muttered crossly. They ate dinner – most of a mountain goat for Aranya, and part of a haunch shared between Zip and Ri’arion, again spiced to perfection by the resourceful monk. They set out again after dark.

Their route led through a maze of towering black columns, so tall that their tops were lost in the sullen grey clouds gathered above. “Dragons’ breath,” said Ri’arion, looking up with distrustful eyes. The trail led them on into blind canyons that miraculously opened before them, through hidden clefts in rock faces, and several times beneath titanic boulders or whole columns balanced above yawning chasms. It was a tough challenge for Aranya, a flying obstacle course that kept her constantly on edge.

Come dawn, the windrocs appeared in force.

After two fierce flurries had been beaten back, Ri’arion said, “Seems when we hit one, we get a respite while the others tear it apart. Do you want to rest, Aranya?”

“I’m anxious to push on,” she said.

But the dark brown windrocs would not leave them alone. Aranya was concerned that a strike on her wings would break the struts. The biggest windrocs were nearly half her size.

They ducked through a narrow gully, blasted out of the far side and zoomed into a natural amphitheatre filled with windrocs hunting a troop of monkeys they had somehow trapped in that narrow space.

“Incoming!” shouted Zip, drawing her Pygmy bow smoothly.

“Starboard is mine,” called Ri’arion.

“I’ll deal with this bag of feathers right ahead,” said Aranya, unwilling to be left out. She wanted to test her mini-fireballs. They did not hurt her throat the way her first attempt had burned the entire fifteen-foot length of her gullet.

“A dozen to the starboard,” said Ri’arion. “More above.”

Aranya spat a fireball as she accelerated, striking the windroc square in the beak. The bird screamed as it burst into flame.

Both bows twanged as Aranya weaved through the gathering windrocs, making for a green marking she saw on the far side, a league or more distant. The windrocs gathered as though they were flies drawn to rotting meat.

“Three for me,” said Zuziana, sighting and shooting in one movement. “Got him.”

Spit, spit, spit! Aranya added to the kill-count. She dodged a windroc hurtling from above, continuing into a barrel-roll as four more birds whistled down toward her. One struck her belly, but Aranya swatted it with her forepaw, the three forward-pointing claws curved for maximum damage.

Ri’arion swore. His shot had taken a windroc, but it still crashed into his head and shoulders. Aranya lashed her tail, smashing the wings of two would-be biters. Spit and spit! Her small fireballs were getting out of control. Aranya oriented herself, scanning the sky above. As a half-dozen windrocs dive-bombed them simultaneously, her challenge bellowed out until it echoed off the far cliff face. Aranya tucked in her wings and coiled up, striking out with her claws. Ri’arion beat off a windroc with his bow and stabbed it in the eye with an arrow. Zuziana fired smoothly, left and right, as Aranya peeled away. She shuddered as a windroc slammed into her body near the base of her tail. It stuck there, somehow, perhaps speared by several of her spines, but the bird was clearly alive and clawing her repeatedly as it refused to die.

“Get it off,” shouted Ri’arion.

Aranya lashed out with her tail, but the angle was awkward. She could not reach it with her mouth.

“Dive!”

The Dragon furled her wings and tipped into a swift dive, right between a pair of windrocs. They screamed challenges at her, striking out with their beaks. Aranya bit off one’s head, but the beak sliced her tongue open.

Aranya screamed and spat fireballs as the windroc on her back opened up her hide. She aimed backward, but suddenly had to swallow as she saw Ri’arion standing between them. He was balancing along her back with the ease of a mountain goat. Untethered!

“What are you doing?” screamed Zip.

The monk’s sword swung, beheading the windroc stuck to her back. Zuziana, fully twisted around in her saddle, shot another windroc just as it extended its talons to claw his face.

A weight crashed into Aranya’s left wing, slewing her around in the air. She veered instinctively, taking the power out of the blow, but left Ri’arion with no chance, even holding onto one of her spines with his hand. The centrifugal force whipped him away. Where had he gone? Aranya stalled frantically. Turning her nose toward the Cloudlands, she dove with her fullest power. Her throat worked, sensing the readiness of her fire-stomach. The windrocs converging on their prey were blasted away by fire and arrows. Ri’arion, twisting in the air even as he fell, struck out again and again with his sword.

But one remained. The windroc sunk its talons into Ri’arion’s shoulder and neck and rushed away with a cunning jink of its wings. Aranya shot her tiny, white-hot fireballs twice, but missed. Zip’s arrow feathered in its throat, well above the heart. But the Dragon gained quickly on the bird, laden with its intended meal. She swerved sideways, grabbed the windroc between her forepaws and ripped it apart with her fangs and claws. Aranya thundered her triumph as the blood burst around her muzzle. Her left hind paw closed around Ri’arion’s thigh.

“Got you.”

Rocks whirled into Aranya’s view. She banked at once, using her forepaws and free hind leg to run along the edge of a stone column. She dived over the far side. A windroc crashed into the stone next to them, breaking its neck instantly.

“Left,” shouted Zip. “Mind Ri’arion’s head.”

Aranya hurtled into the crevice, having to tuck her wings in to avoid scraping the rocks either side.

“Maybe I won’t mind his head,” growled Aranya, concentrating on the tunnel rushing toward them, adjusting neatly, minutely, screaming around a corner, straightening a fraction of a second before they sideswiped the wall. “Idiot! Walking Dragonback … all those windrocs …”

They broke out into a storm. One moment there was rock above them, the next, torrential rain. Aranya peered through endless grey curtains, searching. Not a windroc to be seen, as far as she could see – which was only a thousand feet or so. She eased up on the speed. Flying headlong into a rock wall would be unwise. Given the quantity of adrenalin pumping through her three hearts, she needed to calm down from her battle-pitch. But the wind was also from behind. Could they use it without losing the trail?

Ri’arion must be uncomfortable down there. Aranya fought off an urge to shake him like an unfortunate ralti sheep feeling the weight of a hunting Dragon.

“Let’s get him back aboard,” said Zip.

“Reading my mind now, Rider?” asked Aranya.

“Aranya, relax. The battle’s over. We’re all friends, here.”

A growl forced its way out of her throat, but Aranya knew Zip was right. Spotting a rock face ahead, she scanned it for caves. She spotted a splash of paint. They were still on the trail.

Zip slapped her neck. “Good Dragon. Nice Dragon. Why don’t we rest while the rain holds, then fly on the skirts of this storm and see if we can make up some time?”

“Where’s Sapphire, Zip?”

Her friend gave a low cry. “Oh, no! Call her, Aranya.”

Sapphire? Sapphire!

Aranya heard nothing. She shook her head slowly. “Did a windroc get her?”

“We have to go back.”

More roughly than she intended, Aranya dropped Ri’arion on the ledge outside the cave and dashed back through the rain toward the crevice they had left. But they had barely sighted the faded green splash of paint when Aranya heard a shrill cry. Sapphire shot toward them like a miniature bolt of lightning, crashing into Zip’s arms, squealing and purring and crooning her delight.

“Okay, okay, you silly creature,” laughed Zip. “Don’t get left behind next time.”

When they landed, Zuziana launched a tirade at Ri’arion, until Aranya felt it necessary to put her wing between them. She said, “But he did remove that windroc, Zip. Its claws cut me deeply, which could have been dangerous, that close to the spine.”

Muttering about tossing the monk off the nearest Island, Zip relented.

Later, Zuziana exploded at Ri’arion for not having his wounds seen to. Shirtless, he submitted to having Zip pore over his cuts and puncture-wounds, extracting bits of cloth with her fingernails. The monk was all lean muscle, much like her Dragon-muscle, Aranya reflected. Zip evidently noticed, too, because Aranya’s sensitive hearing conveyed her exact heart-rate as her friend’s eyes flicked over his back, taking in much more than just the wounds she was now dressing with Oyda’s ointment. They were both breathing a little fast.

At length, Zip touched his back. “What’s this scar, Ri’arion?”

He shivered slightly. “A burn from a testing. That was when I learned how dangerous those with powers can be.”

“And this?”

“In our fourteenth summer of training, we hunt and slay a wild rajal with just a dagger.” The monk chuckled. “He left me three fine mementos – that scar, one on my thigh and another one here on my stomach.”

His stomach was formed like twin rows of stones. Even in the cave’s gloom, Aranya made out the hint of colour that stole into Zuziana’s cheeks. Oh, by the mountains of Immadia – neither of them knew it, but a Dragon could tell. Aranya kept her silence. It was unfair, being able to judge emotions with the perception of a Dragon. Abruptly, another quality in Zuziana’s skin came to her notice, something that had not been there before. Reflexively, her Dragon sight magnified the image until every pore of Zip’s skin appeared as large as a bucket. She was not mistaken. The magic of her Dragon tears was still thriving in her friend in the form of miniscule stars forming, swirling and disappearing within her flesh.

Aranya caught her breath. Suddenly, eavesdropping on her companions’ budding attraction to each other lost its novelty. She could not tell Zip. What had she set off?

Ri’arion stirred. “Thank you for your kind help, Princess. I – uh, apologise on two accounts. I am not much used to women, having grown up since my infancy in the warrior monastery. While we don’t take vows of celibacy like most of the Fra’aniorian monasteries which follow the Path of the Dragon Warrior, that is the reality for most. So if I am awkward and ill-mannered, it is for this reason. I also apologise for walking your Dragon’s back during the battle. It was foolish. Aranya could have blasted the windroc with a fireball had I not stood in her way.”

It was the longest speech Aranya had ever heard pass the monk’s lips.

“But you saved me much hurt,” said Aranya. “May I lay my paw on you?”

“Healing?” He nodded.

“Actually, it wasn’t that foolish an idea,” said Zip, colouring again, “despite my earlier interruption –”

“Eruption,” said Aranya.

Zip wrinkled her nose at Aranya. “Very well, eruption. But Ri’arion, if you were tied on, or better, if you had short stirrups you could stand in but still be secured to Aranya’s back – you could wield a sword against the windrocs and not be trying to strike past my head and shoulders.”

Aranya placed her paw on Ri’arion’s shoulder, considering this. He staggered beneath the weight. “I’m willing to try it,” she said. Concentrating deeply, she released the healing power. “After we sleep.”

Chapter 24: Powers

They chased the storm out of the Spits, making the best use of the blustery winds. Another full day’s flying and several ultimately harmless skirmishes with single, marauding windrocs saw Aranya and her charges free of the Spits. Aranya declared a sight of Si’oon Island on the horizon, the most southerly of the Twenty-Seven Sisters.

Zip, eyeing the storm heading north, said, “I hope it grounds their Dragonships.”

“Let’s stop at Si’oon and let Aranya hunt,” the monk suggested. “I’ll try to find out how far ahead Garthion’s fleet might be.”

After landing in a secluded forest clearing, Ri’arion walked to the nearby town to make enquiries. He returned shaking his head. “I make it four and a quarter days. They aren’t dawdling. Besides that, I nearly got into trouble, asking that question.”

Aranya lifted her nose from the enormous wild ralti sheep she had been eating – not enjoying, just eating. “We made up time. With short but regular stops, we could extend my flying time even more.”

“We saw that Dragonship,” said Zip. “We should stay out of sight.”

“It’s a risk,” Ri’arion put in.

“If we’re spotted, we’ll have to take the Dragonship down. But not innocent traders,” said Aranya. “Not if we can avoid it, anyway.”

“Votes for numbing our behinds in the saddle for a few hours?” asked Zip.

“A few more bites first,” said Aranya.

“That’s truly a Dragon-sized sheep, that one,” said Zip. “Maybe we should toss the carcass over the edge before someone figures out what happened here. Are you sure you won’t be waddling in the air, your oh-so-greediness? Your stomach’s dragging on the ground.”

“A girl needs her strength.”

Aranya tried to suck in her stomach. She settled instead for offering Zip a grin full of shredded strips of meat dangling between her fangs.

* * * *

The hunting was excellent in the Twenty-Seven Sisters, but Aranya did not feel hungry again after eating a third of that massive ralti sheep. She dropped the carcass over the edge of the Island on take-off, but still felt the extra weight in her stomach. They winged north, ever north over the verdant Isles of the Sisters, pausing only when needed to rest or refresh themselves. A hot south-westerly breeze helped them along, so that the crossing of the Sisters took only a day and a half. Aranya found a sweet green dell on the uninhabited northernmost Isle of the Sisters, scared off a few rajals, and declared:

“Well, my smelly Riders. Here’s a waterfall and a pool for bathing, I see sweet grass for sleeping on and hares playing in the sward.”

“There’s a subtle hint if I ever heard one,” Zip snorted. “By the lakes of Remoy, it’s even hotter down here than up in the air.” She wiped her brow and examined her arms. “I guess I am a bit dirty.”

“You have to have a Dragon’s sense of smell to truly appreciate the richness of your odour,” said Aranya. “Come on, I’m dying for a swim. Please get me unloaded, Zip.”

“Not if you’re going to insult me.”

But Zuziana and Ri’arion willingly unbuckled the saddles and travel packs. They had to duck as Aranya, with a bugle of delight, jumped into the water. It was not the Immadian Princess’ most elegant moment. She had forgotten she was a Dragon. Her belly-landing almost emptied the small pool. But then she stood beneath the small waterfall which dropped into the pool from a height of nearly a hundred feet, shaking out her wings.

“It’s magnificent,” she called. “You have to try it.”

Sapphire sped into the waterfall with gurgling cries that sounded so similar to Human laughter, Aranya had to look three times to convince herself it really was the dragonet. Zip was next, shucking her armour and underclothes behind a boulder before diving in with barely a ripple of the water. Remoyans could all swim like fish, she was reliably informed. Immadia’s lakes were usually too cold for swimming, but she had been taught at a young age by her father at the private hot springs behind Immadia’s castle. Aranya glanced at Sapphire. The dragonet was actually flying beneath the water. Slow flying, to be sure, but a body streamlined for flying was also good for swimming, evidently. She would try it at the next terrace lake, Aranya decided, not some pretty pool that only took her up to her knees.

Zuziana had a scrap of soapstone with her. She scrubbed away energetically. Aranya sneaked up behind her and pushed her over in the water.

“I did not want a back scratch,” she spluttered. “Not with those talons.”

“Zip, what did Nak say about feeding my Human form?”

Zuziana pretended to stroke an imaginary beard. “He said it was different to the Dragon form. Why, is Human-Aranya going to come out to impress our nice monk?”

“I think you’ve got that covered,” said Aranya, before she thought the better of her words.

“A-Aranya!”

“He came to sleep near you last night, next to my neck,” said Aranya. “That’s all I meant.”

“That is not all you meant, you liar.”

“Do you think I could transform here and be Human for a bit? Do you think it’s safe?”

Zuziana changed her deliberate scowl to a smile. “As long as you leave my monk to me. He’s – oh.”

Following the widening of Aranya’s eyes, Zip whirled. Ri’arion stood beside the boulder, clad only in his loincloth. His gaze flicked to the scars on her body, before apprehending Zuziana’s shriek and horrified expression. He turned on his heel but stood his ground.

Aranya heard his heart hammering away. She and Zuziana exchanged baffled glances.

“So, I fail to understand,” said Ri’arion, evidently through clenched teeth. “Yesterday, I learned from a reliable source that Remoyans bathe together in social settings. I assume it’s no problem for a man to bathe near a Dragon, except that you’re a Shapeshifter, Aranya. Therefore I wore a decent covering.” His hand indicated the loincloth. “Am I offending you by being clothed, even so little? What taboos has this ignorant monk stomped all over, this time?”

Zuziana began to chortle. Soon, she was bending over, unable to even gasp out a coherent sentence. Every time she began to speak, another attack of the giggles overcame her.

Finally, in exasperation, Ri’arion said, “The Mystic moon does not make monks mad, unlike the saying.”

Aranya said, “I think, Zuziana, that you neglected to clarify that Remoyans bathe in separate gender-groups, apart from within close family. Ri’arion, a loincloth might be decent among monks, but in most Island societies, you may as well be nude. For example, seeing Zip’s hair is an affront.”

“But she has beautiful hair.”

Zuziana said, stiffly, “If so, then what does a Ha’athior Islander think of a scarred body?”

Ri’arion appeared to consider this for some moments, although they could not see his expression. He replied, “We all wear our scars, Princess, just some are more apparent than others. Life scars every person. Although scars may be mute, yet still they may speak such words as should make the heavens weep.”

Zip’s face crumpled. Tears welled in her eyes and tracked down her cheeks.

Aranya transformed, and gathered her friend into her arms.

Suddenly, Ri’arion fell to his knees, still facing away from them. His voice thickened with passion as he declared, “I grieve for your wounds and pain, o Zuziana of Remoy. I sorrow that you suffered, but rejoice in the spirit I see revealed in you.” His upraised fists punched toward the skies and a fearsome cry tore the still noonday air, making his companions jump. “And I say, curse the hand that writ such a tale of woe upon your flesh! I say, spirits of the Ancient Dragons, be roused against this evil and may the hand of the afflicter be forever afflicted!”

His voice was thunder to the heavens. Aranya sensed a sudden stillness. The suns paused in the skies. A hiatus in all the world’s doings persisted as the magic gathered in him.

A bane upon the hand that scarred thee, Zuziana of Remoy!

Concentric circles of monstrous power raced out of him, a momentary perturbation of the fabric of the Islands. Aranya gasped. Ri’arion had spoken Dragonish! The monk pitched forward on his face, senseless.

She whispered, “Hidden depths to his Island, you said.”

Zuziana shuddered violently against her shoulder. “I would not like to be Garthion, this day. My father always counselled me to be careful what I wished for, Aranya. I did not wish for this.”

Moving forward, Aranya bent to check Ri’arion’s pulse. “He’s still alive. We should put him in the shade; make him comfortable. Should I transform to keep us safe –”

“No. You should feed your Human side.”

Aranya heard the warning in her friend’s voice. Her heart ached for Zuziana. But when they moved the monk into the shade, Zip paused over him with an unconsciously tender expression. Aranya dug in her bag for her clothes while she tuned in her Dragon hearing.

She heard: “You really think a loincloth is decent dress, you ridiculous man?”

“Zip, shall I get some tea on the boil?”

“Nice and sweet to get my man on his feet.”

“Oh?” Aranya chuckled. “Are you planning to run around in just a loincloth, too? That’ll get his attention. Ah – what shade of pink do I make that?”

“Says she who propositioned the King of Fra’anior?” Zip wagged her finger at Aranya. “The demure and innocent Princess of Immadia was heard to declare, ‘You can do anything you like with me, o King’? I need to write that down …”

“If I see a scroll I’ll burn it.”

“Aranya, how did it feel?” Zip dropped her gaze. “When you started to learn about your powers, how did –”

“Dragonship!”

Zuziana dived for her Pygmy bow. “Darn! Don’t have fire arrows ready. Light it, Aranya.”

She swung the bow up, aiming high over the waterfall where the armoured Sylakian Dragonship had paused, clearly having spotted them down in the dell. Aranya knew the shot was impossible. Zip’s arms trembled as she struggled to make a full draw; three quarters was the best she could manage. The war crossbows overhead oriented unerringly on them.

Aranya reached out with her flame and lit the arrow. “Shoot, Zip.”

“It’s too far.”

The power was there in her throat, clamping her chest like a Dragon’s paw, the memory of it from her testing as raw as a fresh wound. Aranya remembered the pain of her head striking the arena’s floor after the Nameless Man’s attack, and what had followed. She clung to that thought.

Zuziana, having glanced at her friend, nodded. “Now.”

A thunderclap of sound accompanied the release of the arrow from Zuziana’s bow. The speed of the arrow all but extinguished the flames as it climbed and climbed above the waterfall, an impossible arc that defied gravity. The arrowhead split the Dragonship’s armour cleanly. Aranya caught her breath.

WHHHOOOSH!

The Dragonship imploded with a blinding flash of light.

“The gift of storm,” she said. Aranya thudded down on her tailbone as the strength in her legs gave out. “Ouch. Islands’ sakes, that windroc really pecked my backside.”

* * * *

They rested for the balance of the afternoon. Ri’arion awoke and acted as though nothing had happened. He and Zuziana trained at unarmed combat while Aranya dozed in the shade of a prekki-fruit tree. Sapphire hunted dragonflies around the pool and waterfall.

Aranya startled awake at a merry cackle of laughter from Zuziana. “Teach you to hold back, Ri’arion.”

Zip helped him to his feet. Ri’arion rubbed the back of his head. “I think you’ve mastered that technique, Zuziana.”

“Beating up little Princesses?” asked Aranya. The day was almost spent. They should be on the wing soon.

Ri’arion’s dark blue eyes, so deep they seemed like pools of night’s darkness, lit upon her before darting back to Zuziana. He said, “I’ve ascertained that the Remoyan rajal can hold her own.”

“Yes, if he’s tied up, blindfolded and has a Dragon sitting on his chest,” said Zip.

“I see that you two destroyed a Dragonship,” said Ri’arion. “Did it come low over the dell? I hid the pieces, by the way, Aranya. Quite the wreckage.”

“Over the waterfall,” said Zip, pointing. “Up there, about two hundred feet up – and before you give me that sceptical frown, Aranya helped. She sped the arrow along.”

“Storm powers, Dragon?”

Aranya nodded. “It’s the first time I’ve ever used Storm.”

“We should talk about what I know about Dragon powers,” said Ri’arion. “Having the power is one thing, Aranya – and by the Islands, you have power – but knowing how to use that power is the greater challenge. Any Dragon with a pair of wings can spit fire. But can they control fireballs like I saw you trying to do against the windrocs? Or, as you’ve now told me, speed an arrow using Storm power? Very innovative.”

Zip asked, “Is it normal for powers to appear just like that?”

Ri’arion nodded. “The gifts lie latent within a Dragon. No-one knows when the power will manifest, but like my testing of Humans, only those gifts given the person will manifest. I never finished testing Aranya – and I don’t think I want to. The Great Dragon cut the testing short. He will have a reason. Instead, I will offer my service and my knowledge.”

Aranya launched herself and her Riders out of the dell with the last light of suns-set. The Cloudlands ahead lay like crinkly auburn hair between the Islands, the wavy crests highlighted by beams of sunlight blazing between several low, thin banks of clouds.

The wind blew against them; a steady, strength-sapping breeze directly from the north. Aranya worked hard to keep her forward momentum. She tried various altitudes, but found nothing to relieve her. They stopped several times at small Islands, but it was mostly tedious labour, on and on, counting the hours away, listening to Ri’arion and Zuziana discussing Dragon powers and life at the monastery and Zip’s memories of growing up in Remoy. They were becoming close, Aranya thought. She might lose her Rider.

Her Riders slept several hours until dawn. They took turns keeping her company or resting as she winged northward the whole of the following day and well into the night after that. Aranya had far too much time alone with her thoughts. She tried very hard not to let fear rule her hearts – fear for Immadia, terror for the fate of her family and fury and despair whenever she thought of Yolathion’s treachery.

Toward midnight, Dragon-Aranya twisted her neck until she scowled over her shoulder. “Awake?”

“Aye,” said Ri’arion. “Zip’s awake, too. Tired?”

“Puffed out. I don’t think we’ve made up a single hour on this leg. Yorbik Island is still leagues away. But I smell smoke on this blasted breeze.”

“You smell smoke from the next Island?” asked Zuziana.

“It’s fifty leagues on the map from the last place,” said Aranya. “I’m not convinced it’s just a forest fire – the smell’s not right.”

She heard a rustle as Ri’arion pulled out the compact map they had borrowed from Nak. He and Zuziana bent over it. “This one,” said the monk, pointing at something Aranya could not see. “Rorbis Island. Tiny place.”

As the night drew on, a column of smoke slowly became apparent, lit from behind by an almost-full White moon. A little later, Iridith rose in the southeast. Aranya saw the destruction long before her Human Riders could make out the detail. Ri’arion and Zuziana became subdued as they approached the small town.

“It’s been razed,” said Zip.

“This is Dragonship work,” said Ri’arion. “Look, you can see the scorch marks and a quarrel stuck in that roof over there. Bodies everywhere, not buried. It’s a massacre.”

“Garthion practising with his forces?”

“Or Yolathion,” said Aranya. She swallowed down her fury.

Despair stuck in her craw like a bone bent on choking her. She wanted to believe Yolathion had been coerced. But she knew that was a false hope. Nelthion had numbered the Jeradian component of the Sylakian forces at over twenty Dragonships – a thousand men. Yolathion could have started his own war, had he wanted to. Instead, he had chosen to accompany Garthion on his mission of vengeance. That was his heart. That was how he chose to serve Sylakia; the ultimate rejection of whatever feelings he might have shown for an Immadian Princess. Aranya had been completely wrong about him. She had to accept that. Beneath the mannerly, sometimes boyish exterior, lay the cold heart of a killer.

“People, down there,” said Ri’arion.

Aranya peered at the town. “We’ve been spotted. They’re waving us down. Green flags. Look, in the middle of what’s left of the marketplace.”

“Green flags for a Dragon? Stinks like a Sylakian trap,” said Zuziana.

“I don’t sense danger.”

Aranya grinned at Ri’arion as they said exactly the same thing at the same time.

“Fine,” he said. “Land me outside town. I’ll go in. You spot any trouble, you either destroy it, or get me out of there fast. No need for dignity. Trail a rope, or pluck me up like a sheep.”

“I’m going with you,” said Zip.

So Aranya was left to drift alone though the smoke billowing above the town as her companions approached the small group, just a dozen or so townspeople, who had survived. Her neck swivelled. The Sylakians were gone. There was no trap here. Their depraved work was complete.

Aranya tuned in her ears.

“– sorry for your loss. What happened here?”

“You’s them as baited the Sylakians down in Remoy? Can’t be more than one Dragon in the Island-World, right, stranger?”

Ri’arion agreed. “We’re hunting Garthion, the son of the Sylakian Supreme Commander.”

“The Butcher of Jeradia,” said the man. “And now the Butcher of Rorbis. He come wanting some of our young girls, he said. When we refused – we’ve heard them stories ‘bout him – he said we done paid no taxes. He left; his Dragonships came.”

“How far are we behind the Dragonships?” asked Zip.

“You that little missy they’s talking about?” The man sounded astonished. “They done said you destroyed over fifty Dragonships. That right, missy?”

Aranya’s Dragon sight scanned the town, the surrounds, the skies above and the lay of the Cloudlands. All was still. Sapphire played around her nose, making circles so tight that Aranya started to feel dizzy.

“Right,” said Zip. “I am Zuziana of Remoy, Dragon Rider. That’s my Dragon up there.”

Her Dragon wanted to weep at the note of pride in her voice.

The man made a gesture of honour toward her. “This Island-World needs more of your kind, Dragon Rider. I thought ye some giant, not a titch of a girl. I’s so old I remembers Dragons and their Riders. I seen your kind, monk; I knows that Fra’aniorian look about yer eyes. Dragon Warrior and enchanter, you are.”

Ri’arion bowed. “The honour is ours.”

The man scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Best as I make it yer some three days behind that son of a ralti sheep dropping.”

Another of the townspeople put in, “Nay, add a half, old man. They’s left in the morning. Count three nights back, then – aye.”

“Three and a half,” said the old man. “We heard they gone to Yorbik Island, bound for Helyon.”

“Thank you for the information,” said Ri’arion.

If Garthion had paused to gather his forces at Yorbik Island, Aranya thought, they might just be on schedule. But if he had blazed on through, they could end up being just too late to save Immadia. Could she pray for a handy storm to slow them down? The western horizon looked stormy, a fine bank of deep-bellied clouds gathering out there, a silvery menace in the moonlight.

Please let it strike the Dragonships and not them. Please.

* * * *

As if it were a titanic bully which had no reason to hurry before falling upon its intended victim, the storm approached during the remainder of that night and the following morning. Aranya pushed hard into the freshening gusts, reaching Yorbik Island and crossing the great forests of the interior as the black-bellied clouds piled up and marched across the skies. She tried not to imagine how the Black Dragon loved to appear out of clouds similar to these.

She was fatigued, but refused to give in. Just one more Island, she thought. Dragon-Aranya had the strength. She had to push through for Immadia’s sake.

Zip kicked Aranya’s flank with her heel. “Find a cave, Aranya.”

“We could go on to Ferial Island,” she growled back.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your wing beat has slowed. I’m counting.” Aranya snarled something fireball-ish beneath her breath. Counting? Her Rider was getting too good at this. Zip said, “You couldn’t fly another half-day in good weather, never mind into the teeth of this storm.”

“But Garthion’s Dragonships –”

“But nothing, you stubborn goat – oh, Aranya. Please, I don’t want to fight you over this.” Zip sounded exhausted, too. “After Ferial Island we take on the Cloudlands. For that, you need to be fresh and rested. I know we don’t know how long the Sylakians tarried in Yorbik. This part will require faith.”

“Or a quick stop to ask questions at Ferial,” said Ri’arion.

“A noted Sylakian ally,” retorted Zip.

“Oh.” The monk nodded. “I concur with Zuziana. Please put down, Aranya.”

“Fine, gang up on me.”

Zip said, “Two Humans gang up on a Dragon? You know how ridiculous you sound, Aranya?”

Zuziana chuckled away as her ride circled, searching for a place to put down. The gentle slopes of Yorbik Island did not lend themselves to what Aranya was beginning to realise were Dragon-friendly cliffs furnished with hidden ledges for landing on, nooks and handy caves for skulking in while breathing out swirls of sulphurous fire and using the cave echoes to sharpen her growling skills. But she eventually found a low cavern tucked away behind a stand of hardwood trees, and that only because her sharp eyes detected a very late bat darting into it to take shelter.

Barely had she landed and squeezed between the trees into the narrow fissure guarding a round, sandy cave beyond, when the heavens opened and ice began to smash to the ground. Aranya had only once in her life seen hail like it – hailstones the size of pebbles. Some were even large enough to fit in Zip’s palm.

Zip held up such a specimen and raised her eyebrow.

“Fine, you were right. Zip, Ri’arion, I’m just …”

“Stressed? Edgy? Tense? Frantic? Overwrought? Weary? Anxious?”

“Zip – Zip it.”

Ri’arion pulled the saddle loose and slid down her flank with a boyish whoop, landing neatly on his feet. Aranya nearly choked with laughter at the expression on Zuziana’s face. What on the Islands had bitten the monk? She forgot how young he was, because he acted so stern most of the time.

Zip said, “Aranya, this storm’s all over the North Isles – well, not that you apparently consider Yorbik anything but a pretender to the throne, but nevertheless. If the Sylakian Dragonships are out in the open – boom, crash, sizzle. If not, they are sitting just as cheerfully as us waiting for the winds to abate, and hopefully looking forward to repairing lots of nasty little holes in their hydrogen sacks.”

There was an idea. She could punch lots of holes in Yolathion’s head with her claws.

Aranya let the sounds of the storm fill her. She had hoped to be soothed, but the subsonic vibration of the thunder made her scales itch and the strobe lightning put her on edge. Was this her new powers coming to the fore? No longer would she be content to set a few curtains alight, now she would call down lightning and raise whirlwinds in rooms … as she had done on a small scale already, she remembered.

Sapphire whimpered. Aranya’s emotions were communicating to the dragonet again. She had to calm down. She had to relax, to sleep. She called Sapphire over to her. It’s just a storm, little one.

The interminable waiting in a gloomy cave for the wind to stop shrieking eventually did bore her to sleep. Aranya’s eyes shuttered, but she kept one ear open. The Dragon in her was learning to sleep like a cat.

Aranya cracked an eye open later to check on her surroundings. The storm howled outside the cave, a hungry Dragon on the hunt. Ri’arion snored gently, his head pillowed on Zip’s arm. Zuziana, who had taken to wearing her curly brown hair unbound after flying – was glowing blue, surrounded by a halo of electrically charged strands of hair to midway down her back. As she watched a spark leaped from her to the Ha’athiorian monk. He mumbled and shifted in his sleep. Zip, judging from the rapid movement of her eyes, must be dreaming. She moaned and twisted, muttering in her sleep.

Suddenly, her body jerked. “No! Garthion … please don’t … it hurts …”

A killing rage exploded in Aranya’s throat. For long moments she struggled to swallow it down, to deny the liquid inferno. Thunder crashed outside, so close it shook the cave. Trembling, she raised her forepaw, intending to gently poke Zuziana awake. Lightning flashed inside the cave. She yelped. That was powerful. But the charge on Zip muted – somewhat. She mumbled, seeming to settle for a moment. But the glowing returned, stronger than ever, reminding Aranya painfully of how she had dreamed chaotic and bizarre dreams before her first transformation.

“No, no,” Zuziana whimpered. Her body curled up. She shuddered as though she was having a fit. “Not the eyes … Dragon fire … no!” Aranya could bear it no longer as she sobbed in her sleep. Her friend had suffered; she did not need to suffer in her dreams as well.

“Zip, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

The Princess sat up abruptly, wild-eyed. “Oh, oh – Aranya. I …”

“Come here, Zip.”

A Dragon’s paw, bigger than her friend’s entire back, could easily force her to comply. But Aranya minded her claws and gently persuaded Zip with a curl of her paw and a gentle word. She resisted at first, but then allowed herself to be drawn into a hug. Zuziana put her arms around Aranya’s neck and held her fiercely.

“You’re a good friend, Aranya.”

“You were dreaming, Zip. You were glowing blue while you slept, making lightning in the cave. You said something about Dragons.”

“I did?”

Aranya swallowed. “The Dragon tears are still at work in you. I’m so sorry, Zip, I –”

“For saving my life? Petal, I’m so grateful for every breath; for the chance to live and laugh and tease monks and see my family again. What will be, will be.”

“I just feel so guilty about turning you into –”

Zuziana said, in a rush, “I dreamed about Garthion. The torture; I can’t get it out of my mind. I was helpless. I screamed, but no-one came to help me. There was a huge Red Dragon and his fire burned me here.” She touched her stomach and chest. “I’m terrified of meeting him again, Aranya. I’m so broken. I only wish I had your courage.”

Now she dreamed of Dragons? Aranya could not help the guilt that rose in her gorge. “Being Dragon-sized doesn’t guarantee courage, Zip,” she said, wishing now that she had changed into her Human form first. “Do you have any idea how terrified I am for Immadia; how I try not to imagine Sylakian hammers smashing my brothers’ little heads?”

Zip traced the scales around Aranya’s eye with her forefinger. “It paralyses me. I want to run away and I can’t. The torture goes on and on …”

“Maybe you were dreaming about the time I burned Garthion.”

“Maybe. The Dragon in my dream was red – nothing like you. That Red Dragon was evil, in a way … I’ve never felt so cold, Aranya, so … soul-lost.”

“You were soul-lost?” Aranya shivered. “Zip – I don’t believe any creature can steal your soul.”

After a while, Zuziana’s shivering abated. Aranya noticed that the storm was beginning to die down. She said, “Anyway, you’re generating so much magical power, I’m going to have to change your name from Zip.”

“To what?”

“Zap.”

Zuziana screwed up her nose. “Very funny. I can play the naming game too, beast.”

“Zip, you don’t think …”

“Oh, Aranya.” Zip laughed now, restored to herself. “I love it that you’re a Dragon. I love having a friend like you. But you are sweet, how you want me to metamorphose into a Dragon, too.”

Aranya growled unhappily.

“Time to be flying again.” Zip leaped to her feet. “Aranya – look, I’m sorry. I just don’t think the Dragon thing is for me.”

Maybe it was just wishful thinking, Aranya thought. Who knew what power Dragon tears might have – mythical Dragon tears, which no-one had ever heard of? Having assumed Zuziana had dreamed about the Black Dragon, Fra’anior, the presence of an evil Red Dragon disturbed her. It had to be something to do with those terrible events in the Tower of Sylakia. While living with Aranya, Zip had several times acted very afraid of the fire Aranya produced when she became angry or afraid. Or, who knew what torture did to a person’s mind? Maybe that was the reason.

But one thing was for certain. If she ever saw Garthion again, she was going to skin him alive.

Chapter 25: Origins

The hunters took off on the dying winds of the storm. Aranya revelled in the blustery breeze sweeping in from her left hind quarter, but Ri’arion began to look rather green as soon as they left Yorbik Island’s shores. She bumped and buffeted her way upward, trying to compensate for the wind’s capricious behaviour. Her stomach began to complain of living too close to her throat.

The suns’ embers burned down into the horizon as she scudded along. The air was clear and fresh, scrubbed clean by the storm. Her Dragon senses thought the air’s tang was delicious, like the smell after a lightning strike. Aranya’s hearts swelled. Inside, some part of Human-Aranya still saw her as a girl flapping her arms. That girl was invariably startled to examine her wingspan or discover that she wasn’t falling out of the sky. Fantastic, her Humanness insisted. Impossible. Dragon-Aranya revelled in the wind’s play, in the power and beauty of a body designed for soaring and swooping, in the incredible feedback from senses which understood exactly how the wind flowed over every square inch of her body, that identified a million scents on the breeze, and gazed as far as the horizon with extraordinary clarity. She willed it, and saw.

Before she knew it, two hours had passed and Aranya sighted the unmistakable silhouette of Ferial Island amidst a field of lime-green Cloudlands ahead.

She said over her shoulder, “Look ahead. Ferial Island.”

“Already?” asked Ri’arion.

“Aranya’s been flying fast,” said Zip. She gazed ahead eagerly.

Ferial was like the palm of a hand with its fingers upraised, poking out of the Cloudlands. Eleven fingers, Aranya thought, but the analogy fit because they all arose from a single palm-like stem. The Ferial Islanders had connected the fingers at many levels with bridges and gantries, giving rise to the joke that more of Ferial hung over the Cloudlands than was actually based on solid rock. The Islanders pulped the thick vines hanging down the rock faces of their home for the fibres they wove into ropes, which they treated by secret methods against wear and decay. Some of the ropes holding up the gantries were thicker than a man’s torso.

In the deepening twilight, the Island appeared peaceful, but Aranya saw many signs of storm damage. Several of the gantries hung askew. The wreck of a house lay halfway down a cliff. Twinkling lanterns lighted the byways, showing the curved roofs and round, port-hole like windows and doors for which Ferial Island was also famous. Each and every window had a window-box set beneath it, from which trailed streamers of flowers up to a hundred feet long; great violet and cerise flowers which tickled Aranya’s nostrils as they drifted by the first of Ferial’s rock spires.

Ri’arion asked, “So, are we heading on up to Helyon, or striking out into the unknown?”

“I thought we were decided?” Aranya’s voice conveyed more irritation than she had intended.

“Easy on the roaring, rajal,” Zip smiled.

“I’m a Dragon,” she snapped. “Sorry, Zip. A jumpy Dragon. Why’re you asking? I’m feeling strong. Very strong.”

“Well, Ri’arion and I have been map-reading while you’ve been doing the hard work,” said Zuziana. “Exactly how far do you think we’re flying on this leg, Aranya?”

“Er, four hundred leagues, maybe?”

Zuziana burst out into cackles of laughter. Aranya summoned up her memories of the map Nak had discussed with them. Her nostrils smoked as she blurted out, “Six … eight hundred leagues? Oh, for the Islands’ sakes, stop laughing and give me the bad news.”

“A few leagues shy of eleven hundred, as the Dragon flies,” said Ri’arion.

“What?”

Zip grabbed Aranya’s spine-spike as the Dragon’s astonishment stopped her wing beat. “Exactly. We’ve been trying figure out how Nak intended us to fly eleven hundred leagues in three days. It’s madness. You’re not a Dragonship – even they couldn’t manage that.”

Aranya ran the numbers through her mind. She willed her wings to keep moving.

Ri’arion said, “Nak gave us a detailed lecture on the subject of Dragon flying speeds. Long distance, Dragons are able to sustain speeds of six to eight leagues per hour on average. That’s one hundred and thirty to two hundred and sixteen leagues per day, give or take. Obviously you can swoop or accelerate to much greater speeds, but that immediately reduces your range. And, ‘average’ is actually a nasty little word. You’ve got to rest at some point.”

“Let’s give her a generous rest of, let’s say, ten hours midway,” said Zip. “Or two rests of five hours apiece.”

“So,” Aranya calculated, “Nak’s expecting me to average fifteen and a half leagues per hour? Over eleven hundred –”

“Nice work on the twenty-seven times table, genius,” sniped Zip.

“Yes, only double a normal flying speed,” said Ri’arion, keeping a perfectly straight face.

Aranya would dearly have liked to smack them both. As it was, she was holding her temper by the thinnest of threads. She said, “How far is this first volcano?”

“He thought around five hundred leagues, maybe more. Halfway.”

Zuziana added, more gently than before, “So, how strong are you feeling, Aranya?”

Aranya eyed Ferial Island to their left as they passed by. If she failed, they were dead. If she failed, Immadia was as good as dead. And if they succeeded against the odds, what hope could one Dragon realistically offer apart from destroying a few of those two hundred Dragonships?

She had already made her choice back on Sylakia.

“Give me a bearing,” she said.

“Third moon to the left and don’t spare the ponies, driver,” said Zip.

Ri’arion put his hand over the Princess’ mouth. “The correct direction is a fraction left of Iridith’s zenith, Aranya. Ouch, you little rajal!” Zip giggled. The monk added, “Later on, we should be able to navigate by the stars.”

Aranya corrected her course easily, climbing with greater purpose into the darkling sky. The breeze helped, but not as much as she would have hoped. Zip helped her set a rhythm of wing beats that would take her up to what they estimated was the right speed. Could a Dragon’s endurance truly be so great? She must remember to rest periodically, even while she was feeling fresh.

She searched up and down but found no better help from the wind. The Dragons’ Highway Nak had promised was absent. Toward morning, Aranya glanced over her shoulder to check on her Riders. Her mouth dropped open. Zuziana had changed position, lying with both legs across her saddle and her head pillowed on Ri’arion’s lap. The Dragon’s head snaked backward to take a look. At least the waist belt had not been loosened. She wanted to spit with jealousy. Aranya hated her reaction.

If her jealousy were a Dragon, she told herself, it would be large, iridescent green and very ugly. Deliberately, she rejected those feelings. Oh, great Islands, Ri’arion’s eyes were open. How much had her expression revealed?

“She’s feeling ill,” said the monk.

“Ill?”

“Some kind of stomach problem,” he replied. “Maybe something we ate, maybe just an illness.”

“The timing’s horrible,” said Aranya. “Poor Zip. Let me know how she is, alright?”

On and on she flew, straight on her course, keeping her movements as smooth and efficient as possible. She needed to eke every ounce of strength out of her body.

Zuziana announced how she was when she woke up mid-morning. “Oooooh!” she groaned. “I’m going to explode. Oh …”

Ri’arion said, “You need to –”

Zip clutched her stomach. “I’m so sorry.”

“We can’t turn back now,” Aranya grumbled. “Can you do something without fouling my scales?”

Ri’arion nodded, clearly seeing the funny side of the situation but withholding for Zip’s sake. “I’ve been thinking. How are you at flying on your side, Aranya?” He illustrated with his hand. “Ninety degrees.”

“Easy.”

Shortly, Ri’arion helped Zuziana fix her foot in one of his shortened stirrups and fixed up another strap for her waist. This allowed her to crouch to one side. The monk held her while Zuziana did the necessary with her armour, trousers and underwear.

“On three,” he called.

“A quick three,” cried Zuziana.

Aranya banked; her friend’s stomach made a fearful noise.

Ri’arion pretended to look at the sky. “Mercy, that’s a strange brown rain we’re having today.”

Zip laughed helplessly, holding her stomach. “You blasted … just you try this. Oh, what a place to get sick – roaring rajals, that hurts.”

“Right, let’s get you back in the saddle,” said the monk.

“Ri’arion’s seen it all now,” Aranya teased, “a Princess of Remoy with her backside waving in the breeze.”

“Good thing there’s nothing down there,” said Ri’arion, buckling her waist strap in place.

Zuziana leaned back against him, closing her eyes. “I feel sick.”

Aranya saw his hand rise to tug aside Zip’s hair, fluttering in his face. The monk brushed her cheek with his lips. The Princess murmured something as she pillowed her head on his lap, the corners of her mouth lifting in a brief smile. Aranya’s head jerked to the fore. Great. Just when she had banished that Green Dragon of jealousy.

An hour later, poor Zip was hanging over her side again. Her jealousy mellowed into concern for her friend.

They surged through a day of blazing, unblinking suns-shine, into a wilderness of profound stillness and boundless horizons, where the only sound and movement was the leathery creak of a Dragon’s wing joints, the rasp of her breathing and the occasional conversation of her Riders. Aranya realised that she had never been so far from land. Always, there had been the next Island or the promise of an Island just over the horizon. Now it rested upon her shoulders to bring them to a safe landing. She was no indefatigable Dragonship. She was flesh and blood, responsible for two lives upon her back. But she was also a Dragon, with reserves of power she had not yet learned to measure.

Aranya began to feel the strain of keeping up a strong wing beat. Forty or more hours, she told herself. She would see them off one at a time. Just keep her gaze ahead and search for that volcano. She scanned the Cloudlands again. From this enormous height she could see swirls of colour flowing through the clouds like rivers, swirling and moving with unknown purpose, stirred by forces she could hardly begin to imagine.

Suddenly, she saw something that made her breath stop in her throat.

The creature needed no magnification. An Island, was her first thought. But it was moving. The creature had a tortoise’s shell, but segmented. It reminded Aranya of a serpent as it slithered through the Cloudlands. A vast body rose and sank amidst the poisonous gases, a body the size of an Island. The closer she flew, the larger it loomed. Aranya rested on the wing, observing in mute awe. She bent her head backward to tell Zuziana and Ri’arion where to look. Their stunned expressions told a tale all of their own. There was a humbling realisation of mortality, of the tininess of even a Dragon in comparison to a slow-moving creature that had to be half a league from head to tail, although they could tell that much was hidden beneath the Cloudlands.

“Do you think we woke it up?” Zip asked quietly. “Don’t get any closer, Aranya. We don’t want to find its mouth.”

“My people have legends about such creatures,” said Ri’arion, frowning. “I can’t remember … aye … no. It’ll come back to me.”

Zuziana chuckled, “Brain fallen asleep, Ri’arion?”

“No, only my backside. Come, Dragon Rider, stretch those legs.”

With various creative groans and complaints, her two Riders helped each other unbuckle, stand up Dragonback and stretch out their legs. Aranya wished she could have done the same. She concentrated on her wing beat. How could she make it more efficient? Trim the third joint? Flex the flight struts differently? Nothing seemed to help.

When they sat down, Ri’arion said, “I don’t think I’ve told you two how we Ha’athior Islanders tell the tale of the beginnings of our Island-World. Would you like to hear it?”

“I would,” said Aranya.

Zip clapped her hands and acted silly.

Ri’arion made a strange half-bow in his saddle. “Before the dawn of time, the world circled the twin suns in perpetuity. But one day a gigantic comet crashed into our world. The resulting explosion, greater than any in history before it or since, created this great depression we call the Island-World, encircling it with an impassable barrier of mountains twenty-five leagues high. The explosion was so great that it released the mighty fires of the underworld, the fires that we call volcanoes.”

“But that comet contained a load stranger still, hid deep within its bowels, a load which was not immune to that fiery crash-landing – a clutch of Dragon eggs, the eggs of the Ancient Dragons. Where they came from no-one knows, not even the Dragons themselves. In time, bathed in the fires of the first creation, the Dragon eggs hatched. Mighty were the Dragons that lived in those times before memory, Dragons who dwelled in volcanoes and shaped the earth and the air by the power of their magic. They raised up prodigious towers of rock to become the Islands, and consigned the poisonous Cloudlands to their resting place at the bottom of the world. Those were the Dragons of old. Mighty were their deeds.”

“But as they rested and nested upon their towers of rock, those Dragon ancestors became restless and lazy. So they decided to make for themselves a race of slaves –”

“Humans?” interrupted Zip. “We were slaves?”

“Silence, slave,” said Aranya. “I quite like the idea – and I’m collecting, as you can see.”

“I don’t like this story anymore,” sulked the Princess of Remoy.

“Anyway,” said Ri’arion, “the Dragons created the Human race and breathed life into their nostrils. They made many wonders besides, wonders now lost to the Island-World. They populated the Islands with creatures and plants, which the Dragons alone boasted skills to design. Their slaves laboured and sweated and built for the Dragons great palaces of stone and lakes in which to bathe, and caves to hold their clutches of Dragon eggs. They hunted for the Dragons and served them in every way. Thus was the world, for many thousands of summers.”

“But the Dragon-kind grew lazy and feckless, pandering more and more to their baser desires, while their Human slaves became numerous and cunning. They chafed under the claw of the ruler.”

“Story’s getting better,” said Zip.

“What happened then?” asked Aranya.

“The legends differ,” said Ri’arion, shrugging apologetically. “Some say that Humans rose up against the Ancient Dragons and cast them down in the First Great Dragonwar. The Dragons destroyed many Islands in retaliation, casting them beneath the Cloudlands and creating the Rift. Other legends hold that the Dragons fought each other first and slaughtered a great number of the Dragonish race. Weakened, they could no longer stand against the power of their former slaves. I have heard tales of Dragon gravesites on some Islands, which hold the bones of thousands of Dragons.”

“Like near Ha’athior? Prince Ta’armion showed me.”

“That is one such place,” said the monk.

“I forgot to take a look on the way back.”

“Creepy,” said Zip, with an exaggerated shiver. “Besides, you’re still not forgiven for moseying on over to Fra’anior without me and picking up a random monk.”

“Fine,” said Aranya. “If I want to poke around any gravesites, I’ll take you, Zip.”

“Yuck.”

The Dragon chuckled deep in her belly. “But Ri’arion, what about the Shapeshifters? Where did they come from?”

“Some say from evil experiments by the father of all Red Dragons, Dramagon, who mixed Humans and Dragons into new eggs,” said the monk. “Others say that the world-spanning fires of that first explosion released a great magic into the world, a magic which has been shaping and changing us ever since. They say it changed even the Dragons, making them Lesser Dragons, and changed some Humans into Shapeshifters. Undeniably, the Shapeshifters are a mystery – the third great race of our Island-World. Perhaps they have always been among us, since the beginning.”

“Perhaps Humans were trying to become Dragons, to subvert the Dragonish race?” Zip suggested.

Aranya put on her most sepulchral voice. “Perhaps one’s listening, even now.”

They all laughed. But inside, Aranya cringed. She did not want to be the result of evil experiments. Later, in the Second Great Dragonwar, Humans had tried to drive the Dragons out completely. If the Sylakians had murdered her mother, who or what else had they destroyed in their quest to rid the world of all Dragons? But perhaps Dragons had been dying. Surely she wasn’t the last?

Zuziana and Ri’arion chatted the day away, swapping stories. Aranya flew on and on, long after her Riders fell asleep, until the night grew bearded with stars and only the Blue moon hung aloft, bending its baneful eye upon the Cloudlands, painting the Island-World the cold colour of an Immadian winter sky. Her shoulders and joints ached; her muscles burned with unquenchable fire. She worked harder and harder to keep up her speed. In the early hours before dawn, her muscles began to cramp.

“Rock salt is what we have,” said Ri’arion, gazing gravely at her. “There’s a bag of herbs Oyda gave us, some of which Zip has already used, and a little dried meat.”

“What about your healing power?” asked Zip.

“I’ll just stop flying, then.”

“Don’t discount it.”

Aranya nodded. “Sorry, Zip. I’m struggling. I’ll have whatever there is, Ri’arion. Could you help me keep up my wing beat, somehow? Sing me a song? Tell stories?”

“Bring your mouth over here,” Zip ordered.

Aranya nodded gratefully as Zuziana tipped the dried meat onto her tongue, dusted it with herbs and popped a handful of rock salt on top of the meal. Ri’arion searched their packs and handed Zip two half-full waterskins.

“We’ll do without,” he said.

Zip poured the water down Aranya’s gullet. Even that tiny offering seemed to go straight to her muscles, perking them up. The cramps subsided.

“That’s better, thank you. How are you, Zip?”

“Empty, but feeling the better for it,” said the Princess. “I think I’m over the embarrassment. I’ll teach you a song that all Remoyan children sing, Aranya. It teaches you the names of our eighteen terrace lakes and has a nice beat you can flap along to.”

“Oh yes, I’m the kind of girl to get in a flap.”

Zuziana favoured her weak joke with a decent belly-laugh.

The singing and joking buoyed her along until mid-morning. By then, Aranya was in great pain. She rested on the wing, but even that taxed her muscles. Her great flight muscles banded like metal pincers around her ribcage, making every breath a rasping struggle. Her vision began to blur. Aranya focussed inwardly, tearing from her body the will to continue. One more hour, she kept saying to herself. One more. Her Riders felt as heavy as boulders strapped to her back. Her speed dropped. She could not bear the effort of even keeping to level flight, so the Cloudlands drew closer and closer. The muscles along her wings and flight struts felt as though they were burning with a fire of her own making.

Aranya imagined Garthion laughing at her, and pressed on. She pictured her family, which helped her grit her fangs for a few more wing beats. She imagined the snow-capped mountains of Immadia rising on the horizon. Hope fortified her. But her mouth gaped open, her throat long since parched by the lack of moisture in her body. Nak had warned her that a juvenile Dragon’s body could not command the same resources as an adult Dragon. She had to find a way.

“There, that’s a volcano, isn’t it?” said Zip.

“Aranya?” asked Ri’arion.

“I … don’t see it.”

“Two points east of Iridith,” said the monk. “Definitely cone-shaped.”

Hope raced into her overtired muscles. For a few moments, adrenalin raced through her arteries; she climbed a few hundred feet, fixing her gaze on the horizon. Zuziana was right. A pimple on the horizon resolved into a massively squat volcanic cone. Smoke billowed from its open throat. Crimson lava poured from open wounds on its flanks.

She had never seen a more wonderful sight.

Aranya groaned as the pain reasserted itself. She allowed the tiniest trickle of magic to soothe her muscles. She had to balance her reserves; to be certain she would have the strength to cover what she realised was still many leagues of flying. Distances over such a flat, featureless landscape were deceptive. It would be hours before she reached the volcano.

But their goal was in sight.

Chapter 26: Magma Dragon

Aranya collapsed in a wasteland of black, glassy volcanic rocks. Solid ground! Relief from flying. Her wings drooped; she pillowed her head on a hard place and just let the air whistle in and out of her lungs. Her whole body quivered. She had been aloft for forty-three hours.

Dimly, she sensed Ri’arion and Zuziana unpacking their effects. Ri’arion’s footsteps faded, while Zip moved around to her head.

“You’re wonderful,” she said, putting her arms around Aranya’s neck. “Still speaking to me? You need a drink. Head up, old girl – there’s a little spring just over here. Not too much at once or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Aranya let the tiny Princess of Remoy guide her mouth to the spring. Water bubbled onto her tongue; warm, tangy liquid, full of bitter minerals, but she still thought it the sweetest water she had ever tasted. Sapphire jumped into the flow with a chirrup of delight and shook droplets off her wings, making them shimmer in the sunlight.

“We made it,” Aranya breathed. She shuddered. “Ooh – cramp.”

“Ease through the cramps,” said Zip, who had shouted herself hoarse encouraging Aranya over the final stretch into their landing on the volcano. “Remember how Nak taught us about Dragon physiology dealing differently with cramp and muscle fatigue? The body will take what it needs. Like a migrating bird, Dragons use up resources at the expense of body weight.”

“No jokes about my undeniably well-proportioned Dragon-behind?”

Zip grinned. “Can’t promise that. Hmm, taste this water. These minerals should help against the cramp. Hopefully Ri’arion can find us a bite to eat. Keep the saddle on?”

“I’m too tired to let you get to the girth strap. Leave it.”

“Petal, do you ever stop to think that what we’re doing is just crazy?” Zip waved her arms with so much energy Aranya wanted to bite her. “I mean, we used to be two mostly decorative, exiled Princesses in the Tower of Sylakia. Now I’m a Dragon Rider wandering about in ancient armour waving a Pygmy bow at random Dragonships, and you’re an Amethyst Dragon, for the Islands’ sake! Wings, fangs, shiny scales, the whole ralti sheep. Doesn’t it strike you as surreal? Like you’re stuck in a never-ending dream?”

“It does,” said Aranya. “And I don’t ever want it to end.”

Zip gave her a sidelong look laced with feelings the Dragon could partly guess at. “Aranya, I – I’ll be your Rider as long as you want. I made a promise. I’m not going to break it.”

“I hope I don’t change into a Green Dragon.” She chuckled at the bemused expression on her friend’s face, slaking her thirst a little more before adding, “The Dragon with the gift of jealousy. Slimy green, poisonous fangs and hindquarters the size of a small Island.”

“Oh, Aranya, you’re not like that!”

Aranya prodded her friend with her knuckle. “Honestly, Zip? He’s not going to whisk you away to a romantic little Island somewhere?”

Zip coughed, turning a delicate shade of pink. “You’re flying off to the wrong Island already. He barely sneaked in a windroc’s peck on my cheek and – well, he held me over your side with a cold breeze whistling up my skirts while I voided my stomach over half the Cloudlands. Don’t you snort at me like that. He’s a monk. He said he doesn’t know how to relate to women.”

“Knows how to give a cuddle, though.”

Zuziana slapped her sharply on the neck. “Stop it. You’re embarrassing. Besides, if it came to that, I have to ask my father first – yes. Despite our sizeable families, there are morals in Remoy. I like him, alright? But I don’t know a whole lot about him except that he looks leopard in a loincloth.”

“What about all the hours you’ve spent chatting Dragonback?”

“You’re not supposed to be eavesdropping.”

Aranya showed all of her fangs in a grin. “Just remember, if he gives you any trouble …”

“I’ve a Dragon in my pocket? That certainly beats any, ‘my brother’s bigger than your brother’ – did you also say that when you were a child?”

“Not so much. My brothers are twins, all of two summers old by now. They won’t even remember me.”

“They’ll be taking rides on their big sister’s back before you know it,” Zip said stoutly. “I hope your father’s half as nice as mine.”

This time, Aranya’s push made Zip trip over a rock and sit down in the spring. “Nicer.”

“Bathing with our clothes on?” asked Ri’arion, appearing with an armful of speckled green eggs which he deposited next to Aranya. “Another Remoyan custom I’m not familiar with? Hunchbacked vulture eggs, I’m afraid. Vile-tasting, but apparently they won’t kill you, according to Nak. Nourishing fare which I will skip, judging by the stench.”

Zuziana threw a handful of water at the monk. “The mean Dragon’s bullying me, Ri’arion.”

“Aye? Carry on, says I.”

Aranya scooped up one of the foot-long eggs and popped it into her mouth. “Yuck. Thanks.”

“Just wait for the sulphurous Dragon farts those are going to brew up,” said Zip.

They all looked up as the ground beneath their feet shook. Up there, above the rim of the volcano, they saw billows of ash surging into the air. Aranya had taken care to land on the windward slope for exactly that reason. But the stench was still plentiful; volcanic gases escaping through vents and cracks in the slopes, which were dotted with low, hardy bushes at their level, and denser grasses and what appeared to be berry-bushes lower down toward the Cloudlands. The black rock was uncomfortably warm underfoot – at least, Aranya imagined it was so for Human feet – and there was no shade except in the lee of a few larger boulders.

“We should pack a few pumice stones,” said Zip. “Your little brothers could float them in their bathtub.”

“You’re in charge of the saddle bags,” said Ri’arion.

“Always the quiet ones,” said Zip, casting him an amused look. “I thought you were a taciturn, no-social-skills type of monk – you know, I am a man, I am a rock, I do not speak except in grunts of grave authority.”

Ri’arion made a face as though he was sucking on rotten eggs.

Aranya sucked out part of an egg with a violent slurping sound and cracked the rest open for Sapphire. “Come on, stop admiring your scales and get some food, little one.”

Sapphire twirled into the air. She shot over Zuziana’s head and landed deftly next to the egg. Her pupils narrowed as she regarded Aranya with a coy tilt of her head.

Yes, you are beautiful.

“How do you talk like that, Aranya?” asked Zip. “Oh, Ri’arion, do we have to eat this?”

“That or dry rations, your highness.”

“Then let’s at least cook the egg. Make a fire, servant.”

Ri’arion picked up a twig and waved it at Aranya. “Make a fire, servant.”

“How’s about I toast you both and have you with my breakfast?” Aranya swallowed an egg whole. It was more palatable that way. “I could eat another ten of these.”

“I’ll cook and Ri’arion will hunt,” said Zuziana. “You rest, o scaly majesty of the windy places. You’ve done your work for the day, while the monk has only been sitting on his proverbial thinking lofty monkish thoughts.”

Picking up his cloak, the monk said, “Fine, next time you can fertilise the Cloudlands all on your own.”

“What’s the cloak for, Ri’arion?” asked Aranya.

“To carry a cargo large enough to satisfy a hungry Dragon’s appetite.”

“Fine. Carry on, servants, while I take my nap.”

To her surprise, Aranya fell asleep the moment her eyes closed. She stirred at the sound of Zuziana’s high-pitched giggling. At first she thought her Riders were – well, she was wrong. They were wrestling in hand-to-hand combat. The arteries around her eyes and muzzle definitely heated up at the thought. Yes, Dragons could blush.

As she watched, Ri’arion pinned the Princess with some kind of nasty headlock-combination-arm-lock and growled, “Fine, if you can’t take your training seriously, try to escape from this one.”

“Oh, mercy, thou fiend,” Zip begged, and kissed him on the nose.

Ri’arion pretended to recoil. “Foul! Foul!”

Aranya blinked her optical membranes shut. Then she stirred, groaned extra-loudly, and cracked open an eye. “What time is it?”

“Just after noon,” said Zip, dusting off her armour.

“Get off me, Princess,” said Ri’arion.

“You say, ‘Please arise, thou zephyr of the dawn,’” Zuziana corrected him. “I was just beating Ri’arion up, Aranya. He calls it unarmed combat training. See? He can’t move.”

“I only slept an hour?”

Zip said, “Probably the empty stomach. Would you like a couple more of the stinky carrion-eater eggs, Dragon?” She squealed as Ri’arion lifted her off of him with a simple flexion of his arms. “Bully. You’re strong.”

Aranya smiled at Zip’s blatant flirting.

She ate all eleven eggs Ri’arion had scavenged. Then they rested through the heat of the afternoon. Her stomach did not appear at all bothered by eating that amount of rotten-smelling egg. Aranya stretched out her wings and let the suns’ warmth soothe her aches and pains, while providing Zuziana and Ri’arion shade which they dozed beneath until the twin suns began to lower toward the western horizon.

They rose, and made preparations to leave.

“What a beautiful spot,” said Aranya. “We could almost be the only people in the whole Island-World, here on the obsidian slopes of a volcano which could erupt any moment, watching the suns-set made gloriously fiery by the volcanic ash in the wind.”

“Soppy poetry,” Zip teased, whacking Aranya’s ribs with her elbow. “Eyeing up your next work of art?”

“Several. Zip, I do miss painting.”

Zip said, “What did you make of that creature we saw on the way here?”

“It was a Dragon,” said Ri’arion.

Aranya said, “You think that thing was a Dragon?”

“What else would it be? An Island grew legs and walked?” Ri’arion grinned as Zip pasted an idiotic expression on her lips. “It was a flightless Dragon. A Land Dragon – see, I remembered. On Ha’athior we tell stories about Dragons which dwell in the magma pits of active volcanoes, and other, even more massive Land Dragons which gnaw at the roots of the Islands. I had always thought them creatures of fable, until we passed over one.”

“That thing would’ve had you for breakfast, Aranya!”

“Thanks, Zip.”

Zuziana was right. That creature – that maybe-Dragon – looked big enough to snack on whole Islands. A cold shiver travelled along Aranya’s spine. Now there was a strangeness of her Dragon form. Shivers took a noticeable amount of time to travel from her brain to the end of her tail.

“Come,” she said. “If you’re done trying to scare me, we’ve a journey to continue and I for one would like to find Nak’s Dragon’s Foot in the daylight. Iridith’s out early tonight. Later on there’ll be only the Mystic and Jade moons.”

“Just a few hundred leagues to go,” sang Zip, buckling their saddle bags in place. Aranya noticed a few chunks of pumice peeking out of the top of one.

“Say, Zip,” said the Dragon, “been to the toilet before we go?”

“Very funny, you overgrown lizard.”

Aranya climbed into the early evening sky. Truly spectacular, the artist in her thought, trying somehow to capture the precise quality of the light in her mind’s eye, the way the reds and pinks and furnace oranges blended together and reflected across the endless Cloudlands, the dust motes glowing like fireflies all around her. The edges of her wings were burnished by the sunlight, making her imagine she was a great ship sailing the air currents the way the Dragonships of old used to travel, much at the mercy of the winds, before the invention of the meriatite furnace engine.

Zip asked, “Aranya, would you take us over the volcano’s rim? Ri’arion’s been prattling on like a parakeet about his homeland. I’d like to see how this compares.”

“Alright.”

“Stay windward of the plume, however,” Ri’arion advised.

Fifteen hours to the Dragon’s Foot, Nak had estimated, followed by one final haul of twenty hours to Immadia. If they had been aiming for three days’ travel then they were behind schedule – except that he had promised they would find a Dragons’ Highway over the stretch to Immadia, if not before. A helping breeze would be very welcome. The evening air was as still as the inside of a dead-end cave.

Due to her earlier exhaustion, Aranya had not given much thought to how colossal the Cloudlands volcano was. But as she rose over the rim, it was to gaze down into a seething caldera which could have swallowed an Island whole. She estimated the lava lake within to be over a league in diameter, heaving and seething and spitting gouts of molten rock into the evening sky. The lava was only a hundred feet or so below the rim. Even at their height, the radiant heat sucked the air out of their lungs.

“Phew, that’s roasting,” said Zip, gaping unashamedly at the caldera.

Ri’arion said, “This puts some of Fra’anior’s volcanoes to shame.”

“But not the central caldera, surely?” said Aranya.

“It isn’t this active.”

As Zuziana complained about never having been to Fra’anior and Ri’arion offered her an official visit just as soon as she was no longer considered a wanted criminal, Aranya circled the volcano along the eastern rim. She kept windward of the column of smoke and gases, but the occasional acrid whiff assaulted their nostrils anyway. Something struck her as strange or out of place down there. She was leery of flying closer to investigate. Magic? A … presence? A being which had sensed their approach? Her Dragon sight scanned the bubbling lava lake. Dimly through the drifting veils of clouds, she saw a strange hill in the orange lava, perhaps an upwelling or an enormous bubble. Aranya tilted her wings to catch a thermal and spiralled upward.

“What’s the matter?” asked Zip.

“A Dragon sense,” Aranya replied, watching alertly. The hill was obscured by smoke now.

“Danger?”

“I don’t honestly – that!”

As Aranya banked sharply into a near-vertical climb, her tail pointed at the caldera and her nose to the sky, Zuziana shrieked, “Go, Aranya. Faster!”

Aranya’s hearts thumped in her throat. From below, a monstrous, misshapen head surged up from the caldera, great sheets and globs of red-hot molten rock sloughing from it, until she saw eyes and jaws emerge from the mass. Dragon! It seemed improbable, but the head just kept coming. Zuziana kept shouting in her ear. Aranya did not care. That mouth had to be a hundred feet wide and deep enough to make a snack of five of her. For a terribly long time, they raced toward the heavens, Dragon-Aranya gasping and straining every fibre of her body and the head extending on an impossibly long neck as the mouth gaped open.

“Magma Dragon! Watch your tail!” Ri’arion bellowed.

She flicked her tail aside as the jaws snapped shut. Molten rock splattered her hindquarters. But the monster sank back, coiling beneath the lava. Aranya vented a lung-bursting bugle of triumph and relief.

“We did it,” Zip clapped Aranya’s neck. “Well done, you gorgeous Dragon.”

“So, Ri’arion … you were saying about flightless Dragons?” said Aranya, twisting her head to keep an eye on the Magma Dragon while she continued to power upward, trying to work out the knots in her much-abused flight muscles. Those last few leagues up to the volcano had been pure torture. Although she had recovered at the speed of a Dragon’s superior cardiovascular system, Aranya still felt the muscular abuse keenly and would do for several days, she suspected. But she could not help smiling as Sapphire played in the wash of her wings, clawing playfully at the sunbeams and the swirling dust motes; chirping away without pause.

The dragonet seemed unabashed.

Her antics seemed to put the monk at ease, too. “For a man sworn to follow the Path of the Dragon Warrior,” he quipped, “this is all very educational. That Magma Dragon was coiled beneath the lava like a cobra, ready to strike. How does it even live under molten rock, I ask you? If you hadn’t had that Dragon sense, Aranya …”

“Exactly.” Aranya willed her hearts to climb back down from the inside of her throat. That was a rather faster start for Immadia Island than she had intended. “Which way? Give me a bearing, o masters of the map.”

“Just a couple more nose-hairs to the east, petal,” said Zip.

Ri’arion’s smirk suggested he found this very funny indeed. Aranya loftily ignored them both and pointed her nose in the correct direction.

The first hint of a breeze tickled her wing membranes.

Sapphire. Buckle up, she said.

The dragonet made a ridiculous fuss about settling herself in Zip’s lap, and only just in time. As Aranya ascended, the wind tugged at the edges of her wings and soon settled in for a steady blast from a few compass points south of southeast, an almost perfect aid to their intended direction of travel. But the Princess of Remoy sniffled and declared that her nose was turning blue. Aranya wondered if she should introduce her friend to the snows of Immadia’s mountains. By the Islands, she was looking forward to feasting her Dragon eyes on those peaks.

Trying to distract herself from brooding over their narrow escape from the Magma Dragon, Aranya considered how best to approach her father. He would not be impressed by a showy landing in his castle courtyard. His well-trained troops might just put a crossbow quarrel or three into them before asking any questions. Aranya had watched them at training often enough to know how deadly they were. She imagined throwing her arms around her father. If she knew him at all, the King’s first question would be, ‘How did you get here?’ Would the rumour of her survival have travelled to Immadia as yet, or had the Sylakians cut off all communication with Immadia ahead of the invasion? That would surely alert the wily old fox, King Beran.

Dragon-Aranya flew still higher, seeking stronger winds. She fixed her attention on the stars coming out as the suns sank away into the death of the day, surveying the familiar constellations of her youth – the Dragon Rampant, the Three Mountains, the Sky-Strider and the Northern Scales of Justice, the constellation which pinpointed true north. Her eyes kept tracking eastward, searching for any sign of the Dragonship fleet, even though she knew it was impossible across such a distance. She sensed them out there, somewhere; a scent of danger on the wind, a prickling of her spines that she had come to recognise as a foreboding.

At last, she reached a height where the wind whistled across the Cloudlands, a Dragons’ Highway beyond anything she had experienced so far.

“Feel that, Zip,” she cried, spreading her wings. “Immadia, I come!”

Chapter 27: Immadia

An amethyst dragon hurtled through the Island-World’s night, lit by a three-moon conjunction bright enough to hide many of the stars. Aranya flew above two silvery cloudscapes – firstly the thick blanket of the Cloudlands, deceptively solid-seeming from her height, and a second layer much higher up, a gossamer spiderweb spun over the sleeping Islands nestled in that blanket. Her two Riders huddled beneath their cloaks, Sapphire curled in with them.

Around midnight, Aranya thought she spotted another of the serpent-like Land Dragons, as Ri’arion called them, a name as ancient as the legends that his people told. But it disappeared so quickly she could not be certain. Her eagerness made the night seem endless. She could not wait to sight Immadia. She yearned to know if they were early or late. But she had to pace herself, all the more so because of how much that first leg had hurt her and drained her resources. Aranya’s flight muscles and joints were already complaining. The third major joint of either wing was particularly tender, the joint preceding the final quarter of wing surface which provided her with so much control, but also received the worst of the wind’s buffeting. She tried to control her healing magic, but it was very difficult. Aranya felt strength drain out of her at once, even as the pain eased.

So, by morning, she was surprised to spot what she was looking for: the Dragon’s Foot. The Island looked different to how Nak had described it, however. She woke Zuziana and Ri’arion to describe to them what she could see.

“I’d vote for taking us down for a short rest,” said Zip, doubtfully. She dabbed at a nosebleed she had developed during the night from the altitude. “You said you’re feeling sore. We’ve a full day’s flying ahead of us. The wind seemed to ease during the night as well.”

“It did drop appreciably,” said Aranya. “The timing is about right. But I must say, although it looks like an Island … well, it isn’t moving.”

Zip chuckled, “No more Land Dragon surprises?”

“Enough of those,” Aranya agreed.

“A short rest,” said Ri’arion. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Ri’arion saved three of those eggs,” said Zip. “Is it just me, Aranya, or has your digestion been a little gassy? I keep thinking I smell that volcano.”

The monk chipped in, “Can’t you do something useful with all that gas, Aranya – apart from stinking out your Riders?”

“I haven’t tried.” Aranya tucked in her wings, losing altitude rapidly on a long swoop down to the small Island she had spotted below.

“Embarrassed, petal?” said Zip, as perceptive as always.

“The previously elegant Princess of Immadia finds this a somewhat troublesome topic.”

“You’re Dragon-elegant now,” said Zip.

“Dressed in a hide that outshines a kingdom’s jewels,” added Ri’arion.

“Your eyes rival the stars for beauty,” Zip grinned.

“The gleam of your fangs drives a thousand ralti sheep in a bleating panic over the hills,” Ri’arion shot back, not to be outdone.

“While the thunder of your cry makes the mountains shiver down to their roots.”

“And your Dragon magic gave my beloved new life,” said the monk. Over Zip’s startled exclamation, he added, “Now she glows so beautifully at night she is like a star herself.”

Zuziana folded her arms. “Well, pop goes that romantic bubble.”

But they were all laughing.

Aranya landed neatly, folding her wings and absorbing the shock with her thighs. The travellers found themselves on a barren, rocky plain, utterly devoid of plant or animal life. Ri’arion unpacked the remaining eggs for Aranya and bade her eat and rest. Then he set himself to ‘test’ their Island, declaring that he did not feel comfortable in his bones.

The Dragon’s muzzle had hardly touched the ground before she slept.

Two hours later, Ri’arion startled them both with a shout, “Mount up! Go, Aranya!”

She felt the ground lurch. Instantly awake, she hardly waited for Zuziana and Ri’arion to find their seats before launching herself skyward. Their Island was moving westward. It was sinking away into the Cloudlands.

“I think I woke it up,” said Ri’arion.

Zip turned around to glare at him. “You did what?”

“Mercy,” said the monk. “I did what I thought was a harmless bit of magic.”

Aranya left them to squabble as she climbed into the morning sky. Actually, she reminded herself, the Island had been far too early. The Northern nights were short in this season, only eight hours to the day’s nineteen. She should have remembered to take that into account. It left perhaps sixteen hours of daylight. Could they reach Immadia before dark? Would they be in time?

Two hours later, as they entered the Dragons’ Highway again, Aranya had one answer at least. She saw another Island ahead, one shaped unmistakably like a Dragon’s clawed foot, three toes to the fore and two to the rear. She groaned as she reported this to her Riders.

“Great,” said Zip, rustling the map about. “That knocks off another stretch of this lovely blank Sea of Nothingness – Sea of whatever the monk said. Twenty hours to go, Aranya.”

“When we pass the Island,” the Dragon retorted.

As they passed over the Dragon’s Foot, two and a half hours later, Aranya calculated carefully in her mind. They should reach Immadia Island at dawn on the morrow, if Nak’s directions were accurate.

She scanned the skies one more time for Dragonships. Immadia’s tale would be told in smoke and fire, or blessed silence.

* * * *

The winds picked up again during the afternoon, so much so that Aranya struggled to use her tail for steerage, as Nak had taught her. She rested periodically on the wing, and chuckled at the sight of Zuziana with a small wad of cloth stuck up her nostril to stop another nosebleed. Zip refused to fly any lower. Instead, she offered to kick Aranya if the Dragon flew so much as a foot lower. Aranya laughed dutifully, knowing her friend was only trying to cheer her up.

Despair gnawed at her heart.

That night was a bleak time for her, a place of dark thoughts and fears, of a loneliness born in being the one who had to keep flying when her Riders were able to sleep. She could not remember the last time she had enjoyed a decent stretch of sleep. The night’s starlit majesty seemed cold; the wind a capricious master; the bone-deep pain a constant reminder that even the efforts of a Dragon would surely not be enough. Seeing the patchy cloud-cover developing several thousand feet below her, Aranya hatched a plan for landing. But dark thoughts kept intruding.

Zuziana awoke in the early hours and stayed awake thereafter. Perhaps she was as excited and apprehensive as her Dragon – Aranya did not know, but she was grateful even just for quiet companionship.

False dawn brightened the sky. With it, the jagged peaks of Immadia assaulted the horizon’s featureless expanse. Home! She wanted to weep, or sing for joy. Aranya waited for Princess Zuziana to notice, content for a few moments just to drink in the sight. Secretly, she searched with her Dragon sight for what she feared most: the smoke of burning buildings, or the oblong balloons of many Dragonships, detectable by a Dragon even at this distance.

Immadia lay serene.

Aranya’s eyes scanned the far horizons, but she saw nothing of the expected invasion fleet. She drove on faster and faster, her wing beat rate increasing unconsciously as hope swelled in her breast. That was what alerted Zip.

“Oh, Aranya! It’s … are those Immadia’s mountains?” She kicked Aranya’s shoulders for emphasis as she added, “You’re a rotten friend. You never told me Immadia was so beautiful.”

“Sorry.” But Aranya was delighted at Zip’s response.

“Well?”

“Well, what – oh. No Dragonships, no smoke, no –”

“Could they be hiding, Aranya? Behind the mountains?”

“Maybe.” Aranya frowned. “But they don’t know we’re coming, so why hide? Garthion and his Hammers must expect to arrive in force, overwhelm my father’s defences in a matter of hours and put the Island to the sword.”

Zip said stoutly, “Well, we’ll show him.” But Aranya heard a note of horror enter her voice. A large spark leaped from Zuziana’s left hand into Ri’arion’s great sword, strapped to the saddle just behind her. “Roaring rajals,” said Zip. “Did I do that? So, what’s the plan, o most noble of Amethyst Dragons?”

“There’s only one of me, so that I guess makes me the most noble,” Aranya agreed. “Well, I’m going to fly right overhead, using those clouds over the city for cover, before diving down from the mountain side. I’ll aim to land on my mother’s tower as fast as I can. We duck behind the battlements to avoid the war catapults and crossbows and hopefully a soldier will appear to accept our surrender. I’ll show you how to surrender Immadian style – given as I’ve had practice.”

“Smart,” said Ri’arion, who had evidently not been as asleep as he looked. “At this speed, we should be over the city just around dawn. Zip, you need to get Aranya’s clothes ready.”

“And be ready to catch our saddlebags when I transform,” said Aranya.

The rising suns flung slowly-changing oranges and pinks across the snows of Immadia’s jagged peaks, as though a painter were working on a masterpiece but remained undecided as to the precise shade to use for the mountains. Soon, direct sunlight blazed off the highest peaks, so dazzlingly bright that Aranya had to shade her eyes with her secondary membranes in order to look directly at them. She realised her plan was even better than she had thought. Coming out of that dazzle, they would be well hidden.

Aranya ducked behind the clouds, accelerating on the descent until the wind whistled across her flanks and her Riders put up their arms to protect their eyes. Aranya folded her wings, laughing as her stomach lurched toward her throat. Ri’arion made a gurgle of dismay.

“We have to beat the crossbows,” she shouted, blinking as cloud engulfed them.

For a few moments, grey masked the world. It took all of Aranya’s courage not to pull out of her vertical dive, to trust her instincts in the knowledge that they would appear a few thousand feet above Immadia’s castle, exactly on the trajectory she desired, to wait for the battlements to appear and the inevitable alarm cries of the warriors which should follow.

The world blinked into focus again, hurtling toward her, the castle’s towers looming sharply as Aranya adjusted with her tail, refusing to brake until the very last moment, waiting and waiting for the soldiers who would be looking outward for Dragonships, not heavenward for a Dragon, and finally the thin cry of a soldier sighting them, a rash of panicked shouts coming to her hearing, but still there was no sound from the war crossbows. Aranya knew that every second was vital. She zoned her vision in on the tower. She saw the face of a young soldier there, turning, blanching with terror as he caught sight of a Dragon on a collision course with him. All she had time to think was, ‘When did Father post a guard on Izariela’s Tower?’ A violet Immadian flag waved bravely on the flagpole above the young soldier’s head. Aranya flared her wings, braking with care, judging the moment as she bled the speed ahead of her final braking manoeuvre. Crossbow winches squealed. Officers bellowed their orders. It was going to be very tight.

Warning gongs crashed out over the city.

Aranya’s stomach plunged toward her paws as she extended her wings fully. Her muscles shrieked with the strain. She swept in toward Izariela’s Tower, snarling at the young soldier, “Get clear, idiot.” Her shoulder thumped him aside. Aranya crashed down four-pawed on the tower’s stone, her tail crushing the battlement behind her. A breath later, she transformed. Ri’arion managed to land on his feet; catlike. Zuziana thumped down on her saddle with a startled yelp, which was echoed by the poor Immadian soldier, who fumbled his sword, dropped it, kicked it toward them and stood there like a flummoxed ralti sheep as three Humans gazed at him. Saddle bags and Dragon tack landed all around them.

“Heads down,” Aranya shouted. A quarrel swished through the air above them.

“Nice landing,” Zip congratulated Aranya. “Clothes?”

“That would be wonderful,” said Aranya, appreciating how her friend held up a cloak to shield her as she quickly pulled on her undergarments.

“Who are you?” quavered the soldier.

Metal scraped on stone as Ri’arion picked up the sword. Reversing the blade, he held it out hilt-first to the startled young man and said, “Take your sword, soldier. Accept our surrender.”

As Aranya had instructed, Ri’arion knelt. He put his head to the stone with his hands outstretched in the posture of surrender. Not without a mumble of complaint, Zuziana joined him, speaking softly to Sapphire to calm her. Aranya pulled the cloak over her head and shoulders and joined her friends.

Now the fun would begin, Aranya thought.

“Accept our surrender,” Ri’arion repeated.

“I, Felial Feryan of Immadia, do hereby,” he coughed and shuffled his boots on the flagstones, “I don’t know what to say. I’ve only been a soldier for six weeks. I accept, if you are indeed surrendering. What happened to the beast?”

Ri’arion sounded as though he were swallowing his laughter as he said to the earnest soldier, “How old are you, Felial?”

“Just turned fifteen this summer, my lord.”

“Well, Felial, when your commanding officer arrives, you will tell him how you bravely apprehended these three intruders and forced them to surrender. You may say we are Ri’arion of Ha’athior, and the Princesses Zuziana and Aranya, recently arrived in Immadia. You’ll be famous.”

Ri’arion helped the young man repeat their names.

Boots on the steps announced the arrival of a dozen more soldiers, who surrounded them with angry, confused cries and no small fuss. A sword-point jabbed Aranya in the back. Now a new voice joined in, the harsh rasp of a soldier Aranya recognised as Darron, Commander of the Castle – effectively, the commander of all Immadian forces. She had known him since she could remember. He was a tough veteran, a campaigner as wily as her father and renowned for his unbending fairness.

As he learned their names from Felial, the Commander’s voice rose in surprise. “Aranya, you say? She’s dead, boy. Passed away in the Tower of Sylakia, may her soul fly between the Islands.”

“S-Sir,” stammered the poor soldier.

“Well, Princess or no Princess, we must follow the King’s orders,” said Darron, in his broad accent that turned every vowel sound into a separate adventure. “Manacle them hand and foot, men, but treat them with respect. Then we shall see the faces of these miscreants who dare to appear uninvited on the King’s battlements.”

“There was a Dragon, Commander,” said one of the other men.

“A Dragon?”

A clamour rose at once. “Aye.” “We all seen it, sir.” “Great beast.” “Purple, it was.” “Landed right here on this tower, it did.”

“Silence!”

Cold metal closed around Aranya’s ankles and wrists. But metal shackles could not hold a Dragon. She had the impression Darron was about to chew his men over and spit them out. But instead, the Commander quietly asked who had seen a Dragon? Where had it vanished? What happened? He commanded Felial to tell his story again, sparing no detail. A pair of boots thudded across the stone toward the prone threesome.

Then a voice, which made Aranya’s heart wobble into her throat, said, “What is this, Commander? I receive incoherent reports of a Dragon landing on my castle, stones crashing down into my courtyard, and here I find intruders – three intruders – atop my tower? How did they penetrate our defences, Darron?”

“I was just inquiring, Sire.”

“You, man,” snapped King Beran. “Stand up.”

Ri’arion stood. There was a long silence, before Beran breathed, “Do I know you?”

“I am Ri’arion of Ha’athior Island, o King,” said the monk, so mildly that Aranya knew he was trying to keep a volatile situation calm. “When we met, I was a boy. You were just about to depart the Island of Fra’anior with Izariela, whom you had placed in chains not dissimilar to these. Back then, I was the Nameless Man. Now I am named. I ask –”

“How did you get here?”

Beran’s fury and wonder were palpable. The monk said, “We flew Dragonback, King Beran.”

“I see no Dragon.”

“I am not lying, o King. Will you allow us to explain?”

Darron said, “If there was a Dragon, one of you is a Shapeshifter. Which –”

“The Shapeshifters are all dead or departed,” said King Beran. “Or, one of these three made a hundred men see a Dragon.”

“There is a Dragon,” said Ri’arion, at exactly the same moment as Aranya said, “I’m the Dragon.”

“Don’t move,” snarled Darron. “Swords to the ready, men. The one with no shoes spoke.”

Cold steel touched her neck.

Aranya, unable to contain her rising ire, snapped, “Islands’ sakes! We’ve surrendered. What has become of Immadian honour? Spoiled into Sylakian chains and threats?”

“Strange times,” said King Beran, by his tone, barely holding back his own fury. Father and daughter, Aranya thought, stifling a sudden, horrifying urge to start laughing. “Arise, woman, that I might know you.”

Her heart faltered at the thought of what she was about to do to him. Lowering her head deliberately, Aranya tucked her feet beneath her and rose. Two soldiers shadowed her neck with their swords, reminding her in low voices not to make any false move. With a gasp, amethyst eyes lifted to meet her father’s piercing grey gaze.

A shock of recognition blazed between them.

“Dad. I’ve come home.”

The King made an inarticulate gargling sound. His eyes bulged. Her first thought was that she had killed him. Could she have broken the news more gently? For the King’s face had blanched to the colour of new parchment. He had aged, too. King Beran’s beard was shot through with grey. He seemed smaller than the man she remembered. Tears welled up and tracked down Aranya’s cheeks. She wished he would say something. But how could he? He thought she was dead. For him, his dead daughter had just clambered out of a grave.

“Father, I’m not dead. I’m Aranya, your daughter. The Sylakians didn’t kill me.”

Slowly, King Beran’s sword rose to point at her heart. He rasped, “Speak, shade. Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”

“I’m Aranya,” she repeated. “I’ve come home. Dad, we need to warn you –”

“How did you – you’re dead. Dead, my daughter’s dead …”

Aranya desperately wanted to run into his arms, but the sword stood between them like an unanswerable accusation. She looked to Commander Darron, but he could only gape at her, his expression caught between a narrow-eyed suspicion and utter astonishment.

She said, awkwardly, “Dad, this is Zuziana, Princess of Remoy. She’s a Dragon Rider. You may have heard that we caused the Sylakians some trouble down south around Remoy. I’m Aranya. You call me Sparky. Commander Darron has known me since I was a girl. I know most of the soldiers here, too. Shall I name them? Arad, I know. Rebor, too, and Gabor over there, who has ten children. Behind me stands your namesake Beran, called Beran Big-Foot as he has the largest boot size in all Immadia.”

Darron gave a gruff bark of laughter at this.

“Dad, last we spoke was on this very battlement before I left for the Tower of Sylakia. You counselled me to find a nobler path.”

The King of Immadia still made no response. Aranya’s heart broke for him. Until that moment, she had never understood how death could rob the living, but she saw it in him now.

She urged, “Even if you can’t believe I’m alive, Dad, you need to know that there is a Sylakian fleet bearing down on Immadia Island as we speak, furnished with secret orders for the annihilation of the Kingdom. We’ve come to help, if we can.”

Suddenly, her father tottered forward, his sword falling from nerveless fingers to clatter on the stone. He stopped right in front of Aranya, peering up at her. “You’re taller than that girl I remember,” he whispered. “Broader in the shoulder, leaner in the cheek and even more beautiful, were it possible.” Aranya’s lips tried to work into a tremulous smile. “But there’s something about you – a quality I remember in Izariela the day I kidnapped her and put her aboard my Dragonship, a look that says, ‘mere chains cannot hold me. I am here because of love.’ Is that true? Is it true, my Izariela? Have you returned? No, you aren’t her; but you look so alike. You’re my Aranya? I’m … confused.” He wrung his hands helplessly. “Help me.”

Commander Darron came to stand alongside his King. His eyes welcomed Aranya; she saw recognition and joy in them as clearly as the early suns-shine warming her back. Beran’s expression was priceless; a dawning of hope where only pain and grief had existed before.

The silence was as long and deep as the warmth radiating into Aranya’s heart.

“How may I help, o King?” asked the Commander.

Beran choked out, “Would you take these damnable chains off my daughter?”

“At once, o King. Keys! Fetch me the keys!”

King Beran did not wait. He threw himself against Aranya, making her stagger with the force of his hug. He clutched her desperately, a drowning man finding his salvation. And he cried and cried, together with her, tears of uncontainable happiness.

* * * *

An attempt at breakfast was interrupted by Beri arriving at the speed of a breaking thunderstorm, closely followed by Aranya’s brothers running ahead of a harried-looking nursemaid, shouting, ‘Rani! Rani!’ and holding up their arms to be scooped up and cuddled. They covered her cheeks with slobbery toddler kisses. Beri tossed dignity to the winds and kissed Aranya at least twenty times, before her eyes lit on Zuziana and she burst into a fresh round of weeping, holding the slight Princess so tightly that Zip coughed.

Commander Darron set up his command post in the next room. Officers and messengers dashed in and out, adding to the mayhem. A teary-eyed Queen Silha appeared to show Aranya her week-old baby sister, Leanya.

“Was she late?” asked Aranya.

“Almost three weeks,” said Silha. “The physician was very worried. But she’s here now, safe and healthy. Heavens, that can’t be the Dragon everyone’s making such a fuss about?”

Sapphire flew several fast circles around the table.

Come to me, little one, said Aranya. Here. Nice sweetmeat.

To Silha, she said, “No, she’s a dragonet – you might think of her as a mini-Dragon. We call her Sapphire. Beri, come sit with us. I missed you.”

“Huh,” snorted Beri. “Sitting at table with Princesses?”

“I’ll make it a royal order if you don’t obey, this instant,” said Aranya.

“And I’ll put you over my knee and paddle your behind, petal, as big as you are,” warned Beri. But she smiled warmly, taking the seat between Aranya and Zuziana.

“Your family is every bit as crazy as mine,” said Zip, gesturing at the chaos. “Would you look at Ri’arion? He doesn’t know which way is up any more. Hold your sister, Aranya. Go on. I’m desperate for a turn after you.”

Aranya shooed her brothers off her lap. “I can’t tell them apart any more, Silha. May I?”

“Blue trousers is Feran, green trousers is Tiran,” Silha said automatically, helping Aranya take her tiny sister in her arms.

Now, could she imagine being a Dragon and holding this little scrap of life in her paw? She stroked Leanya’s tiny, curled-up fist, admiring her sleeping face. “So, we haven’t met,” she said. “I’m Aranya, your big sister. You’re not allowed to be scared of me, alright? You’re lovely. Actually, you’ll probably sleep through everything while these big people here get the fright of their lives.”

Across from her, Darron whispered in the King’s ear. He had not forgotten the Dragon, she knew. Her father nodded. He had kept looking at her as if he expected her to vanish with the morning mists, but now his expression became grave.

Aranya reminded herself that she, too, had struggled to believe at first. She must be gracious, whatever the cost.

“So, Sparky,” said King Beran, raising his voice above the hubbub. “Explain this Dragon business. Are you telling me that creature gobbling up her fourth sweetmeat is the Dragon that had half my castle ducking for cover? Does it grow bigger, by magic?”

She swallowed hard, hating to have to shock her father again. “Dad, do you remember the Dragonship that exploded, the day First War-Hammer Ignathion accepted Immadia’s surrender?”

“I do.”

“That was my doing.”

“Oh?” Her father’s left eyebrow wagged sceptically.

Aranya pressed on, “Zip told you how we caused the Sylakians endless trouble down in Remoy.”

“Quite the stir,” said Beran, jovially. “The rumours reached even to Immadia’s shores. I sense a bit of the old cliff fox in you, Aranya. No disrespect to Remoy, of course. I just hadn’t pictured my daughter running around the Islands as a wanted criminal, blasting Dragonships into the Cloudlands.”

“Dad – we’re probably the reason Garthion’s on his way here now.”

“Look,” said King Beran, his voice gaining a steely edge, “the Supreme Commander has been searching for an excuse to destroy Immadia since forever. That’s why surrender was a smart tactical move, last time. I spent twelve summers irritating him like a wasp up his left nostril. We became suspicious when all communications were cut off a week back, Sparky. That was the reason for the alert; for the chains. But you haven’t clarified how exactly you arrived on my battlements. Do I sense a certain avoidance of the truth?”

“The truth is hard, Dad,” said Aranya. She rocked Leanya as the infant stirred and made a tiny mewling noise.

“I’ve never known you to shy from a hard truth.”

“Dad, I’m the Dragon.”

Her father laughed, but then a puzzled frown creased his brow. “I know you, my daughter. I know you dreamed of being a Dragon, aye. But you’re not … you are joking, aren’t you?”

Aranya met his gaze with all the openness she could muster. “Dad, do you know what Mom was doing all those mornings up on the tower? Do you remember how she burned your beard? She said I was born with the fire inside of me.”

“Aye, aye.”

“What about how I burned your tapestry? And how we discussed me being an enchantress?”

“Aye. But that’s a far cry from being a … Shapeshifter? Darron knew?”

“I don’t know. Somebody in the castle must have seen, or helped her.” Aranya felt as though they were the only two people in the room, confiding deep and terrible secrets to each other against a backdrop of happy chatter. “You were married to a Dragon Shapeshifter, Dad. Her skin showed it when she died. That’s why she had crazy hair. But she had to hide because the Sylakians were killing off all the Shapeshifters, just as they poisoned her. For all I know, I could be the last one.”

“You turn into a Dragon?”

Aranya hid her impatience with a smile. That note of disbelief was still unrelieved. “Dad, when I said I flew here – that’s the truth. I carried Zuziana and Ri’arion here, on my back. Zuziana is my Rider and I am her Dragon, when I’m in my Dragon form.”

King Beran cleared his throat. “You and Zuziana aren’t … I mean, you aren’t trying to say in a round-the-Islands way …”

“Dad!” Aranya turned crimson. “Zuziana’s with Ri’arion, not me. The man I used to like is the one coming to destroy Immadia – and that’s a sorry tale.”

Her father blanched. “Not Garthion?”

“Dad, for the Islands’ sake, will you let me speak before jumping to any more wild conclusions? No, it’s Third War-Hammer Yolathion, who is a commander in Garthion’s forces. He’s actually Jeradian, but – oh, there’s too much to explain. I met him in the Tower of Sylakia, where I tried to kill Garthion, but failed. Yolathion chased Zip and I to Remoy and back with a fleet of Dragonships. We disgraced him; this is his chance to redeem himself and exact his revenge.”

“Ignathion’s son?” Beran scratched his beard thoughtfully.

“Honour and duty above all else,” Aranya said bitterly. “He serves the Butcher of Jeradia willingly and well.”

“The first part definitely sounds like Ignathion’s son.” Beran shifted on his chair. “How many Dragonships are heading for Immadia, Sparky?”

“Two hundred, maybe more.”

“I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation.” His finger stabbed at her. “My daughter is a Dragon? You mean the claws and wings, long fangs, fire-breathing, legendary sort of Dragon we see on picture-scrolls and tapestries? Not something like that little creature?”

Aranya sighed, knowing she had to show him. “Dad, that’s a dragonet. I’m a little bigger.”

“Much bigger,” Zip put in. “Aranya, your Dad’s as bad as mine. Why don’t we find a nice courtyard and tickle his neck with the sharp end of your claws?”

King Beran looked around the room. “This isn’t big enough?”

“Trust me,” the Princess of Remoy smirked. “She’s legendary.”

Chapter 28: Reunion

“Hi, Dad. It’s me, Aranya.”

King Beran was doing his level best to maintain his dignity. Several of his veteran soldiers did not manage quite as well, whipping out their swords or swearing colourfully before Commander Darron quelled them with a parade-ground glare.

She heard Zip whisper to her father, “Yes, you slept with one of these in your bed for years.”

Her father did not appear to appreciate the joke.

But Aranya watched Zip’s magic glowing in her eyes, a blue so vibrant it rivalled the skies above, which had cleared since the early morning. King Beran had already despatched several Dragonships to spy out the impending arrival of the Sylakian Dragonship fleet. Ri’arion had informed him in no uncertain terms that a Dragon could do the job far better.

Her own magic had been triggered by fear, anger, or other high tides of her emotions. What would Garthion’s arrival trigger in Zip? Her fires surged in her belly as she imagined confronting Yolathion. How would she manage that?

Immadia had fifteen Dragonships outfitted for war, many hidden from Ignathion’s fleet at the time of Immadia’s surrender. Aranya wondered if Ignathion had searched as thoroughly as he might have for the remains of an old friend’s war fleet. Ten further traders’ Dragonships had been converted for war, although they were not as speedy or powerful as the warships. He had one newly built vessel, a Dragonship fitted with five long-range war crossbows, a recent innovation which had not made it into the Immadian fleet before they had been betrayed at Rolodia. In all Immadia had twenty-six Dragonships, one Dragon and her Rider, and a crazy monk who had been talking to Commander Darron about being launched via catapult at Garthion’s flagship.

Zuziana had tried to argue him out of his plan, and failed.

Immadia had six thousand soldiers, from the greenest recruits to old men who could barely swing a sword. The Sylakians would arrive with two hundred Dragonships and field ten thousand trained men of war.

When King Beran seemed at a loss for words, Commander Darron put in, “Haven’t seen one of your kind since I was a boy. My father was a Dragon Rider. The stories he told …”

Beran said, “I never imagined, Sparky. You’re colossal … my daughter’s a Dragon?”

“Dad!” growled the Dragon. Zip had her fist stuffed in her mouth, evidently on the cusp of exploding with laughter. Aranya itched to slap her with a Dragon-sized paw, the little wretch.

“You flew here – sorry, I know I sound stupid,” said the King, clearly trying to set his shock aside. “Where are you hiding my Aranya?”

“I am Aranya, Dad. There’s Human-Aranya and Dragon-Aranya, and we’re … oh, for the Islands’ sake! I know you don’t believe me, but I’m still your daughter.”

“My, what big fangs you have, darling,” chortled Zip.

Aranya and Beran shouted at her simultaneously, “Zip!”

“What powers does a purple Dragon have?” asked the Commander.

“She’s an Amethyst Dragon,” Zuziana replied promptly. “She can blow fire, spit fireballs, chew meriatite and use the gas to produce fire, heal herself and others, and do a few other things we haven’t worked out yet. We think she has Storm powers – wind, lightning and thunder – but those are very new. I use a Pygmy bow, which is powerful enough to punch burning arrows through most Dragonship armour.”

“May I?” Darron examined her bow with a professional eye and tested the draw. “By the mountains, imagine if we built war crossbows like this, my Lord!” The grizzled old warrior clapped Zip on the back. “A mite like you can draw this bow?”

“I’m improving.”

“This is unbelievable,” Beran muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “but it makes a weird kind of sense. I just never imagined. My daughter’s a Shapeshifter, risen from the dead, bane of the Sylakians.” Now his normal grin reasserted itself. “Aranya, when exactly did you decide to take over the family tradition of bearding Sylakians?”

“Learned from the best,” she chuckled.

The Commander bowed formally over Zuziana’s hand. After blowing on her knuckles, he made a sign Aranya had never seen before. “Well, punch my guts out with a catapult shot, a real, fire-breathing Dragon and her Rider. We’ve got some strategizing to do, my Lord. I don’t like the odds, but the scales weigh more evenly now.”

“We haven’t seen this invasion fleet yet,” put in one of his sub-Commanders.

The King and Commander both fixed him with poisonous glares. But it was Darron who rasped, “You doubt the word of a Dragon Rider?”

“No sir.”

The Commander growled, “Besides, that Dragon’s the King’s daughter.”

Aranya leered at the unfortunate man, who looked to be counting the remaining seconds of his mortality.

“Right,” said Darron. “You two need to brief us dagger-sharp with everything you’ve got on the Sylakian forces, weapons and aerial tactics, this new Dragonship armour and technique with nets you mentioned, Yolathion’s experience and disposition, what you did to the Supreme Commander’s son, how you escaped the Tower of Sylakia –”

King Beran interrupted the Commander’s growing list with, “I’d like you to scout, Aranya. If Dragon eyes are anything like the stories, you’ll see the fleet long before our scouts do. I’ve a gift for you, a little something the Sylakians dropped off with a thousand questions after you –” he shook his head at this point “– you really are like me in all the worst ways as well, Aranya. After your raid on the Tower of Sylakia. Your Immadian forked daggers came to us courtesy of First War-Hammer Ignathion. It landed us in a barrel of Cloudlands poison, let me tell you – imagine me trying to explain how Immadian daggers turned up …”

Darron rapped at his sub-Commander, “All-points order – the Dragon is ours, alright? She’s an Immadian Dragon on our side. No-one shoots her or I will personally load them into a catapult and see if I can’t land them on Sylakia Island from here.” He glanced at the sky. “In one hour she will take a flight over the city.”

A squire came running up with King Beran’s armour. “Sire, we, uh –” His eyes bulged and the rest of his sentence turned into a wordless squeak.

Beran began to pull on his armour with an air of purpose which had been missing in him since that morning, Aranya realised, and possibly for months before. “Help me strap these on, boy, when you’re done gawking at the Dragon. She won’t eat you.”

“I don’t eat people,” said Aranya. “But if you had a handy haunch of sheep …”

Commander Darron clapped his hands for a messenger. “Meat for the Dragon, at the double.”

The messenger’s eyes clearly measured her up and down, trying to decide on a suitable portion.

“A whole haunch, boy, from the kitchens. Go!” Darron grinned at Aranya, and added a comradely slap on the shoulder. “In case I forget to say this later, my lady, you look magnificent. All those stories my father told, don’t do you a pebble’s justice compared to a whole Island. You haven’t got any Dragon armour, have you? No? Hmm. Do me a favour. When you do your sweep of the city, give them a proper Dragon roar. That’ll shake them in their furry underwear.”

* * * *

It was freeing, being up in the air again. Aranya had not realised how much all the fuss would affect her; all the feelings rushing through her heart, the pain and joy mixed into a bittersweet brew. Oyda had been so right. Becoming a Dragon was like being reborn. Nothing was the same.

She swooped down over the city of Immadia. The city bustled with preparations for war. Teams of women and children wet down the rush roofs of houses lower down in the city and prepared barrels of water for putting out fires. Soldiers rushed back and forth. Carts groaned as they carried loads of crossbow quarrels and catapult ammunition to the emplacements scattered around the city. King Beran had broken open the armouries of the secret caverns. Sacks of meriatite made their way to the Dragonship field. Outside the city, shepherds hurried their flocks away into the forests. A last straggle of conscripts marched in from one of the remote villages.

“Well?” said Zip.

“Well, I’m afraid of what’s to come.”

“No, you silly sheep – you promised the Commander a roar.”

“I guess I did.”

Zip laughed her belly-laugh. “Aw, who’s a shy little Dragon, then? Mommy gave her so much milk it drowned out her fire?” She made baby-noises. “Aw, so cute.”

An irascible rumble of fire announced itself in Aranya’s belly. She opened her mouth and released a roar so resounding it shook her from muzzle to tail. Half of the city came to a halt; the other half looked to the skies in amazement, wondering where the thunder had come from. The tall, flightless terhal birds carrying the wealthy notables of Immadia scattered in a squawking, flapping panic in every conceivable direction. Echoes reverberated from the mountains behind the city. She supposed there had to be something awe-inspiring about hearing a Dragon roar overhead. Her Dragon senses prickled; Human-Aranya, however, warned against a surfeit of Dragonish pride.

“Oh, yes,” shouted Zip. “Back over the castle now with a roar for the Commander. Then up over the mountains as ordered.”

“You’re unusually obedient today, Zip,” she teased.

Aranya swooped smoothly through the clear noon skies, heading back up to the castle. She saw a few hands waving at her from below. Most people seemed stunned. Aranya thundered over the castle, giving Commander Darron an ebullient rendition of his boyhood wish, before angling for the mountains.

“That roar of yours,” said Zip, after some time. “It has magic in it, Aranya – a touch of thunder. Real thunder.”

Dragon-Aranya directed a wide-eyed gaze over her shoulder at her Rider. “Storm powers?”

“I think.”

“You’re sensing magic, Zip-Zap?”

“Can we please not fly into the mountainside?” Zip whooped as Aranya rolled into a vertical climb, skirting the flanks of the spectacular peaks that framed the city. “Show off. And stop making up nicknames for me.”

“You just have to try flying, Zip.”

“Oh, you’re so sly,” said Zip, pressed back in the saddle as they climbed, still accelerating. “I am flying, Dragonback. Yes, I definitely sensed something. You don’t realise how loud you are, do you? I’m going to need ear plugs if that power develops any further. I sense magic in the mountains –”

Aranya cut her friend off with a growl, saying, “I sense Dragonships, Zip. The breeze is against them. But I can’t see any, yet.”

Zip shuddered. Aranya glanced back with concern, but her Rider merely raised her chin – as Aranya might have – and essayed a determined frown. Dragon-Aranya, however, knew how fast her friend’s heart was pulsing, like a Dragonship at full speed. To her annoyance, Zip kept glancing back at the mountains as though they were more important than the Sylakian fleet. How could she have all these doubts about her friend, right before an important and possibly fatal battle?

As Aranya continued her upward surge, Immadia Island receded to the size of a small painting, a forlorn outpost of memories and love and longing and pain in the midst of the Cloudlands. She loved that sight. Islands looked so different from above. A large textured dot was the city, a white field beside it the soaring, ragged-toothed mountains, a fringe of variegated greens the forests and fields, and a smattering of tiny outlying Islands, several inhabited, briefly peppered the proximate shores of Immadia before the emptiness of those endless horizons of gold-shot Cloudlands.

Zuziana leaned forward, saying, “Aranya, I don’t understand what’s bitten me. I want to fight. I’m trying to be strong. But there’s this thing in me that’s acid inside, eating away. I’m just so frightened. I want to hide under those mountains. I’m sorry. I am fighting it, Aranya.”

“Zip, I understand.” But the Princess did not believe. Aranya wanted to scream or shake some sense into her. “We can do this, Zip. I’m not letting Garthion near you. Understood? Say the word –”

“Aranya, no. You are not abandoning your Island for me.”

“What, then?”

“I couldn’t live with myself. Don’t you see?”

What Aranya saw was that Zip’s body, hands and face were glowing like the beautiful sheets of light that danced in the northern skies during winter. The power was growing wildly within her.

Aranya took a deep, ragged breath of frigid air into her lungs, scanning the eastern horizon. “Zip, I have never and will never regret breaking you out of the Tower. A Rider chooses as much as she is chosen. I don’t want anyone else. If this is your fight, then it is mine, too. If it’s my Island, it is your Island, too.”

She gasped; the labour of her lungs stalled and Aranya’s wings hung limply in the air.

“Dragonships?”

“Oh, Zip. So many …”

Deliberately, she chose to train her eyes on those miniscule dots rising above the horizon. She magnified the picture with all of her strength. For the first time, she felt Zip nearby – her mind, nearby, somehow attuned with hers.

“Hundreds,” Zip said, dreamily. “A group peeling away to the north, Aranya. They mean to outflank us from behind the mountains, as King Beran suggested. Wait, we should count them.” Aranya shivered. Now Zip could read her mind? Bizarre. “Around fifty to the north, Aranya. Too many to count in the east.”

“They’re still cresting the horizon,” said Aranya.

“Ooh, I feel ill.” Zuziana swayed in the saddle, putting her hand to her forehead. “That wasn’t a good idea. Let’s take our intelligence to the Commander, Aranya. Oh, I need to take those measurements first. Hang on.”

“Oh, I’ll just hang on the breeze.” When this received no response, Aranya added, “I’ll hook my wings to a passing cloud and dangle.”

“You’re making a noise, beast. Shh.”

When Zip was finished, Aranya asked, “What is that thing?”

“A league-logger,” said the Princess, rather too smugly for Aranya’s liking. “Something your Immadian scholars apparently found described in an ancient scroll. It measures angles and works out horizontal distance – in this case, fifty-three leagues to the Dragonships. Making four leagues per hour against the wind; they’ll reach Immadia by this evening.”

After returning with their intelligence, Aranya and Zuziana were ordered to rest until late afternoon, when they flew on another reconnaissance, very similar to the first. The Dragonships were much closer, but not in a particular hurry.

“Closing the northern jaw of his trap,” said King Beran, pacing up and down like a caged rajal. “Sink him into a Cloudlands volcano, I’d do the same. He’ll make a frontal assault around dawn with the bulk of his fleet, on land and in the air, while waiting with his second flank until the battle has been joined and our forces are committed to one front.”

“Aye, Sire,” said Darron. “Where’s Garthion’s flagship, Aranya?”

“With the northern group, Commander,” she replied. “And … please don’t take this the wrong way, but we didn’t make any assumptions he would be with his flagship. Princess Zuziana and I agreed that we sensed his presence inside the flagship. Call it a Dragon sense. He once tortured the Princess of Remoy. Now it seems there’s a strange connection between them.”

“Does it go both ways?” asked the King.

Aranya’s fires flared at the question. Perceptive! She had not thought about that. Poor Zip had nearly fainted at the touch of Garthion’s mind, at the awareness of his proximity and evil. She had been raving for a while, babbling about chains and Dragons and the skin being flayed off her body.

“I don’t know. It could. Dad – also, I need to be honest. My Rider’s not well. Can I talk to you and Commander Darron privately?”

She explained how Princess Zuziana had reacted; that this was unlike her, especially given as they had been through battles before. She told them about her fears about the Dragon tears.

“Aye, Aranya,” said Darron, when her tale was told. “Dragon magic’s spawned a thousand tales of strange powers. Could be the torture broke her mind; could be your magic still working within her. You chose well to tell us, girl. Thank you for your honesty – and your trust.”

King Beran nodded. “Aye, I’m proud of you, Sparky.”

“Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Commander Darron.”

“Now, you should rest,” said the King. “You’re swaying even as you speak. We’ve spied the Dragonships and will keep a Dragon’s eye on their advance. Any trouble, we’ll wake you at once and meet on Izariela’s Tower. You’ve my word on that.”

“Dad, we can’t hit them tonight, can we? One flash of an exploding Dragonship and they’ll see me.”

“Aye. But an attack from above in the morning – that should send those ralti sheep fleeing for the hills. Darron and I will discuss how best we might use you. I’ve never tried to plan strategy around a Dragon.”

“But Dad, there’s just one of me.”

“So we need to make you count for ten. Your tame monk has given me a few ideas.”

Aranya kissed him on the cheek. “You get some sleep, too.”

“It’ll work out,” said Beran, touching his cheek where she had kissed him. “I just know. Call it a father-of-the-Dragon sense.”

She stared at him. Shaking her head, Aranya went to try to find some elusive sleep.

* * * *

Bang! Bang-bang-bang!

Aranya jerked awake. She had kicked the sheets into a ferocious tangle. Beside her on the bed, Zuziana sat up at once.

“Quickly,” came the call. “To the tower.”

“An attack?” mumbled Aranya.

Zip had slept fully dressed. She ran to the door. “Sleeping in the clouds? Hurry!”

Aranya had been dreaming about the Black Dragon. What had he been saying? She could not remember, but it was important. She ran after Zuziana.

The two Princesses burst up onto the tower. As they did, a flash of fire lit the eastern sky. Aranya rubbed her eyes as she scanned the horizon. “An attack? Where?”

“They’re attacking each other,” said King Beran. “At least, we think so. Can you transform and tell us?”

At least her father was awake. Aranya waved her arms. “If you clear enough space.”

Aranya’s sleeping-shift fluttered to the ground, torn. In her place stood an Amethyst Dragon. She peered into the night. Her hearts leaped fitfully at the excitement. “Yes, they’re attacking each other. It’s hard to tell … the fleet is drifting apart and there’s a cloudbank in the way.”

“What about the northern group?” asked Darron. “Our lookouts say they saw what they took for lightning out there, o King. Could we just send –”

“A Dragon scout?” said Aranya. “Ri’arion? Zip?”

Ri’arion said, “Take Zip. I’ll stay here in case a ground assault starts.”

“Don’t engage them, yet,” warned the King. “We need information down here to keep people alive.”

“Agreed,” said Zip, mounting up.

“No armour, Dragon Rider?” asked Commander Darron.

“No time.”

When Princess Zuziana was seated, Aranya launched herself over the side of the battlement and raced away into the moonlit night. Zip muttered to herself as she secured the thigh and waist straps. Three moons were high: White, Jade and Blue, giving the night a gentle sparkle that Aranya feared would reveal their presence to anyone who might not be battle-watching, but watching the skies with a telescope. She wished she could be a Black Dragon, like Fra’anior.

A ripple passed through her body.

“What was that?” asked Zip. “Aranya, you’ve changed colour.”

Aranya looked at herself in surprise. She had shifted to a smoky purple-black colour, a much better companion to the night.

“Neat trick,” said Aranya, casually.

Zip chuckled. “You don’t fool me. You’re more surprised than I am.”

Dragon-Aranya thought about this as she flapped steadily to gain height. The battle out there over the eastern Cloudlands was fierce. Another Dragonship flared into ashes; two were limping toward Immadia, losing altitude rapidly. It might have been a good opportunity to strike – but what was going on? A strange diversion to hide a sneak attack from the north? The battle seemed too realistic. Even Garthion must surely balk at blowing up his own Dragonships.

She could change colour like the chameleons they had found along the Crescent Islands? Badly, she told herself. She had been thinking about the Black Dragon. She had arrived at a strange midway point, a colour that was neither of them. Would Ri’arion know about colour-changing Dragons? Everything Nak and Oyda had taught her suggested that Dragon colours were fixed from birth.

A great orange flash lit the clouds hanging over the mountain peaks.

A dozen more wing beats brought Aranya to a height where she could see between the peaks. The northern part of the Sylakian fleet had anchored just the other side of a sharp line of peaks. The battle here was fierce, too, a group of Dragonships coming under heavy fire from a second group which sported the symbol of the windroc. A mutiny in Garthion’s forces, she wondered? Her flames churned steadily in her stomach. Had she not promised her father, she could have gone out there and downed a few Dragonships before they knew what had hit them.

Her eyes focussed. There was Garthion’s heavily armoured flagship; the man himself standing behind his forward crysglass window, watching the battle. He could see? The Supreme Commander had said the son of Sylakia was blind. She wondered how much he saw, now. Magnified by her sight, his face looked bizarre – scars, she realised, a horrific melting of flesh right up into the hairline …

“Garthion!” screamed Zip, seeing through Aranya’s eyes. “Oh, uuunh!”

Lightning flashed behind her. Suddenly a weight drove Aranya downward; daggers of pain plunged into her back. She howled and thrashed instinctively, throwing off her attacker. She saw wings spinning past her, the snapping jaws of a Dragon, blue-in-blue eyes blazing with magic, a tail that smashed her in the jaw as the Dragon roared past her and charged away into the night, westward.

Aranya reeled. Another Dragon!

Then she had a second shock. Zip was gone … Zip was the Dragon. Aranya gave chase at once, hurtling away from the battle at her utmost speed. It was Zip. No-one else could have that colour, the azure of her eyes. Her Dragon senses reached out to her friend. Zip! Zip!

An incoherent scream tore into her mind.

She was feral. Frightened out of her wits, the Dragon sped westward over the mountains, flying erratically. Aranya was surprised she could fly at all. Perhaps it was all Dragon instinct, the shock of the change having driven her mad. Her mind raced. Aranya could transform and land on her friend and try to calm her down, but then they’d lose their only Dragon saddle – which was probably damaged, anyway. And if she missed? A maddened Dragon might just rip her apart. She should know how fast Dragon reactions were.

Aranya made a snap decision. Abandoning the chase, she stretched out her neck and powered down the mountainside to the castle, gaining tremendous velocity as she swooped, her wings tucked and trimmed to provide the least possible air friction. She checked the sky. If she was quick, Zuziana would not get too far. She back-winged into the tower, making everyone duck as she landed on the edge of the battlement.

“Ri’arion,” she snarled. “I need you aboard, now.”

“Where’s – we saw another –”

“It’s Zip. She transformed when we saw Garthion.” Aranya sought out her father as the monk scrambled into her saddle.

“You’re wounded,” said Ri’arion.

Ignoring him, Aranya reported rapidly, “It looks like a mutiny. Maybe a smallish number of Dragonships in both fleets, Dad. I don’t know what it means. Who would dare mutiny against Sylakia? I’d watch out for tricks. Garthion is mad enough to try anything. He is definitely out there in the northern group, chasing seven rogue Dragonships. In the bigger group, I counted one hundred and eighty Dragonships –”

Beran nodded. “Got all that. And you’re going to –”

“Chase my Rider – the other Dragon, Dad.”

“Now there’s another Dragon?”

Her father’s eyes narrowed in calculation. Aranya wanted to snarl at him, ‘That’s my friend, not a pawn in our battle!’ But as Ri’arion scrambled into the saddle, she said, biting back her anger, “It’s Zip, as I feared. The transformation has made her mad. How will you signal me? Could you?”

The King said, “Keep a Dragon’s eye back here. We’ll raise an orange flag on Izariela’s Tower if there’s trouble, alright? White for safety, orange for danger. Hurry back, Aranya.”

Ri’arion said, “Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragon.”

Aranya hurled herself off the round battlements with a low cry – a Dragon’s sob, she realised. She accelerated powerfully, pressing Ri’arion back against her spine-spike. The night was growing old. Three or four hours until dawn, she made it. What would the coming day bring? King Beran would have to scrap all of his plans and start over.

“Easy there, rajal,” said Ri’arion. “No straps left on this saddle. I need to rig something with my belt.”

“I’ll fly level. Ri’arion, where’s Sapphire?”

“Don’t rightly know. Zuziana sent her off somewhere late yesterday evening. She said she had an idea about the mountains; that there was magic up there. Aranya …”

She recognised the plea in Ri’arion’s voice. Aranya said, “She transformed, Ri’arion. She transformed into a Dragon as blue as the noonday sky.”

“An Azure Dragon?” said the monk. “Almost definitely the gift of lightning. Also rare, Aranya, but not as rare as you. You said she went feral? You want me to help coax her back?”

“Yes.”

“This sounds like aerial acrobatics to me. Aranya, you know what a bad flyer I am.”

“Time to improve, Ri’arion.”

Aranya scanned the western skies for any sign of Zuziana. Where had she gone? It could not have been far. There, her friend slipped out momentarily from behind a cloud before ducking into another. She was still fleeing westward. Her flight had smoothed out. Was that a good sign? Or was she escaping even faster? Aranya flexed and contracted her muscles in a flowing beat of her own, pressing upward to gain a height advantage over her friend. Poor, poor Zip. Aranya’s Dragon tears had done their terrible work after all. Zip had never wanted to be a Dragon, but her friend had chosen for her. The memory of Zip’s cold, still face hovered in her mind’s eye. What choice could she have made, other than to let her die?

Zip raced on and on, her sleek blue scales glinting in the moonlight, but the difference in their experience soon became apparent. Aranya was faster and more efficient in the air. It took time, because she had started so far behind, but she was catching her friend now. For the first time, Aranya could appreciate another Dragon in flight. Zuziana was slender, smaller than her by about ten feet in length and more delicately built overall, but she was still sleek and sliced across the stars with the deadly intent of an Immadian forked dagger. Her outspread wings reflected the starlight. The large flight surfaces flexed and adjusted minutely to the changes in air pressure and conditions, while her tail acted as a rudder. Her paws were tucked beneath her body for streamlining in flight.

Zip? Zuziana of Remoy? Aranya called.

The Dragon looked over her shoulder, the catlike pupils of her eyes dilated with terror. She stalled in the air.

Aranya lunged, but her friend recovered somehow and darted beneath her in the opposite direction. Aranya wheeled so hard that Ri’arion grunted, but then he also raised his voice.

“Zip,” cried the monk. “Zuziana of Remoy! Remember who you are. We are friends, your friends, Zuziana; we’ve come to take care of you. You’re Human, Zip. You’ve no need to fear.”

With a low whimper, the Azure Dragon jinked to the south.

Ri’arion unbuckled his belt. “Let’s see if we can get me onto her back.”

“Mind the spine-spikes.”

Aranya closed with the Azure Dragon. She kept speaking gently to her as Ri’arion climbed down to her forepaw and then swung beneath it. Two more abrupt changes of direction, and suddenly the monk’s weight lifted. Aranya bounced in the air.

Ri’arion landed, not very comfortably and within an inch of losing his manhood, on the base of Zuziana’s neck. The Azure Dragon howled and tumbled through the air, but Ri’arion locked his legs around her neck and clung white-knuckled to her spines, soothing her as one would soothe a frightened pony or kitten, even as they fell through the air. Suddenly, Aranya saw Zip’s eyes contract.

“Ri’arion?” she said. “What’re you doing … what am I … I’m flying!”

With that, she dropped like a stone.

Aranya remembered the interplay of her Human and Dragon minds all too well. She still did it from time to time, letting her Human brain try to direct her flight or landing with unpredictable and inelegant results. Dragon-Aranya furled her wings and plummeted after her friend, bringing herself beneath the fall. A mighty weight crashed against her back and shoulders.

“Transform, Zip,” she heard Ri’arion order.

Abruptly, the weight vanished. Ri’arion stood on the inner edge of her left wing, his weight making her innermost strut bend like a green stick, as he helped Zip into the saddle. She was naked – oh, Aranya remembered that – and shivering with shock. Ri’arion tore off his shirt and helped Zuziana draw it over her head. He swung up into the next space behind her and put his arms around her waist.

“Beloved,” he whispered. “You’re safe. Everything will be fine.”

“I’m a Dragon.”

“A very attractive Azure Dragon,” said Ri’arion. “I think I could fall in love with your Dragon-form all over again, Zuziana.”

In a tiny voice, Zip said, “You could?”

“Aye. True as Fra’anior smokes every day; true as the suns rise at dawn.”

Aranya wanted to close her ears, but her sensitive hearing caught their soft conversation perfectly. She wanted to scream. Why could it not have been like this between her and Yolathion?

She turned to the east, startled to see that the suns were just about to make their appearance over the horizon. The chase had taken longer than she thought. The Sylakians were coming. Her eyes homed in on the city. Dragonships? More Dragonships than she expected … an orange flag. Orange! Adrenalin surged into her veins; Aranya cried out in dismay and hurled herself through the air as she raced back toward the beleaguered Island of Immadia.

At Ri’arion’s worried query, she replied, “Orange flag – danger. We arranged the signal.”

Ri’arion and Zuziana stared ahead. “Dragonships? Those are ours, surely?”

“No, they fly the rajal. Whose symbol is that?”

“Jeradia,” said the Princess of Remoy. “It must be Jeradia – Yolathion. What’s he doing? Why’s he over the city? How did King Beran allow him to approach so easily? Aranya, Yolathion commands the Jeradian troops in Garthion’s army. I learned that just after he captured us. I don’t remember much, but I do remember him talking about ‘the Jeradian Dragonships’.”

Aranya cried, “It’s a trick. A trap. I knew it!”

Chapter 29: Hunting the Hunters

She could not fly back to Immadia Island fast enough. Aranya wanted to wail and rail at Zip for luring her away at the crucial moment, but that was unfair. Aranya knew she had done right. King Beran must have his reasons for letting those Jeradian Dragonships approach his city. Ri’arion and Zip both tried to reason with her, but Aranya could not exorcise the leaden dread from her soul. All she could envision was fiery bolts raining down upon her people, and red-cloaked soldiers marching through the streets.

The orange flag waved jauntily above Izariela’s Tower. Stuck to a twenty-foot flagpole, it screamed ‘warning!’

Aranya arrowed across the flanks of the western mountains. Her wings beat furiously, driving her onward at a speed that whipped the words out of her Riders’ mouths. The world became a tunnel, the castle rimmed in darkness closing in around her vision. Pressure built in her breast. There was a tautness within her that was not muscular. It wasn’t her fire; this was different. Aranya struggled to breathe. Her magic gathered in ways she had never experienced before. Her eyes fixed on the huge courtyard that lay before the gates of the inner keep. Three Jeradian Dragonships were moored there. Her eyes followed the hawsers downward. The men had to be hidden behind the buildings. She could not see; her father was in grave peril and she could not see to help him, she was too far …

Atop her back, Zuziana shouted at her. The words reverberated off of Aranya’s ears without understanding. Green flags? What was green to a Dragon? A piercing whistling came to her attention, a sound that climbed the registers to a painful shrill, presaging a great wind that lashed in from her tail, scudding the Dragon along on an irresistible torrent of air. She blurred in over the city, moving fast, much too fast. Roof tiles and straw blasted off roofs in the storm-wash of her passing. Aranya could not help herself. Power choked her throat and blinded her eyes. All she saw was crimson fury. As the courtyard came into her line of sight, Aranya spied Yolathion, Third War-Hammer of the Sylakian fleet, facing her father over a short space, his hammer upraised in the act of striking him.

Dad! Terror stopped her hearts.

Aranya’s throat worked. Her stomach clenched so hard she thought she had broken something. At once, a roar like a peal of thunder blasted out of her, a sound so loud it arrested her flight mid-air as though she had slammed into a wall. The detonation picked men up like windswept leaves and scattered them across the square. Several warriors smashed into the sides of buildings. Dust screamed across the paving stones. Windows blasted off their hinges. One of the moored Dragonships crumpled inward, while all three were swept away above the city.

Dragon-Aranya landed in the square. Her Dragon sight surveyed the wreckage. A low rumble of satisfaction throbbed deep in her chest.

“Aranya, Aranya!” she heard, vaguely, a faraway cry.

Her eyes fixed on a tall man lying across the square from her. Yolathion! He struggled to his feet, holding his head.

Aranya leaped a hundred feet in a single bound. Yolathion half-turned to flee, but the Dragon’s paw caught his shoulder and smashed him to the ground. In a trice Aranya stood over him, snarling, “Traitor. I’m going to rip you in half!”

Yolathion writhed beneath her paw. He coughed weakly, trying to draw breath, but the weight of a Dragon held him down. His eyes registered horror.

“Aranya!” screamed Zip, leaping to the ground.

“Back. I’ll deal with this filth, Rider.”

“Aranya, stop it,” cried Zuziana, trying to dodge her paw as Aranya batted her away. “Green flags, Aranya. They’re flying green flags.” Zip ducked, rolling beneath Aranya’s belly. “No!”

Aranya caught the Princess with her free forepaw, panting hard as her rage began to abate, as sense reasserted itself in her mind. “Zip, it’s a trick,” she argued. “I saw the War-Hammer about to slay the King. Look to the tower, at the orange flag flying. That’s the danger flag – well, I’ve scattered these weak Humans like terrified, bleating sheep with the power of my roar, and saved all Immadia from this double-crossing Jeradian’s plot.”

Zip pushed ineffectually at Aranya’s claws, trying to loosen the iron grip on her ribcage. “Aranya, listen to yourself. You’re talking like a crazy Dragon. Let up, Aranya. You’re hurting me.”

But as Zip spoke, Aranya’s eyes moved to her father, who gazed up at the battlement in genuine perplexity. “What fool mixed up the flags?” he cried. He rushed across the square, his gaze softening as he approached her. When he stood right alongside Zuziana, King Beran said, “Dragon, you’ve proven your power upon us all. But now, can I speak to my daughter? Sparky? Are you in there?”

“Dad?”

“I’m sorry about the mix-up with the flags. It’s meant to be white.” Her father peered up at her, clearly trying to find a spark of compassion in the Dragon eyes above him. “I need you to know, Sparky, that Jeradia has offered Immadia an alliance, having recently mutinied against Sylakia. What say you? Shall we accept their offer? Or would you prefer to crush their commanding officer beneath your paw?”

Her rage vanished. Oh, Islands above and volcanoes below. She had made a mistake. A terrible, damaging mistake. Aranya uncurled her paw sheepishly and patted Zip on the back. “Sorry, Zip, I’m an idiot. I should’ve listened. But when I saw Yolathion –”

The Princess of Remoy smiled. “I’m an idiot, too. Say, how’s about letting the big Jeradian actually breathe?”

The Dragon lifted her paw a little reluctantly. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Yolathion said, although he was clearly lying.

The sight of tiny Zip trying to help the giant Jeradian rise brought a snort of laughter from Aranya and smiles from many about them. Aranya curled her paw beneath him. “Arise, Third War-Hammer, and accept my humble apologies for pouncing upon you.”

“Ouch,” said Yolathion, but managed to gather his legs beneath him. “Aranya, are you always this deadly when riled?” He grinned wryly, running his hand through his hair.

Zuziana interrupted the Dragon’s tongue-tied embarrassment by demanding, “Someone, please explain before the Dragon explodes.”

Grimacing as he tested his side, Yolathion said, “We Jeradians would rather die than serve Sylakia any longer. But we were divided among the Sylakian forces until Garthion made the mistake of placing the Jeradian Dragonships under my direct command. I’m sorry it’s a twenty-eighth hour surprise, Aranya – and King Beran – but there was no opportunity to warn you beforehand. Garthion is as paranoid as he is mad.”

Aranya hung her head. “I also apologise to everyone who has a headache.”

“Or a burst eardrum,” said a voice from the soldiers who were slowly gathering around.

“Is this the same Dragon we chased down near Germodia Island, sir?” asked another soldier.

Yolathion nodded.

“Some power,” said the man. “She could sweep the Dragonships aside on her own.”

But she felt drained, Aranya realised. She would have to hold the storm power in reserve or face falling out of the sky.

“Storm powers, Aranya,” Ri’arion said softly, sliding down from his seat. “You’ve grown more powerful. You have to learn to control it.”

“It’s hard to control feelings,” said Aranya. What could she say to Yolathion? Even now, she sensed his trepidation. Who would love a woman who had just threatened to eat him for a snack – and was capable of doing exactly that?

Dong! Dong! Dong! The warning gong sounded.

“The Sylakian fleet is closing in,” cried the watch on the castle walls.

“I need my armour and weapons,” shouted Zuziana. “Meet you on Izariela’s Tower, Aranya.”

King Beran bellowed, “Ready the defences. Full alert. Dragonships aloft.” He whirled to face Yolathion. “What of our alliance, War-Hammer?”

“I’m a War-Hammer no longer,” said Yolathion, inclining his head as if to acknowledge a sorrow. “I am Yolathion of Jeradia. I lead these free men who chose to follow me. With your permission, King Beran, we will take the battle to the Sylakian horde at your shoulder.”

They clasped hands.

A flustered servant came running up to King Beran. “King, o King,” he cried. A hundred pairs of eyes fixed upon him. “We’ve run out of purple cloth for the Jeradian Dragonships.”

Evidently expecting a matter of consequence, Beran’s face broke into a wide grin. “Go to my cupboard and take my royal robes, and Queen Silha’s dresses if you can convince her to part with them. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of purple. Use it all, for the Islands’ sake. ”

The courtyard cleared in a matter of moments, leaving Aranya alone with Yolathion. The forty-foot Dragon shuffled her feet.

“You should go,” he said.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she replied.

Yolathion spread his hands. He would tower over anyone else, but Aranya had to duck to meet his eyes. “I barely know you, Aranya of Immadia. I feel like you’re considering making breakfast of me right now, which I find just a little intimidating.”

“If it helps,” said Aranya, wishing she could take back those words, “I deeply regret that I doubted you, Yolathion. And attacked you –”

“You were right to doubt me.” Yolathion looked to his boots now, swallowing hard. “There were two paths of honour, Aranya. The easier path would have been to hide behind Garthion and take my victory over Immadia Island, earning the honours of Sylakia. I would have regretted it evermore. I think I’m a bit moons-touched, but I chose what I would like to believe is the higher path. Even if I am to die in this overwhelmingly uneven battle, it will be with an honour that does not sicken the soul, but uplifts it. All fine words, Aranya. But I found that the choice tore me apart. I hate myself for finding this so difficult. I’m not a good man. How can you ever trust me again?”

“Yet, here we are,” she said softly, drawing closer to him.

“I’ve done hateful things to you,” he said.

“And I to you, in thought and in deed.”

Yolathion struck her as a man changed, one who had fought battles to come to terms with what he wanted out of life. It seemed to Aranya that this lull just before a battle they could not hope to win, was designed especially for the two of them. Was it just an awareness of mortality that made the moment so bittersweet?

The past loomed as a mountain between them. Aranya saw no way over it.

“Promise me one thing, Immadia,” said he.

“Anything,” said Aranya, before she could think the better of her reply. Her hearts pulsed powerfully, reminding her that she was also a woman; that she must dare to hope, for hope might turn to love.

“When we’ve defeated an enemy which outnumbers us six to one in the air, may I ask your father for permission to court the daughter of the realm?” Aranya searched his eyes, finding only sincerity. Yolathion’s grin suddenly tweaked the corners of his mouth upward. He said, “That is, in a situation where we are not trying to kill each other, invade each other’s Islands, or rush into an imminent battle, all of which tend to put a damper on any romance?”

“Like vomiting all over your boots?”

“I was avoiding that one,” he quipped. “Politeness – it’s the bane of our family.”

“Or tossing me off the nearest cliff?”

He had the grace to bow his head repentantly. “You’ve rather won that argument, wouldn’t you say, Dragon-lady?”

Aranya cocked her head to one side. “So, let me find this Island with you. You’re asking my permission to ask my father’s permission –”

“To get to know you, Aranya of Immadia, if you would still consider a disgraced War-Hammer worth knowing,” he said, with his most engaging smile.

Even a Dragon’s knees could grow weak, Aranya discovered.

“Yolathion!” One of the Dragonships which Aranya had blown away over the city, approached the square. A Jeradian warrior shouted from above, “It’s urgent!”

Before she could reply, Yolathion shrugged his shoulders, and fled.

* * * *

“He and I are just one unfinished conversation.” Aranya mooched on Izariela’s Tower, supposedly helping Zuziana prepare for battle, but in reality, just mooching.

Ri’arion assisted Zuziana with her temporary saddle-straps – warriors’ belts filched from the stores – and helped her settle three quivers of arrows around her seat and two sacks of meriatite chunks.

Aranya snaked her head back to take a look. “Are you planning to win the war on your own, Zip?”

“I might need to if my Dragon’s thoughts don’t return from the clouds,” Zip said, adding to the acid in her tone with a grim smile. “Thanks, Ri’arion.” Zuziana intended to drop a kiss on his cheek, but her helm thwacked him near the eye instead. She giggled, “Oops.”

Ri’arion threw her a mock salute. “Go burn some Sylakian beards, Dragon and Rider.”

“I’m to smack him over the head and take him to my lair?”

Zip whacked Aranya on the flank. “Go.”

“Just learning my lessons,” Aranya teased, brightening. It was just fear, wasn’t it? Fear of the hundred and eighty-plus Dragonships beating over the Island toward the city, and a further forty still lurking up there in the mountains. Where was Sapphire? What was the dragonet doing? She clambered up onto the battlement, balancing on the edge. “They’re encircling the city, south and east, as my Dad said. Drawing our forces out there.”

“Ooh, Aranya, I wish you wouldn’t teeter on the edge of nothing. It gives me the oooooaaah!”

They whizzed down from the castle before levelling out and powering southward, angling for Yolathion’s command Dragonship.

“You’re a Dragon. Learn to live with it.”

Zip tested the Pygmy bow and checked her oil pot and spark-stone. “Oh, let me give you as much sympathy,” she growled. “Aranya, that line you gave me, ‘I’m all done with Sylakians, but a tall, dark and handsome Jeradian could still light my belly-fires’ – that’s just plain silly.”

“I said nothing of the sort!”

“Then stop dancing away from him and just say yes. What do you have to lose? Or shall I thrash you till you’re dizzy either in Dragon or Human form, your choice?”

Aranya winged on, hurrying over Immadia city. Whoops and cheers followed them. She had never been very popular as a Princess, she thought, too wrapped up in her own troubles and bitterness over her father’s remarriage. But a Dragon was popular. Maybe they thought she’d save them all.

She whispered, “It’s only my heart.” Quickly, to cover her vulnerability, she added, “Zip, I can’t get over that I made you a Dragon.”

“Aranya, if you apologise one more time I am going to thrash your scaly Dragon butt all over these mountains.”

Well, that sounded more like the Princess of Remoy she knew. Still, Aranya pressed, “Zip, are you … alright?”

“Petal, that’s the difference between us. You like to wrestle with fate until it screams and bends to your will. I accept it.” She shrugged. “I guess we just have different natures, Aranya. You believe. I don’t believe until … well, I turn into a Dragon.”

Aranya did not know how to respond to this.

Her friend smiled gently. “I’m not running away again. Absconding once for the skies is enough, wouldn’t you say? There, that’s Yolathion on the starboard gantry. Do I make it two of the Dragonships with the above-sack catapults?”

“I see him. Hmm – three of the big ones, Zip.”

“I know I imitated a dancing, moon-mad ralti sheep this morning, my friend,” said Zip, drawing a chuckle from her mount, “but I’m better now. You went a little crazy before your transformation too, acting as unpredictably as a volcano about to erupt. I will be a Rider today. Learning to be a Dragon can wait.”

Aranya drew in close to the Dragonship – as close as her wingspan allowed. Several of the burly Jeradian soldiers paled at the sight of a Dragon so near.

She called over to Yolathion, “We’ll start to the southwest, Yolathion. We count three Dragonships with catapults and nets.”

Yolathion put his fist over his heart. “A Jeradian salute for thee, fair comrades,” he called. “Watch for the signals back at the castle. Garthion will not wait long after the battle is joined. Go burn the heavens, Dragon and Rider.”

“You take care,” Aranya called back. “And, my answer is yes.”

Dragon and Rider shot skyward, taking advantage of the puffy cumulous clouds drifting over Immadia Island to mask their ascent, but Aranya did not miss the delighted smile that curved Yolathion’s lips before he focussed more grimly on the business of war.

“That’ll motivate him,” Zip said, drolly. “So, let’s take a quick hop over that cloud. How’s about actually landing on one of those catapult Dragonships? You disable the catapults while I shoot a couple of nearby targets?”

“Zip, you’re still mad, aren’t you?”

“Shut your trap and do the flying, you brainless lump of Dragon-flesh.”

“Just don’t shoot the Dragonship underneath us, Rider.”

“Don’t sneeze fire on it either, Dragon.”

Aranya rose into the clouds. She ghosted southward, keeping her ears tuned to the beat of meriatite furnace engines. Through a gap in the clouds they spied on the western end of the Sylakian Dragonship fleet, gathered like a cheerful flock of sheep around the comforting bulk of a large, catapult-toting Dragonship. Clearly, a Dragon’s arrival was not expected.

At her signal, Zuziana lit their oil canister. “Ready, Aranya.”

Dragon-Aranya folded her wings. Her stomach lurched toward her throat. Fire churned in her belly, locked up behind the special muscular valves she had read about. Small fireballs, she thought. Or … “Meriatite,” she said. “They’re bunched up.”

Zuziana flicked a couple of lumps into her mouth. Chomping away, Aranya broke free of the enveloping cloud. Her tail flicked to adjust her steep descent. She aimed directly for the largest Dragonship, braking at the last instant.

Dragon-Aranya growled, “Welcome to Immadia, boys.”

Warriors yelled as the Dragon smashed into the wooden gantry, sending chunks of wood flying in all directions. A burning arrow whizzed off to her left.

“Unarmoured,” said Zip. “What’re they –” WHOOOMP! “– thinking?”

Aranya thumped one of the catapults with her tail, splintering the tensioning mechanism. “Don’t know.” She snapped at a would-be archer lining up a shot at Zip. “Quick. Another.”

Zuziana’s following shot set off a chain reaction amidst the closely bunched Dragonships. Three, four explosions; a wave of heat rolled over them. Fearing that the large Dragonship would also ignite, Aranya ran over the side and dived downward, spiralling between the closely-packed Dragonships. She knew this would take them briefly into the line of fire for the catapults and war crossbows, which were usually located beneath the hydrogen sacks alongside the cabin. But it would also protect them as the Dragonships would not fire at each other.

Zip missed her next target, but a sudden fireball mushrooming above them announced her follow-up success. Aranya raced through the plume of smoke, darting around a Dragonship as she climbed toward the safety of the higher altitudes. She spat a stream of fire between her teeth, bathing the large Dragonship as she passed by.

“Too close,” yelled Zip.

Aranya peeled away at the same instant. Fire thundered behind them as the large Dragonship exploded. Multiple smaller detonations gave them a very bumpy ride. Aranya crashed into a cabin before recovering. Multiple quarrels hissed through the air toward her, but Aranya surged upward, throwing the Sylakians off their aim. Black smoke boiled behind them.

The once-confident group of Sylakian Dragonships drifted apart in the wind, gutted.

They punched up into the clouds. Aranya knew a thousand pairs of eyes would be looking for a Dragon behind every puff of cloud, now.

“Check the castle,” ordered Zip.

“Where’s Sapphire?”

“Investigating that magic in the mountains. She isn’t back yet?”

“No – and nothing at the castle, Zip.” She called in her mind, Sapphire? Where are you?

“Then it’s the next of those large Dragonships, Aranya. No chances. They’ve been alerted, now.”

Aranya flapped hard, crossing a half-league in a matter of moments. “The ground assault has started,” she informed Zip. “Several thousand warriors. They’re torching the villages.”

Zuziana told her to focus on the job at hand, probably well aware of the fires underlying Aranya’s words. After chewing more meriatite, she tilted her wings and sped out of cover several thousand feet shy of the Sylakian advance. A withering hail of quarrels and catapult-shot rose to greet them, winking deceptively in the sunlight, all deadly beauty. Aranya leaped skyward, then immediately flicked her wings to correct their course again as the shots passed fifty feet beneath them.

Zuziana raised the Pygmy bow. “Steady, girl. That thing’s armoured like a castle.”

“Let’s teach them where the chinks are.”

The Princess of Remoy grunted something unladylike as her first shot stuck in the Dragonship’s armour but did not penetrate. Aranya blew flame over the upper gantry, setting two of the four catapults alight, and burning a few Sylakian beards in the doing. She snaked through the air as more crossbow quarrels converged on their position. Zip shot twice more before they passed over the huge Dragonship. She scowled as Aranya glanced over her shoulder.

“Dratted armour. Warm up your fireballs, Aranya.”

Aranya ducked between two Dragonships and rolled through the narrow gap, furling her wings almost completely to make the cut-through. Seeing the side of a Dragonship right ahead, she curled on a sudden whim and made a side-on landing. Her lips puffed. Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Three white-hot fireballs bombarded the Dragonship fleet.

Zip’s bowstring twanged. Sss! The smoking arrow hissed downward and sideways. Another Dragonship imploded, raining burning debris on the troops not far below. Her Rider already had another burning arrow nocked and ready. As the arrow sprang from the bowstring, so the Dragon sprang from the side of the Dragonship, rending it with her claws.

Through an opening between the Dragonships, Aranya saw that the Sylakian fleet was beginning to spread out. Engines coughed and roared. They were going to swarm the city, she realised. She and her Rider had probably succeeded only in accelerating the invasion.

They screamed upward, taking three shots at the largest Dragonship before leaping free of the throng like a fish flipping out of water ahead of a predator. Aranya briefly checked for movement over the mountains before pivoting on her wingtip. This time Zuziana took the shot perfectly. The largest Dragonship erupted in a sheet of flame, igniting the two ships nearest it. The air suddenly filled with quarrels and shot and she was jinking and dropping and firing fireballs with that characteristic Pfft! They worked along the frontline, taking down Dragonship after Dragonship in deadly concert before Aranya, in the thick of explosions all around them, suddenly had to knock half a spinning cabin aside with her neck to protect her Rider. She took a quarrel in her upper back at the same time. Zip screamed at her to climb.

“Damage check?” said Aranya. She scanned her wings. “A few superfluous holes.”

“What about that tree-trunk sticking out of your back?”

“Oddly, I don’t think it hit anything serious. Hurts. No sign of Garthion – oh, there’s Sapphire. Isn’t that … yes.”

“The city gate’s under heavy attack,” said Zip. “A couple of dozen Dragonships, a battering ram, I think … at least fifty ships nearing the city … Yolathion’s group wading into the mess …”

Beran’s long-range war-crossbows spat a spread of four quarrels, unanswered; three Dragonships exploded, but Yolathion was about to come under serious pressure, Aranya saw. The Sylakians were too many. She and Zip had only dented the line. Dragonships from both camps were already in a serious tangle east of the city, exchanging volleys of thick catapult shot and spinning slowly to the ground or vanishing with a flash of light followed by palls of smoke. Beran’s forces had to yield ground steadily, outnumbered four or five to one.

Sapphire, what are you doing?

A blue streak whizzed joyfully toward them. Sapphire was so full of herself that it took Aranya and Zip a long while to get any sense out of her.

“I think she’s talking about friends,” said Zip.

Windroc bad. Rajal good, Aranya said firmly. “Something about the windroc symbol, Zip.”

Zip waved meriatite at Aranya. “Eat.” She turned to Sapphire. Go. Help us.

Zuziana had talked Dragonish. But Aranya only had time to blink before Sapphire hurtled back toward the mountains. “I don’t get it,” she said, judging the battle. “This way, Zip.”

“Something about scaring the bad man, that’s all I understood,” said the Princess of Remoy. “I’ve a feeling we’re about to see Garthion emerge.”

Chapter 30: Dragonship Battle

Dragon and Rider dove into the thick of the battle. Sweeping eastward, they relieved King Beran’s Dragonships, gaining them space to retreat and regroup, before dashing over to lend Yolathion a helping paw, or arrow, or anything else he needed. The battle began to blur for the Dragon. All the high-speed manoeuvring required a huge output of energy; every time she looked up it was to see another Dragonship looming before them, or crossbow quarrels spitting toward them, friend and foe alike.

“Another. Another,” Zip kept panting. She tossed her first empty quiver overboard and dug into her second with a vengeance.

The monk Ri’arion was down in the city, tearing into the squads of Sylakian soldiers who had managed to disembark from a few Dragonships to try to attack the gates from within. His long sword flashed as he spearheaded a troop of Immadian soldiers into the heaviest fighting. Fire seared from his hands. He wielded his massive sword like an axe, chopping through armour where subtlety failed. Aranya dropped a fireball into a knot of several dozen Sylakians waiting for him and received a raised-fist salute in response. From without the city gates, the low, guttural chanting of the battering-ram team rose even above the roar of battle. A deep, hollow booming sounded as the gates quivered at every blow. Above, three dozen Sylakian Dragonships pounded the defenders on the wall. More motored up on the breeze, fighting tooth and nail with Yolathion’s reduced force and pressing them back moment by moment. Aranya saw the catapults and war crossbows within the city were in action now.

“The gate,” panted the Rider. “If that goes …”

Aranya snarled, “Got it.”

At once the Dragon hurled herself toward the melee above the city gates. Yolathion’s forces were under attack from fore and rear. Aranya corkscrewed, dodging a spray of quarrels, before hosing a knot of vessels in front of her with all the fire she had in her belly. She shielded Zip with her body, but still, the furnace-blast sucked the air out of her lungs and made her Rider gasp and cough. Zuziana wiped her eyes.

“And I just started to grow eyebrows again.”

“Sorry …”

“Beware left.”

Aranya dropped like a shot, but still snagged ropes on her tail. “Nets.”

“Burn them off, Dragon.”

Her head snaked past her Rider. Burn her own tail? Whatever next? She described a narrow arc in the air as the moored ropes forced her flight-path toward a gaggle of three Sylakian Dragonships. Arrows pattered off her belly and port flank. A quarrel slammed into her right front knee. Aranya groaned at the pain, but still released a burst of fire that freed her from the netting.

“Up and under,” ordered Zip.

Yolathion and his crew were snarled together with four Sylakian Dragonships, drawn together with boarding hooks and ropes. Aranya saw the massive Jeradian smashing Sylakian soldiers off a gantry with his war hammer.

“Don’t hit that bunch,” she ordered Zip.

Zuziana drew two arrows and held them ready in her fist. “Get me an under-armour shot at the big Dragonship. It’s thinner below, Aranya.”

“Two shots?”

“Shut the fangs and fly.”

Aranya dodged into a storm of arrows and catapult fire. She returned fireballs of her own, destroying two Dragonships below them as they passed by and homed in on the biggest. She angled her flight path carefully, adjusting her wings, dodging a spinning, flailing Sylakian warrior as he tumbled from above. Her Rider gasped as something struck her. Zuziana’s teeth ground together audibly, but she still took the shot; two arrows, darting like vengeful wasps beneath the overhanging armour of the large Dragonship.

KAARAABOOM!

Aranya hissed, “Excellent.” She coiled herself mid-air and sprang away from the wreckage as it spun lazily toward them, a rapidly-swelling cloud of superheated smoke and flaming debris, raining down on the soldiers on the ground, bringing momentary confusion to the attackers at the city gates.

Aranya swivelled her neck. “Oh dear … here comes Garthion.”

“Yolathion! He’s in trouble.”

Dragon-Aranya flipped herself around in the air and swung her head to avoid a crossbow quarrel that scored her cheekbone. “Where?”

“There.” Zip flung out her arm.

“Zip, you’re hit.”

“Only a flesh wound,” said the Princess.

There was an arrow stuck deep into the muscle halfway up her thigh. That was no flesh wound. Blood seeped down to her ankle. But the Remoyan only gritted her teeth and gestured at Aranya to continue. Aranya dodged debris as she oriented on Yolathion’s decimated command. They had destroyed many Dragonships, but were less than half in number than when they had begun that morning. One of the Dragonships attached to Yolathion’s tangle was burning freely. Already, Sylakians and Jeradians alike had thrown out hawsers and were swarming down to the ground, fighting each other even as they shimmied down the ropes, fleeing the impending explosion. Yolathion was seeing to his men before himself – the brave fool.

“No,” cried Aranya, seeing Yolathion in her mind’s eye engulfed in exploding hydrogen.

She swooped toward the interlocked Dragonships.

Claws extended, Aranya slammed four-pawed into the Dragonship’s cabin and hung on with her claws. “Ride?” she growled.

Yolathion gaped at her.

“Ride! Now!”

He slapped those of his men he could reach. “Go, go. On the Dragon. Grab the tail, anything.”

Rapidly, a dozen Jeradians mounted up in an orderly scramble. The cabin began to buckle under their combined weight.

“Take them,” shouted Yolathion.

“Not without you,” Zuziana screamed back.

“There’s no room.”

With a shriek of overstressed metal, Aranya tore loose and fell. She gasped as she flapped hard under the weight of her load. Yolathion and two warriors were left … what could she do? The Dragonships lurched down toward her. It would blow any moment.

“Jump onto my wing!”

Yolathion and his men jumped. One of their boots snapped a wing strut. Aranya wobbled horribly in the air, throwing off one of the men, but Yolathion managed to hang onto her wing bone with one hand and help his comrade with the other. Dragon-Aranya spiralled downward, grabbing for the stricken Jeradian with her forepaws, but she missed.

Zuziana was shouting at Yolathion to climb closer to her body so that Aranya could balance her load better. It was all she could do not to fall out of the sky like a rock. Aranya battled with all her strength, plucking the man out of the sky by the scruff of his neck. Her Rider screamed at her entire load to lean to the left. Suddenly, she was level in the air. Flapping mightily, Aranya brought them to a jarring landing right outside the city. Her injured knee buckled and she ate dirt as she landed.

Detonations battered their eardrums and shook the earth beneath their feet. A tangle of cabins and struts crashed down ten feet from her left wingtip, but Yolathion and his men were safe – only to face up to two thousand Sylakian warriors, she saw. They were right alongside the city gates. The Jeradians were not exactly smiling and waving at their Sylakian counterparts.

“Go!” roared Yolathion, leaping off her wing. “Jeradians to me! Protect the Dragon!”

On the ground, she was a sitting target, Aranya realised. Quarrels tore the earth around them. Already the Sylakians, smelling opportunity, peeled off a number of Hammers – hundreds of armoured warriors – to attack her and her brave screen of Jeradians. Among them were Crimson Hammers, her hated enemies. Garthion’s best.

She glanced up to the mountains. Only two dozen Dragonships, she estimated rapidly, including Garthion’s enormous four-hundred-foot flagship flying the windroc of Sylakia from a dozen flags. Where were the rest? What were they missing? But she had no time to think. Magic built rapidly in her chest, an unaccustomed pressure that she remembered as her Storm power, but this time suffused with energies she had no name for. Power spilled into her throat. She felt weak and drained.

“Aranya?” asked Zip. “Meriatite?”

“No. Close ears …”

Rising on her hind legs, the Dragon craned her neck over the Jeradians and opened her mouth. Her belly muscles rippled powerfully. But it was not sound that erupted from her throat. It was a blue fireball, burning fiercely and brilliantly, so brightly that not even a Dragon could look upon it. The fireball arced languidly over the Sylakian troops as they ran forward to engage the Jeradians and the Dragon.

Yolathion’s eyes rose, too. “Down,” he bellowed, and dropped on his face. Most of his warriors did the same.

Aranya raised her left wing instinctively, shielding her Rider’s face from the quiet flare of light. That was the strange thing. It was as though a sun had landed on the field of battle, expanding soundlessly at first. An intense flare, suns-bright, lit up every vein and artery in her upraised wing. She smelled ozone, the smell that accompanies a close lightning strike, before a thunderclap followed the agonising dazzle. Aranya staggered. The men on the ground cried out. When she looked again, there was a hole in the Sylakian forces. The city wall sagged in a section two hundred feet long, its molten stones slowly slipping toward the ground. The battering ram was gone. A dozen Dragonships above it had also vanished.

All that remained was ashes drifting to the ground.

Yolathion scrambled to his feet. The armour over his shoulder was slashed open. He grinned at Aranya. “We’ll have to find some other Sylakians to fight, I guess! Thanks for the rescue.”

Dragon-Aranya grinned wanly at him. She felt sick.

“Jeradians, to me!”

More Jeradians trotted over a small rise behind them. In moments, Yolathion had several dozen warriors under his command, a tall, grim lot all told, save for a youth who threw a quick grin at Aranya and Zuziana.

“Back to the city. Let’s dent some Sylakian helmets.”

“He’s such a man,” said Zip. “But he’s no monk. Aranya, are you alright?”

“That wasn’t a good idea.” She tested her wings, before springing into the air with a laboured thrashing. “Too much power, Zip. I feel sick. I don’t think I could cough up a single fireball after that.”

“Come on, petal.” Her Rider patted her neck. “Do I need to insult you to get those fires burning again?”

“I’d rather just gnaw on Garthion’s head.”

“What’s happening to the north? Mind, another Dragonship.”

Aranya gazed over Immadia city, beleaguered at a dozen points now, and up to the mountains. “I see ten Dragonships, twenty – where’s the rest of Garthion’s command? Where’s my Dad?”

“Focus, Aranya.”

“I’m trying, Zip.”

She pushed her weary body up into the air, searching. The city’s defence was giving a good account of itself. The catapult and crossbow emplacement teams worked with well-oiled efficiency, making the Sylakian Dragonships fight for every inch of ground – but the enemy were still many, harrying the city in three major groups, one of which was forging toward the castle. Aranya saw her father leading a charge against Sylakian ground troops up there, men landed by Dragonship within the city itself. He would soon come under attack from the air.

“Look, Ri’arion,” said Zip.

The monk was up on the battlements, organising ropes to haul the Jeradian troops up and into the relative safety – or mayhem – of the city itself. Bodies lay strewn across the battlements, the red of Sylakia mixed with the purple of Immadia. Aranya saw a group of Immadian women attacking a Sylakian soldier with pans, cutlery and even a chair.

“He needs to go up to his catapult,” said Aranya. “Shall we give him a ride?”

“After I down that Dragonship,” said Zip, dipping an arrow into their fire-pot. “Two of them. Darn. Need to refuel.”

Oil glugged behind her. Aranya gazed up again at the mountains. Garthion’s force motored down at their top speed toward the undefended rear of the city. King Beran would be surrounded. But what – what were those white dots up there? Birds? Her eyes narrowed, following the flight of two Dragonships straggling Garthion’s main group. They had just appeared from behind a peak. The white dots mobbed the Dragonships. Attacking? Harrying?

“What in the Island-World?” she breathed.

“Aranya! Forward!”

Heeding her Rider’s call, Aranya surged through the air, driving her exhausted body on to a collision course with the two Dragonships Zip had pointed out. Sss! The first arrow was away. She banked, jerked into a vertical climb and furled her wing as a half-dozen crossbow quarrels rent the air. Only one struck her a glancing blow on the belly. No damage. Aranya righted her flight.

“Now, Zip.” The second arrow sped true. Aranya’s secondary optical membranes blinked through darkness to light, shielding her eyes from the intense flash. “Good shot, Rider.”

“Right.” Zip wiped her eyes. Aranya realised that Zuziana must be as worn-out as her Dragon. “Get us over Ri’arion so that I can shout at him. Aranya – why were you puzzling like that at Garthion’s Dragonships? That wasn’t Aranya-standard frown number ten.”

Winging down to the battlement, Aranya explained what she had seen. Zuziana quietly but firmly rebuffed her unspoken question about whether or not she was ready to face Garthion. She stuffed several chunks of meriatite into Aranya’s gaping jaw.

Finally, Zip said, “Let’s work back to the north, Aranya. The castle’s about to become the main battleground. Yolathion’s here at the gate.”

Raising her voice, she shouted at Ri’arion and waved at the north.

The monk looked pleased, much to Aranya’s surprise. Was he looking forward to meeting the man he had cursed? Why? Cupping his hands, he called, “Pick me up. Go to the castle.”

Aranya tried to grab him with her right forepaw, but the knee-joint would no longer flex. She wheeled around and picked him up with the left. The monk scaled her leg and plopped himself down in the position behind Zuziana.

“We meet again, Remoy,” he said, and kissed her lightly.

“Scandalous monk.”

“What scandal shall we start today, o treasure of the southern Isles?” Ri’arion pointed at the arrow. “In or out?”

“In,” said Zip. “As long as I don’t move my leg … you’re hurt, too.”

He shrugged. “A flap of skin on my scalp. I shan’t miss it as much as I’ll miss my finger.” He held up his left hand. The tip of his longest finger had been neatly amputated. “This one I shall make Garthion pay for, personally. If you set me down near your father, Aranya, I’ll take care of him for you.”

“My Dad’s doing fine down there,” she growled.

“Easy, rajal,” laughed Zip.

“I’m not a rajal!”

“You’re just an ugly, mangy Dragon, you are,” said her Rider. “Ooh, would you listen to those fires, Ri’arion? She gets a belly full every time I insult her.”

“Hmm. Must remember that technique,” said the monk, pretending to search around his person for scrolls and ink. “Put self at risk of death by enraged dragonet of Remoy …”

“I’m not a dragonet!”

Ri’arion laughed. “Aye, it works.”

“Incoming Dragonships,” warned Aranya, side-slipping to avoid two speculative shots. “I’ll take the starboard side. Ready, Rider?”

“Always.”

Aranya ‘bounced’, as she called it – a sudden climb to throw off the warriors’ aim, before she levelled out and pointed her nose at the flotilla of Sylakian Dragonships menacing the castle. Beran had eight Dragonships up there – all he could afford – while nearly sixty enemy vessels converged on his position from all directions. Another Sylakian battle group worked their way over the city, taking on the ground emplacements. Smoke rose from many houses and buildings. Bodies littered the streets. This was what the Sylakians had done; Garthion’s wish, fulfilled. A Dragon’s sight could take in every detail. Aranya wanted to close her eyes but found herself unable to.

Fire seethed in her belly.

Her ears seemed to close. The sounds of battle retreated. Aranya flowed into a dreamlike state, as if the battle had slowed down around her. She saw with extraordinary, conscious detail, every arrow buzzing through the air, every quarrel and every last scrap of catapult ammunition that glittered in the sky. Zuziana’s cry of rage became a drawn-out groan. For the first time Aranya became aware of the all-consuming power of Dragon consciousness, the overwhelming flood of information gushing into her mind, the taste and smell of battle filling her nostrils, the exact nature of the flame super-compressed inside her fire stomach and other powers beside it, powers as yet unplumbed, the sensation of the wind rushing over her wings and scales, and the precise position of every Dragonship across the entire city. She perceived it all.

Her head whipped forward. A volley of minute fireballs blazed out of her throat, far too fast for the Human eye to follow, but a Dragon’s senses tracked them each one to their target. The Sylakian advance disintegrated as sheets of flame blasted five hundred feet into the sky. Aranya thundered her triumph to the skies, momentarily drowning out the roar of battle.

“Leave a couple for me,” Zip grumbled, shielding her eyes with her arm.

“Volcanic,” shouted Ri’arion.

Cheers rose from the ground. Aranya banked past the smoke, bringing Zuziana into a shooting position. The bowstring sang its song of destruction twice, three times.

“Down while we have a chance,” said Ri’arion. “Next to that catapult. Then, can you two kindly arrange to have Garthion fly by?”

“For you, I’ll move this Island,” said Zip.

Aranya furled her wings, dropping onto the battlements. Ri’arion slid down her flank and ran off lightly. She winged away at once, sensing the battle closing in around them once more. Signals flashed from the Sylakian flagship. Her eyes followed them but she did not understand. Code, of course. Where were those other Dragonships of Garthion’s? She did not understand. The white specks were gaining on the hindmost vessel of Garthion’s command – dragonets! Her mouth dropped open. White dragonets! A thrill coursed her spine. Sapphire had found dragonets in the Immadian mountains?

But she did not have time to think, or celebrate, or even to tell her Rider. Swirling around the hydrogen sack of a converted trader Dragonship, Aranya ran into heavy catapult fire from both sides. She hissed in pain as a handful of holes ripped in her right wing from catapult shrapnel. Zuziana downed two further Dragonships as they climbed rapidly out of range.

“Dragonets,” Aranya panted. “White … dragonets.”

“Sapphire? I knew it.”

Aranya’s snort of protest was cut short by her Rider tossing a chunk of meriatite at her. “Catch. What say you we go help your fellow-beasts?”

“You’re one, too.”

“I forget so easily,” said Zip, putting on her most annoying smirk.

To her exasperation, Aranya felt her Dragon-fires rise in response to her friend’s baiting. She growled, “We’ll just tidy up a few Dragonships here, first. See if you can keep up, Rider.”

* * * *

Blackened with soot and battle-weary, Aranya wheeled away from the still-crowded skies over the castle. The ground defences were just about holding their own. Yolathion, once more in command of a group of nine Dragonships, was using the long-range war crossbows to devastating effect, but the Sylakians crawled all over the city now, raining fire down with impunity. Aranya saw barrels of oil being tossed overboard to ignite the buildings below. Bless King Beran’s foresight in hiding the population in the no-longer-secret caverns, she thought, rather than within the city. Some people had remained to defend their homes, however. She spat a fireball at a Dragonship just about to dump oil on a group of five torn, bloodied Immadian woman.

Aranya grinned as the oil barrel exploded, followed by the entire Dragonship.

Sylakian ground troops had finally breached the gates, she saw. The city was on its knees. So was the Dragon. Every fireball cost her, now. She hardly had the strength to lift her wings. Judging from the suns’ position, they had been fighting for most of the morning. Still King Beran stalked his castle with a rajal’s purpose, rallying his troops and orchestrating the signals to the Dragonships. Sylakian Hammers lay thick in his courtyard, hundreds of them. Her Dad was some warrior, she thought, proudly.

Zuziana loaded up the oil canister one more time. “Half a quiver left,” she said. “Let’s make them count.”

When Garthion’s twenty-plus Dragonships arrived, that would change the balance. The flagship alone had to have thirty war crossbows on it, covering all angles. She narrowed her eyes to slits. Multiple-loading crossbows as well? Three quarrels per crossbow. That was a deeply unwelcome innovation. She pointed them out to Zip.

“Burn him beneath the Cloudlands,” she snarled, sounding so Dragon-like and crackling energies off her fingertips that the Rider raised her eyebrows and the Dragon her brow-ridges in simultaneous surprise. “Take it easy around the flagship until we see what she can do,” added Zip.

Aranya nodded sharply. “Then let’s concentrate on removing his friends, while we spy out Garthion’s weaknesses.”

“Agreed.”

The tiny Princess of Remoy could be rajal-fierce when she set her mind to it, Aranya thought, remembering how they had fought in the Tower of Sylakia. She was a rare one.

Dragon-Aranya felt the strain in her flight muscles as she powered upward. Now they had the most dangerous Sylakian of all to deal with.

Chapter 31: Shapeshifter

The noon sky had cleared of all but a smattering of clouds, allowing little concealment of their approach to Garthion’s Dragonship group. Catapults rose and crossbows creaked to shadow the Dragon’s flight overhead.

“All armoured,” Zip said.

“Mostly Crimson Hammers,” Aranya added glumly. “The best and most disciplined. Oh – here comes Sapphire.”

Sapphire! Zuziana cried in delight. You beautiful creature, you found your friends?

The dragonet twirled happily in the air as she approached them. In seconds, a whole flock of dragonets rose from the armoured Dragonship they had been attacking – not very effectively, but tenaciously. Evidently, greetings were more important than war. Mentally rolling her eyes, Aranya made a huge fuss of the dragonets.

They were all white, the pure white of Immadia’s snows, with pale pink eyes and tiny, pink forked tongues. No wonder they had never been found. They would be perfectly hidden in the snows. Albino dragonets? Or just their natural colouring? Aranya gazed at them as curiously as they did at her. She projected feelings of welcome, happiness and gratitude. They seemed a little shy and overawed, but as ever, not lost for an opportunity to impress potential admirers.

Suddenly, from the throng gathering around her and skittering off her scales, prodding her spine-spikes and peering at her fangs, a larger dragonet approached. She was three times larger than Sapphire. Aranya had an impression of great age; the dragonet’s movements were slow and stiff.

The dragonet asked, Do you speak?

I speak, and thank you for your valuable aid, Aranya replied, surprised by the dragonet’s erudite manner.

It is little. These sky-creatures are too tough for our claws. The pale eyes examined Aranya. Your kind have lived long in these lands, Dragon. We are few and dying in the snows. Will you help us?

I … don’t understand, said Aranya. What help could I offer?

We are too few and our eggs do not hatch well. We need fresh blood, like this youngling here. Where did you find her?

On Fra’anior. At the dragonet’s blank-faced response, she explained, Another Island, like this one, many days flying from here.

We ice-dragonets could not make such a journey.

“Aranya, they’re approaching your father’s position,” Zip warned.

I, Dragon-Aranya, Shapeshifter and Princess of Immadia, offer to take you on such a journey in exchange for what you have already done.

The pale eyes whirled with interest. We thank the great Amethyst Dragon. But first, we will fight as long as you fight.

I sense many have already fallen. Aranya bowed her head in respect. Only pick the soft Dragonships flying the symbol of the windroc, friend dragonet. Leave these hard-shelled ones for us.

I am Ishior, said the dragonet, executing a fancy manoeuver that Aranya took for the dragonet equivalent of a bow. We are agreed. Beware the largest Dragonship. It is evil.

We thank you for your wise words, Ishior, she replied.

Chirping to her friends, the old dragonet sped away over the castle. At once, the whole white flock followed, several hundred strong.

“So that’s what became of Garthion’s force,” Aranya said to Zip, her voice steeped in wonder. “Dragonets pulling them down like wasps downing a giant ralti sheep. Ready?”

Zuziana raised her bow.

With a twirl of her wings worthy of any dragonet, Aranya spun into a vertical dive. In several heartbeats wind keened over her wings; the acceleration jammed Zuziana back in her seat, but the Princess of Remoy made no complaint. Instead, she warmed up an arrow in their oil pot. Ominously. She did not stir as Aranya dodged a rising spray of crossbow quarrels. The Dragon eyeballed the Dragonships very carefully. Those triple catapults had not fired yet. The Sylakian Crimson Hammers were too disciplined to take the bait. Her hearts walloped the inside of her chest. This was the real battle. And she was already worn out.

At the last moment she jinked to her port side and swooped on a Dragonship which had drifted apart from the others. She did not need to prime Zip. As she rolled into position, her Rider drew and fired. A Dragon fireball and a burning arrow slammed together into the chosen Dragonship. It flew on.

“Spied any weaknesses, Dragon?”

Aranya almost stood on her tail mid-air as she changed direction. “Isn’t this where I – what was it – grab my fate and wrestle it down screaming?”

“Close,” said Zip. “That arrow didn’t penetrate, Aranya.”

“Try again.”

They shot over for a second pass, coming under a withering hail of fire from the well-equipped Dragonships. Aranya was on the point of breaking off when one of her fireballs finally sparked an explosion. She blew through the smoke and changed direction to put the archers off their aim. Behind her, Zip was muttering in Ancient Southern – whatever it was, Aranya knew it had to do with six shots she had taken, none of which had downed a Dragonship.

“Zip, you’re –”

“Useless!” shouted her Rider. Aranya jumped at her unforeseen cry of frustration. “I can’t draw this bow. A Pygmy can draw it fully, Aranya. I’m not strong enough. I can’t puncture that armour. I can’t.”

There was more beneath her words than just arrows, Aranya recognised. Garthion had injured her spirit.

“You can.”

“How, Aranya? How? Answer me, if you can.”

“I’ll blow the arrows along like I did before.” Aranya winced as the words came out. Dragon-Aranya would do it all again, on her own?

Zip hissed, “And the storm power will suck you dry. Then we fall.”

Aranya writhed in the air for a moment before a thought suddenly crystallised in her mind. She blurted out, “You’re a Dragon. You have the strength, Zip. It’s inside you. It always has been. Even if you weren’t … there’s only one reason we’re here today, because someone I know had the nerve, the sheer madness, to taunt the Sylakian windroc. You almost died. Yet here you are, bringing the might of Sylakia to its ruin.”

“I think you’re seeing a different battle to everyone else, petal.” But Zip straightened up in her seat. “You really think –”

“I know. I’ll believe for you. But you have to fire the arrows. My fireballs aren’t getting through. I’ll burn a few catapults and crossbows, though.”

For a few breaths they drifted along in silence, as though they flew in their own bubble, separated from the Sylakians by three hundred feet of clear air. From the corner of her eye, Aranya saw the Crimson Hammers begin to be distracted by events on the ground, where King Beran led his forces against a swarm of red-plumed Sylakians who had gathered to storm the castle. Yolathion’s Dragonships pounded their counterparts, but the noose had closed, driving them back toward the castle with the inexorable power of a force that still outnumbered them four to one. Whatever the Rider and her Dragon had done, it was not enough. Not yet. But the dragonets were down there in force, mobbing the Sylakian forces, tearing at the heads of archers and puncturing hydrogen sacks with their claws. The Immadian Islanders defended their home like madmen.

Slowly, Zuziana’s chin rose. Her fingers flexed on the grip of her bow. Her right hand plucked an arrow from the quiver strapped to her wounded thigh. Her eyes blazed with blue fire. “Let’s go burn the heavens, friend.”

The first twitch of her wings did not wake the Sylakians on the Dragonships from their slumber, but her challenge certainly did. Thunder rolled over the city.

“Phew, burst a lung there? Some roar –”

The wind snatched the words out of her mouth as Aranya plunged forty feet to duck a hail of catapult shot. Instead of rising again, she darted beneath the looming Dragonships, so close to the castle that her belly trimmed the moss of the battlement stones. Moving too quickly for the soldiers to re-orient their weapons, she blazed beneath Garthion’s flagship, hiding in the centre of his fleet – resisting the urge to check for him in the forward navigation cabin – and suddenly, twisted up between two Dragonships. She did peek over her shoulder. Zuziana had the bowstring at her ear. Incredible!

Sss! Zip’s arrows were deceptively quiet, even to a Dragon’s hearing, but she easily picked out their unique sound amongst all of the other noises of battle. The resulting sound was a thunderous concussion against her ears.

KAARAABOOM!

A gust of overheated air smashed her against the side of the Dragonship opposite. Aranya tucked her wings instinctively, but still received a fierce blow to her midsection from a supporting brace to the armour. Ignoring the pain lancing into her side and the Sylakian warriors above shouting about a Dragon climbing their ship, Aranya dug in every one of her hind claws and, with a great groan of supreme effort, peeled the armour apart.

Then she did run up the side of the Dragonship. She blasted a lungful of meriatite-fuelled fire around her before springing into the air, setting a number of crossbow emplacements alight.

Zuziana sighted back over her wing. “Roll.”

An arrow slipped sweetly into the hole the Dragon had created. A Dragonship was no more.

Rising above the fireball, Aranya scanned the battlefield. There was a strange sight – a man sitting in a catapult. Ri’arion! She had forgotten … and an Immadian warrior put his hands to the release lever while his fellows made final adjustments to their aim. He would be spitted like a sheep above a fire, she thought. The crossbow-men would shoot him at point-blank range.

The lever moved. Aranya flung herself toward the monk’s arc of flight.

“Hit the windows,” shouted Zip.

Looping over the top of a Dragonship, Aranya’s neck snaked from side to side as she blasted fireballs in quick succession at the foremost three vessels in the fleet, those almost directly above her father’s position. Crysglass imploded. Cabins caught on fire. There, that would distract them.

The monk shot into the air. Aranya’s ears caught the sounds of war crossbows firing, spraying the space forward of the fleet with multiple six-foot quarrels. Diving so hard it strained every sinew of her body, Aranya passed between the crossbows and the flying monk, knocking down two quarrels with her forepaws and taking a third low in her belly. Ri’arion whistled through the gap the Dragon had created. He smacked feet-first into a catapult emplacement on Garthion’s flagship, cracking it off of its base. Briefly, Aranya glimpsed Garthion’s face in the forward crysglass window. The Sylakian vanished into the interior of his vessel.

Another Dragonship exploded.

Suddenly the battle was all heat and smoke and crazy flying. Zuziana shot and shot, penetrating Dragonship armour with almost every shot now, her face set in a manic grin as she drew that powerful Pygmy bow to its limit. Aranya remembered flinging a fireball into the knot of Sylakians pouring in through the castle gates; seeing Yolathion wading hip-deep through Sylakian warriors in a battle-rage all of his own, wielding a hammer in either hand, his helm long since lost and his breastplate flapping wildly off one strap. She shot three spaced-out fireballs into the heart of a Dragonship, setting the furnace room alight. An explosion was not long in following.

But always Garthion’s flagship mocked them, coasting forward, its catapults and war crossbows working at full capacity, dealing out death on every side. She was dimly aware of Ri’arion’s presence inside its four-hundred foot length, fighting his way toward Garthion himself. The flagship crested the castle now, shadowing the courtyard with its forbidding bulk. The group slowed; the turbines whined in reverse. Garthion clearly intended to destroy the heavy catapult emplacements located around the battlements before taking on King Beran himself. In a moment, Aranya realised, burning oil would rain down. The courtyard would become a charnel-house.

Magic shocked her.

It struck her senses an almighty blow; an alertness to great magic somewhere within Garthion’s flagship. Aranya reeled in her flight. What, by the Islands … Ri’arion? What had he done, this time?

A roar trembled the Dragonship from bow to stern, shaking many of the Sylakian warriors off their perches. She saw the monk shouldering his way through a starboard-side door, kicking a warrior out of his way, diving desperately to one side as a massive, five-clawed foot smashed through the armoured side of the cabin right next to him. Ri’arion hacked away frantically, but one huge toe curled around his waist and held the monk fast.

Aranya froze. Dragon!

“Dragon,” Zuziana whimpered. “Him …”

I am Garthion!

Three more limbs, as thick as tree-trunks, tore through the Dragonship’s sides and base. The entire cabin seemed to swell with an inner pressure. Portholes cracked with sharp reports and splintered outward. The side gantries groaned and bent like wet reeds.

Aranya’s hearts galloped in her chest. She could not believe it. Garthion was a Shapeshifter!

“Ri’arion!” screamed her Rider.

The monk wiped the blood streaming into his eyes from a cut in his forehead. He seemed to be shouting at them to attack. Instinctively, Aranya lined them up with the flagship. “Don’t let Garthion escape! No … don’t shoot!”

Catapult-shot pounded her side, but Aranya held firm. Ri’arion fought the Dragon with his magic, somehow preventing its opposing thumbs from grasping him – otherwise he would have been crushed instantly. Dropping his great sword, he sawed at the toe with his dagger. But the bone was thicker than his thigh. Aranya willed him to escape. But the monk was wounded, too. His right leg was a mass of blood, and he was moving as though to favour his ribs. The Dragon held him immovably against the cabin’s metal wall. How, by the mountains of Immadia, would Zip ever pierce the heavy armour of that Dragonship? Even as she watched, two crossbow quarrels shot from below simply stuck in the armour, not penetrating more than a couple of inches.

“Shoot!” Ri’arion shouted.

He meant to sacrifice himself. Sobbing, Zuziana fired her last arrow. It plugged in a chink in the ship’s armour, a perfect shot, but merely stood in place, blazing cheerfully.

I am alive!

With a deafening roar, the head of a Red Dragon broke through the mess of the forward cabin, directly opposite her position. A wall of Dragon fire raced toward Aranya. She ducked promptly. Roaring rajals, that thing was huge! His head had to be least twice the size of hers. The Red Dragon loosed another flood of fire. The Dragonship groaned and sank in the air.

Zuziana wailed a long, thin shriek of terror.

“Zip!” Aranya slapped healing power at her. “We have to get Ri’arion off that Dragonship.”

Her friend shook her head to clear it. Her jaw firmed; Aranya had never seen Zip fiercer or grimmer, nor had her courage ever blazed so clearly. Dragon-Aranya’s hearts thrilled within her. A new joy sang through the fear which had consumed her until this day.

“Come on, Aranya,” said the Remoyan. “Let’s finish this.”

The cabin peeled open like an overripe prekki fruit. Red wings unfurled, glistening like burning rubies in the bright suns-light. Now the Dragonship looked truly bizarre, with wings, legs, a head and a tail all protruding out of the armoured cabin walls. The Red Dragon struggled and writhed. His mighty strength was more than enough to tear the cabin apart, but the metal armour bent and buckled rather than snapping as wood might have. He was trapped – momentarily.

Her best chance was now.

Aranya flicked her wings. As she reached out for a massive red wing with her claws extended, Dragon fire exploded around her. Aranya wheeled, shielding Zip – and realised Ri’arion had somehow shielded them with his magic, too. Garthion’s wing-edge smashed into her head. She lost a hundred feet in seconds. Instinct alone took her beyond the quarrels buzzing on her tail. Nearly every Dragonship above her had a clear shot. Aranya doubled back twice, dodging the hail of quarrels and deadly catapult shot as best she could, before turning herself vertical as she climbed for the flagship. Landing beneath the monk’s position, she snaked her neck about and bit down on the Red Dragon’s claws with the fullest strength of her jaw. A bellow shook her. Suddenly, the paw retracted into the Dragonship, releasing Ri’arion.

“Grab on!” yelled Zuziana.

The monk had just steadied himself to leap when the Dragon’s paw punched out of the armour once more. Five clawed talons grasped Aranya’s right wing beside her second wing joint, curling right around her wing bone and piercing the sensitive membrane. Dragon-Aranya screamed as he shook her loose from the Dragonship. She hung by her wing! The Red Dragon pounded her against the Dragonship’s side, over and over again, using the awesome strength of his paw to swing her about like a child’s toy. She felt several wing struts snap. Her tail thrashed about helplessly. Aranya shrieked and clawed and flapped, but his talons only shredded more of her wing and his grip did not relent. She sank her fangs into his leg, tasting Dragon blood for the first time, but he did not let go. Instead, Garthion pulled her toward his head.

Trapped as he was inside the Dragonship, he could not reach her easily, but the Red Dragon squeezed his thick neck against the armour, which slowly gave way and peeled along its seams. Aranya saw his left eye, close up. It was milky and scarred, but still retained enough sight for Garthion to recognise her.

We meet again, Shapeshifter Princess, he rumbled. It’s time I finished killing you.

No, you’ll die! Aranya lashed out with her claws, striking him around the eye.

Garthion shook her violently. Aranya spat a fireball right in his face, but he laughed it off. His jaw yawned open. Not one of his fangs was shorter than two feet long. The Red Dragon tried to swing her toward that fatal trap, but Aranya, maddened by the pain, sank her teeth into his nose and hung on with all of her strength. She ground her jaw deliberately. Flame exploded out of the Red Dragon’s mouth as he roared with pain, burning two of his own Dragonships to cinders. One missed the castle, but the other vessel struck a catapult emplacement on the castle’s battlements.

Spying the incoming swipe of his other forepaw from the corner of her eye, Aranya was forced to jerk back and let go of his nose to prevent Garthion from decapitating Zuziana. She clawed at his face. The Red Dragon only laughed at her.

You’re so little, Amethyst Dragon. His free paw snagged her flailing left wing. Now, feel my strength. The great muscles bunched, stretching out her wings until the muscles in her shoulders were as taut as hawsers. Aranya fought him, but short of tearing off her own wings, there was little she could do. He growled, I’m going to rip you in half.

But he hadn’t reckoned on the Remoyan Princess. Zuziana flung one of Aranya’s Immadian forked daggers directly into Garthion’s left eye.

The Red Dragon went into a spasm. His entire body shuddered and his claws released involuntarily, flinging Aranya and her Rider loose. Bellow after bellow rolled over the battlefield. All four of his legs retracted into the Dragonship, and his wings too, careless of any damage against the sharp metal armour or gantries.

“Aranya!” cried Zip. “You’re bleeding –”

“Never mind that! Where’s your monk, Zip?”

Ri’arion was halfway up the side of the Dragonship, climbing toward the top gantry. Aranya saw that he was trying to calculate a jump to the nearest Dragonship. Crazy monk! He meant to carry on the battle. His right leg still dangled behind him. He couldn’t make that leap, surely? She could hardly believe the mammoth Dragonship was still in the air. Did it have multiple meriatite furnaces? Why had it not already exploded?

Aranya called, over her shoulder, “Go catch Ri’arion, Zip!”

Her Rider stared at her.

“Just do it. Go!”

Zuziana’s eyes widened. “You’re thinking …”

“I know. It’s our only chance.”

Drawing her second dagger, Zuziana hacked frantically at the belts holding her in place. Ri’arion saw her stand up on Aranya’s back. He smiled, dropping in a crouch.

Garthion smashed his way free of the cabin, tearing the armoured metal apart with his immense strength. He was gigantic – a blood-red, adult Dragon in the prime of his life. He forced his body out of where the navigation cabin would have been. The monstrous Red Dragon climbed the side of his flagship with impunity and terrible speed, closing in on the monk, who had his back to the Dragon.

The monk and the Princess of Remoy leaped toward each other. Zip transformed mid-leap. A single flap of her wings was all she managed before she caught Ri’arion four-pawed to her chest and folded her wings over him. Thundering his rage, Garthion lunged forward and slapped the Azure Dragon with his right forepaw, opening three gashes along her flank. Zip tumbled through the air.

The Amethyst Dragon howled in horror. Aranya was too far away to help. Zuziana collided with a Dragonship beneath them. She bounced into the open. Her wings flared, weakly, but Garthion’s terrible blow had broken one of her major wing bones. She smacked against the edge of the castle battlement with a fleshy slap that sent shivers up and down Aranya’s spine-spikes. From there Dragon-Zuziana plummeted into the courtyard, her body curled around Ri’arion’s. Her wings tried to flap, one more time, but their unevenness defeated Zip. She spun about as she crashed into a wooden side-building, where she lay unmoving amidst the wreckage.

Garthion’s head turned to track her. So, Princess. It’s you and me.

She hated the sound of his voice. She hated everything he stood for. And she hated what he had done to her friend. He must have a weakness. His sight was one. Perhaps his pride was another.

I didn’t finish burning you last time, snarled Aranya.

You’ll pay for ruining my sight, replied the Red Dragon. There was an assurance in his manner that chilled her to the bone. Yet, I rule the Island-World. You’re nothing. I’ll destroy Immadia and you with it.

Aranya expected Garthion to leap into the air and attack her. Instead, he seemed content to take his four-pawed stance atop his flagship, which had drifted over the middle of the castle toward the flagpole of Izariela’s Tower. He drew breath and began to pound the castle with fireball after fireball. Aranya could not believe what she was seeing. The Red Dragon was an endless fountain of fire. His fireballs were the size of boulders. There was no need for accuracy – if he could even see the catapults, it did not matter, for he simply hosed the battlements down with fireballs. If he missed, he was striking the town beyond or the soldiers down in the courtyard, Immadian and Sylakian alike. His fire did not evaporate on impact. Rather, it stuck and burned, running down the sides of buildings as though he shot burning oil.

Left alone, Garthion would devastate the castle and Immadia Town. Aranya surged through the air.

She had no plan but to distract or stop him. Dodging the sweep of his tail, Aranya pounded into Garthion’s back and dug in with all twenty claws. For the first time, she smelled him; the pungent reek of a male Dragon, a smell as arrogant and uncompromising as he was. He was armoured more thickly than the Dragonship itself. Aranya had expected to dig her claws in, but instead, they slid off his granite-hard scales. Stepping over his spine-spikes which were four feet long atop the densely muscled bulk of his shoulders, Aranya snapped at his neck with her teeth.

What’s this I feel, a gnat? Garthion laughed horribly.

Even at the widest gape of her jaws, Aranya could not close her fangs upon his thick neck. Garthion shook her as she gnawed at his brow-ridge instead. Concentrating on clawing at his right eye, Aranya did not sense his paw rising behind her. The Red Dragon punched her tail with his hind foot. She slewed loose. Garthion briefly caught her already damaged right knee between his teeth, but the force of her fall wrenched her limb free. Hot pain bloomed in her knee joint. Aranya thrust it away. She had to deal with him. She had to find a way before he destroyed them all.

Two direct fireball strikes did nothing but amuse him. They did not even make enough of an impact to damage his wing membranes. Aranya knew she had few magical reserves left – not enough to heal herself, and certainly not enough to summon her storm power. What could she do? She surveyed the Dragonship and its master from eighty feet away. If only she could destroy the Dragonship. Garthion was standing on a hydrogen bomb. Should she dive inside, sacrificing herself to blow up the meriatite furnace? She ducked a series of fireballs as Garthion tried to chase her away. He only succeeded in blowing up one of his Crimson Hammers Dragonships. Suddenly, Aranya’s gaze homed in on the overlarge exhaust pipe leading to the meriatite engines of Garthion’s flagship.

Every scale on her body prickled. Oh, yes! Her Dragon sight homed in on her target. The exhaust hole filled her vision. Aranya pursed her lips as if for a kiss; only, this would be the kiss of death.

Garthion’s neck turned. Do I sense King Beran down below? He took a huge breath, flaring his wings.

At the instant he spoke, three miniature fireballs hissed out of Aranya’s throat. The first two missed narrowly, passing between the Dragonship’s cabin and the armoured upper sack of hydrogen. The third, bluer than the two preceding it, vanished into the furnace exhaust pipe as though running home with glee.

Aranya shouted, That’s for Zuziana!

Garthion’s scales gleamed briefly in the inferno that blossomed around him, almost slowly, to Aranya’s perception. Her membranes flicked to protect her eyes from the white-hot blast, piped faithfully though the engine system into the hydrogen sacks. Superheated air stormed over her wings, but she rode the blast intuitively.

Fire could not burn a Dragon. Perhaps it could have roasted Garthion, given time. But his wings looked like sticks. The Red Dragon Shapeshifter had several seconds in which to flap his wing bones and dangling flight struts, which were all that remained of his hundred-foot wingspan after the detonation of an entire Dragonship’s worth of hydrogen right beneath his paws. Twisting in the air, he plummeted like an oversized boulder from the sky onto Izariela’s Tower. The tip of the flagpole speared cleanly though his throat and out through the top of his head.

The Red Dragon shuddered once, and slumped against the stone.

The beating of his three hearts stilled. Garthion’s lifeless weight uprooted the flagpole and avalanched down into the courtyard, over where Zip lay.

Aranya bugled her victory until the skies of Immadia Island rang.

Chapter 32: Aftermath

With Garthion’s fall and the destruction of his flagship, the Dragonships of his fleet began to scatter. Flags and signals flew. Engines slammed into reverse. Turbines whined at their top speed. The half-dozen remaining Immadian Dragonships shadowed them to the edge of the city, until it was clear that the retreat was in full spate. The Sylakian Hammers left on the ground laid down their war hammers and surrendered. Immadian and Jeradian warriors lowered their weapons and gazed about, dazed, hardly able to believe that the battle was over. Acrid smoke drifted over the city.

A Dragon landed in the castle courtyard.

Dragon-Aranya groaned as her landing jarred the quarrels stuck in her flank and belly. One of her ribs felt broken. She limped over to where Garthion lay, awed at his bulk.

He was dead. The flagpole had skewered his brain.

But three hearts beat beneath him – no, four. Aranya let out a heartfelt sigh of relief.

“Zip, oh Zip!” she pawed at the Dragon. She tried to shove her shoulder beneath that limp mass, but she might as well have tried to move a mountain. “Help! Dad, someone, help me.”

Commander Darron was the first person to her side. “Immadians! Lend a shoulder here. You Jeradians, help us.”

With a flurry of barked orders, he rounded up a hundred men or more. Yolathion brought his Jeradian soldiers at a run. Even King Beran fell to the task. Together with Aranya, they shouted and heaved and strained until they managed to roll the Red Dragon onto his side, revealing a rather flattened but still breathing Azure Dragon. Zuziana blinked. Her paws twitched.

“Zip?” Zip-Zap? Wake up.

“Ouch. Only being alive could hurt this much.”

Sweet relief made Aranya chuckle. “You’re fine, you just want sympathy. Where’s Ri’arion?” She nosed at Zuziana’s paws. “Let him out.”

“I have him safe next to my heart,” smiled the Azure Dragon, unclenching her grip. There was Ri’arion, looking battered, but his chest rose and fell steadily. “Oh, Aranya, my left wing kills – can you check it? I did it, Aranya. My very first landing.”

“Brilliant,” snorted Aranya. “Thank that building you destroyed. You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

But she rubbed necks with her friend. Zuziana made a sound like a low purr.

King Beran marched up to his Dragon daughter and slapped her on the flank. “A decent morning’s work, Sparky.”

“Decent?” Yolathion scowled. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Down, rajal,” said Aranya, grinning at him. His warriors flinched, but the tall Jeradian did not move or change his scowl. “This would be an introduction to the art of Immadian understatement. Tell him what you meant, Dad.”

King Beran looked from Aranya to Yolathion with a grin that spoke volumes. Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Yolathion,” he said, pretending to hurt his neck as he looked up at the giant warrior, “for a puny wisp of a Jeradian, you sure managed to put your hammer in the right place a couple of times this morning. Now, my boy, let an old cliff fox teach you about Immadian culture.”

A slow grin replaced the scowl. “Aye, King Beran,” he rumbled, “I see now why my father wrapped you in ralti wool and fought you blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back.”

Beran clapped him on the shoulder. “He gets it, Aranya.”

Dragon-Aranya nosed between her father and Yolathion. “If you don’t mind, Dad, I’ll take it from here.”

“Gone are the days I put you over my knee, eh, daughter?”

“You can practice on Yolathion.”

Darron scratched his grizzled head. “Sire, what about these Sylakians? And the city?”

“Many will not be Sylakian,” Yolathion put in.

Beran nodded. “I know the Sylakian ways. Commander Darron, would you take charge of the city clean-up? Appoint as many marshals as you can find. Round up any stray soldiers who wish to surrender and bring them to this courtyard. I’ll address them as soon as I can. Give them water. Get our engineers working; get the fires put out and the rubble cleared. Release the women and children as soon as the city is safe. Organise shelters for the homeless and food distribution from the royal kitchens. Yolathion, round up our Dragonships. We need to scout the Island to make sure there are no bands of Sylakian Hammers still causing mischief out there.”

“With respect, Sire,” said Yolathion, “a Dragon could cover the entire Island in the time it would take you or I to walk to the gates.”

“Aye, pup, but that beast has more holes in her hide than I care to count.”

To her intense annoyance, Yolathion put his big hand on Aranya’s muzzle to quiet her hot response. She seethed as Yolathion said, “But this is a Princess of Immadia you’re talking about, you old fox, not some vain, useless creature who serves only to prettify a realm. Take it from me. I fought against this Dragon and her Rider and lost, even with the reserves of the entire southern Dragonship fleet at my command.”

“He tried very hard to kill Aranya and I, is what he’s saying,” Zip put in. “Sylakian Hammers, crossbow quarrels, the whole ralti sheep.”

“Oh?” King Beran’s brow lowered. “Oh, is it?”

“Dad! Stop it. Please …”

“Why don’t you whisk the overgrown Jeradian mountain up there, daughter,” suggested her father, pointing at one rather lonely cloud in the sky, “and dangle him by his toes from ten thousand feet, and see if he repents of how he treated you?”

“Dad!” Aranya’s breath smoked out of her nostrils. “You’re so embarrassing. Yolathion, don’t listen to him.”

Yolathion’s throat bobbed as he looked up at the sky. “I think I’d rather prefer my boots on the ground.” But before the disappointment could seep into Aranya’s bones, he added, “For today, at least.”

Zuziana, with a sympathetic glance at Aranya, interrupted them. “Let’s get a physician to see to these crossbow quarrels in her side and belly, first. Yolathion – why don’t you use those Dragonships to quarter the city for stray Sylakians? Ri’arion and I will try to get Aranya back on the wing.”

“Good,” said Beran. “Darron, summon those Sylakian troops milling in the gateway. I’ll speak to them first.”

Ri’arion said, “So, Garthion was a Dragon Shapeshifter. Who would have thought? No wonder you feared him, Zuziana, for so great an evil is not easily hidden.”

“All along while the Sylakians were killing off the Shapeshifters, they were only concealing their own secrets,” said Aranya, shivering. “Why didn’t he transform before? With his size and power, he could have destroyed us all. Why cower in hiding? What happened, Ri’arion, to make him transform at the end? And – this means his father’s a Shapeshifter, too.”

“Or whoever his mother was,” said Ri’arion, examining the quarrel jutting out of her flank. “We need to cut this one loose, Aranya. But it isn’t difficult. The one in the belly, however – that one’s in deep. And your wing’s a mess.”

The physician had never operated on a Dragon. The poor man trembled and shook in the presence of two Dragons, but Aranya and Zip greeted him cordially. Aranya thought she should remember his name, but it would not come to her immediately. When he learned that Zip could transform back into Human form, he quickly suggested she do just that so that he could align and splint an arm rather than a wing. Ri’arion disappeared to find Zip’s clothing while the physician poked at the quarrel stuck in Aranya’s side.

“Caught between the ribs,” he said. “I’ll need to cut a bit to extract the flanges.”

“I’ve healing power. Do it.”

Although he seemed taken aback, the physician pulled out his knives, before clearly having second thoughts about the size of his patient and switching instead to his Immadian forked dagger.

Aranya watched her father gathering the Sylakian soldiers to address them. He balanced on a chunk of rubble, which put him at the same level as a band of dour-faced Jeradians behind him. Whatever did they feed those Jeradian men? Bamboo shoots? Rajal meat? Yolathion was the tallest of the lot. Trust her to pick a man who was clearly ambivalent about any future involving the Princess of Immadia. Ri’arion and Zuziana had it so easy in comparison. Love – simple for Remoy, discouraging for Immadia.

King Beran’s voice carried clearly over the courtyard. “Soldiers of Sylakia, I am King Beran of Immadia. I know that you served the Supreme Commander and carried out his orders to attack and destroy my kingdom. I also know that most of you are not Sylakian. You have surrendered. If you return to Sylakia you will be tried for treason and executed. That is the Sylakian way. But Immadia’s way is different. Listen closely. I offer seven years of service to the crown of Immadia for no pay. You will be fed and clothed and have a roof over your head. You will labour in public works, as do all who serve in my army. But if you commit any crime under Immadian law, however small, the punishment will be death.”

The men watched him, stony-faced. “I know most of you will not have families. But those in positions of command often do, because the way of Sylakia is to ensure loyalty by threatening your families. I offer to bring your loved ones here, under the Immadian flag, at my expense.”

This caused an incredulous murmuring.

“At the end of those seven years, if you have served well, I offer you freedom to go to the Island of your choice. I hope that you may choose life here on Immadia Island. Many are the families who have lost fathers and brothers and sons this day. To tell you the truth, we need each and every one of you. I would be grateful for every man’s help in rebuilding this city and this Island. But if you choose otherwise, it will not be held against you. You who hear me, hear the sworn word of the King of Immadia.”

His gaze travelled over them all. There was power in him, Aranya realised. He held these men in the palm of his hand, with simple words spoken from his heart. “This is my offer. You may of course refuse – in which case, I offer you free transport to the nearest remaining Sylakian outpost.” Grim laughter accompanied these words. “If you take an oath of service and spurn it, I will send a Dragon after you.”

More laughter, and nervous looks at the Dragons.

“Those who know me and have fought against me – you veterans, I see you here today – know how Immadia evaded and taunted the Sylakian windroc for twelve summers. Now, Immadia is grown more powerful than ever. Choose wisely.”

Aranya hissed as the physician drew the quarrel out of her side. “Clean wound,” he muttered. “How do you close a hole like this, Dragon?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I can try to stop the bleeding. Clean it with whatever you use to stop infections, Shirmar –”

“You remember my name?”

“I do. You’ve treated the royal family for as long as I can remember.”

“Well.” He dusted something into her wound. “Blood’s clotting already. Magic?”

Aranya nodded.

“Lady, this one in the belly’s going to hurt. Can you lie down on your side? Hmm. I’ll check the knee after that. And about fifty other cuts on your belly.”

As the physician fussed over her, the soldiers of Sylakia began to come forward one by one to take the King’s oath. A scribe noted down their names, ranks and Islands of origin, in a thick ledger. They signed or made their mark beside their name. A small number refused the oath. Commander Darron had them taken to the dungeons under guard. One man tried to strike her father. Aranya blinked at the speed of his reaction – clearly, King Beran had been expecting as much. He sidestepped and punched the man crisply on the point of his jaw.

Ri’arion, having returned with clothes for Zip, glanced briefly at the man lying in the dirt. “King didn’t like his oath? Here. Hide behind Garthion and for the Islands’ sake, try not to jar your arm.”

“Don’t look,” said Zip.

The monk pretended to take offence. “Well, I’m not about to leer at those Sylakian troops, am I? I’ll have to help you dress, Remoy.” Ignoring Zuziana pointedly as she transformed, he added, “I know my curse didn’t change him into a Dragon, Aranya. But I don’t understand how he hid it. You and Nak taught me that a Dragon form must be fed. Could he hibernate? Could his Dragon somehow have been so suppressed within him that this was the very first time he transformed? Yet I did not sense it was so.”

Aranya nodded. Her intuition said the same. She would dearly have loved to discuss the mystery of Garthion’s existence with Nak and Oyda. But she knew they had to secure Immadia first, put out the fires and ensure the Sylakian forces were not regrouping somewhere off shore.

“Under-shift, please,” said Zip.

“What’s an under-shift, o peerless Remoy?”

“Shall I slap you both now and later?” Zuziana grinned behind his back. “The very thin one.”

“See-through?” asked Ri’arion, reddening.

“You’re lacking the most basic education, you poor, deprived monk.”

Aranya tried not to laugh at Ri’arion’s expression. It hurt her belly.

“I fought my way into the Dragonship,” said Ri’arion, in a somewhat unsteady voice. “I sensed all was not right. He had many guards about him, all experienced Crimson Hammers. It took time to kill them. Throughout, Garthion was simply watching me with this queer expression on his face – I don’t even know how to describe it. There I was, slaughtering his best warriors one by one, and he seemed utterly unconcerned. When I killed the last man defending him, Garthion laughed at me. Then he transformed. Were it not for my Nameless Man powers, he would have eaten me there and then. As it was, I escaped his fangs by a rajal’s whisker … and you know the rest.”

Aranya considered all of this, trying to ignore Shirmar’s grunts as he sawed manfully into her belly-hide. “This is a deep mystery, Ri’arion. How could he have concealed his Dragon-form? Why did he not transform when I burned him back in the Tower of Sylakia? He must have sensed the magic. Earlier, when he appeared, he said, ‘I am alive’. He can’t have been dead before, can he? Why alive?”

“We’ll work it out,” said Zip, standing on her tiptoes to give Ri’arion a kiss on his cheek. “Worrying about Dragon Shapeshifters is a problem for tomorrow.”

Aranya said, “Ri’arion, will you fly with me when we scout the Island?”

“You should stay right here, Zip,” he said. “You’re injured.”

“She’s my Dragon,” Zuziana exploded in a fury. She clapped her hand over her mouth, mumbling around it, “I … what’s happening to me? That’s not me speaking. Aranya?”

“It’s Dragon-Zip, my friend. There’s two of you in there.”

“Ooh. This Dragon thing is creepy.”

Aranya looked meaningfully at Garthion’s body. “Really? You think so?”

Chapter 33: Mysteries

At the back of the royal gardens was a low cliff-face riddled with caves. All of the royals of Immadia were interred within the caves. Slowly, over centuries, their remains calcified in those pure, undisturbed halls, as mineral-bearing water dripped through the rocks above.

Aranya remembered when they had buried her mother here.

It was the day after the battle. One sleep had made the Island-World seem a new place.

Her slow, dragging footsteps halted in front of the large, round stone that blocked the cave’s entrance. She looked gratefully at Yolathion, who had helped her limp along despite the restriction of a bulky cast on her right knee. “Thank you.”

Zuziana had a cast covering her left arm, too, cracked just above the elbow when Garthion struck her and broke her wing. Aranya had woken from a nightmare about Zip falling onto the flagpole. She shuddered at the memory. Rather than think about that, she scratched her bandages instead. Too many wounds; too many itches. She had exhausted her healing power on herself and Zip, never mind Ri’arion, who was acting the stoic monk. She sensed his pain, too.

“Are you quite certain about this, Sparky?” King Beran asked.

She nodded. “Just a look, Dad. I can’t shake the feeling. I dreamed about it last night – this, and the Black Dragon roaring at me, again. All night long.”

She stroked Sapphire, seated on her shoulder.

Zuziana and Ri’arion stood to one side, looking pensive. She knew they thought her idea was strange. Alright, completely off-the-Island bizarre. They probably assumed it was unresolved grief stemming from her mother’s death. That was part of the puzzle, for certain. But it was not all. A four summers-old child could not be expected to remember much of the detail. Mostly, she remembered the trauma of that day, of seeing her mother lying so cold and still. Partially changed. Dead.

But what if there was something … more?

Now that she had arrived at her mother’s tomb, Aranya lacked the courage to go through with her plan. She hesitated.

Leaving Queen Silha’s side, King Beran came to stand alongside his daughter. He raised the lantern he was holding. “Why don’t we do this together?”

“Alright.”

A Dragon could fling herself headlong at a fleet of enemy Dragonships. This was harder.

Yolathion helped a quartet of Immadian warriors roll aside the gravestone. Her father’s hand found hers. Aranya had never been more grateful for that Human touch. Beran ducked into the low entrance. A few steps inside, he was able to straighten up. Aranya did the same but much less elegantly. She bumped her head on the roof.

“Down here, Sparky.”

Each of the graves, horizontal slots hollowed into the sides of the tunnels, had a small plaque set above it. Those nearest the entrance were almost a thousand summers old. But the bones within had not crumbled. They were preserved in stark, crystalline casements. As they walked carefully along the slippery, sloped floor, Aranya silently rued her knee, struck by a crossbow quarrel and then chewed by Garthion. Here, she was surrounded by all those who had gone before. She ran her eyes over newer dates, bones less thickly cased in ageless calcites. How many of these had been Dragon Riders, or Dragon Shapeshifters, she wondered? Or was it an unknown woman from Ha’athior who had changed everything?

King Beran held out his hand. “Just around this corner.”

The lantern light crept around the corner first. Aranya followed, her father right behind her. She saw bones. Her eyes jumped off a semi-mummified corpse; a squeak escaped her throat. The light played off fresh drops of crystal, surrounding them with sparkles, dazzling their eyes until King Beran shifted the lantern.

His voice was strangely choked. “This one, Aranya.”

Perfect fingers. Aranya gasped. Perfect fingers covered in silvery Dragon scales, so like a dragonet’s hide that she glanced involuntarily at her little friend perched on her shoulder. Sapphire’s eyes whirled faster than she had ever seen them move before. Her eyes leaped back to the body. Hope choked her throat, quickly stilled. Izariela of Ha’athior seemed only to sleep. Beran’s reaction confirmed that impression. Nowhere on her flesh was there the slightest sign of decay. Her eyes were closed, serene. She was beautiful. She was more beautiful than the frozen crystal encasing her flesh.

Then she saw that her mother’s body had been arranged so as to conceal her partial transformation. She lay with her left side outward. The right foot sported a Dragon’s claws. The right side of her face had an unseemly bulge running from below the cheekbone up to where it was hidden by her hair. Multi-coloured hair, just like Aranya’s own locks. Izariela’s right arm and hand were hidden back in the shadows, but Aranya could make out enough to see the beginnings of wing struts jutting out of the length of her arm. Her right eye was twice as large as the left, half-hidden behind the perfect bridge of her nose.

Aranya wanted to reach out and touch her. She breathed, “Partial transformation. Impossible …”

“Sparky?”

She did not realise she had spoken aloud until her father replied.

“Dad, she’s been dead twelve years. Thirteen, come the autumn.” Aranya’s hand shook so hard she pulled it back to her side. “Mom’s dead … isn’t she? Don’t people – don’t they … I feel such an idiot even thinking it …”

“Decompose?” Uncharacteristically, his voice cracked. “We’ve grown older and she’s still young, Aranya. How does that work? No heartbeat. No breath filling her chest. Oh, I miss her as though it were yesterday. Why didn’t you tell me, Izariela? Why?”

Tears streaked down both of their cheeks.

Aranya mulled this over for so long that a worried query came from without the cave.

“We’re fine!” Beran called.

“She was protecting us. Protecting me,” Aranya said, thinking aloud. “I don’t know why, but that’s what Mom was doing. Maybe from the Sylakians. Maybe from an even greater threat.”

A simultaneous shudder communicated through their linked hands.

“Our mission is to find out from what, and why, Sparky,” King Beran said, slowly. “That’s the least we owe Izariela.”

Aranya laughed hollowly. “Minor issues first, Dad – such as rebuilding a kingdom and defeating an evil empire which probably has a Dragon Shapeshifter for its leader, never mind the rest of the Supreme Commander’s family. Would you be offended if the others – especially Ri’arion – took a look at this? At Mom, I mean.”

Her father squeezed her hand. Then he put his arms around her. “I love you, Aranya. Always have. It’s not just a Dad thing. Izariela would have been proud, too.”

“Love you right back, Dad.” She wiped her cheeks.

“Aye, your friends should come in. You’ve made wise choices, there. Exceptional people. You should treasure them.”

“Even Yolathion?”

Beran’s expression told her he saw right through her question. With a gentle touch, just fingertips upon her arm, he said, “All that talk of honour hides the heart within. He reminds me of a young Immadian King before he grew a beard and a little more wisdom with it. I think he has learned that Dragons are hard to kill. Since that day, he has been chasing you across the Islands, Sparky. But I’m not so convinced my daughter wants to be caught.”

Aranya masked the deep impact of his words by joking, “Did I tell you I raided his Dragonship, Dad, and left a scroll on his pillow-roll?”

“He rebelled against Sylakia for you, Aranya. Only for you.”

“Dragons are hard to kidnap, too.” She regarded Izariela tenderly. How she longed to speak to her as daughter to mother, not as the four summers-old child she remembered. “She loved you so much, she walked into your snare and willingly remained in it.”

“Aye? I was unworthy of her.”

“Don’t say that.” Aranya held him as he had once held her, by the shoulders, as though the force of her gaze alone could change his thoughts. “I don’t believe that. This – lying here – is neither her choice, nor yours. Dad, while I remember it, you need to add returning to Fra’anior to your list of tasks. I’ve a cousin there called Lyriela. She and Prince Ta’armion of Fra’anior are mutually smitten with each other. I may need to abet in a proper royal kidnapping, quite soon. I promised the ice-dragonets I would take them to meet their kin on Fra’anior.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “Come on in, friends!” he called. “Aranya, you’re never one to do things by halves, are you?”

She laughed along with him. “Dad, I think it’s time Zuziana and I sat you down and told you a very long story about our travels. There’s Nak and Oyda, the two Dragon Riders who taught me to fly and patched up my wounds, and the King of Remoy – Ri’arion should meet him – and the fact that Ta’armion had me drugged and kidnapped by a slaver. Don’t you go starting any wars over that! Did you know there are monkey-men living halfway down the cliffs of Sylakia? And Pygmies –”

“Mercy,” said the King, squeezing her hand. “One thing at a time. This old man needs time to catch up with his daughter.”

Her friends filed in reverently. Raising their lanterns, they gathered around Izariela’s body. Zuziana gasped and began to cry softly. Queen Silha put her arms around the Remoyan. Yolathion bit his lip. Ri’arion leaned forward with an awed expression on his face.

“She’s a Silver Dragon? A Star Dragon?” whispered the monk. “Look at the colour of these scales! There’s only one Star Dragon that I know of in fable – Istariela, the soul-mate of Fra’anior.”

“Istariela and Izariela,” said Zip. “How similar is that?”

A tingle crept up Aranya’s spine. Suddenly, she seemed to hear an echo of the Black Dragon’s voice in her mind. Istariela, he whispered. The name expanded in her mind, accompanied by memories not her own. Magic stole her away. She saw a Silver Dragon watching her from the corridors of her memory. She was glorious, glowing from within with a light all of her own, a star come to reside in the Island-World. Istariela? Or Izariela? Whichever it was, the Dragon smiled at her, causing an awareness of peace and love to blossom in her heart. The vision vanished.

Aranya looked uncertainly at her friends.

“That’d make her thousands of years old,” Ri’arion pointed out. “I’m not sure that could be. I obviously haven’t the faintest idea of what can be, given what I see here. This woman is dead, but does not appear dead. What sustains her flesh – magic? Poison? The crystal casement? Could her body be resting simply in anticipation of her spirit re-filling it and the breath of life wafting into her nostrils?”

“A tragedy lies frozen in time,” said Aranya. Six sets of eyes, including Sapphire’s, jumped to fix on her. “Er, what did I say?”

“Not so much what, as who and how,” King Beran replied, his eyes shadowed with wariness and grief. “I need to leave this place. The dead should slumber in peace.”

“Fra’anior spoke?” asked Aranya.

The monk nodded. “Perhaps an echo from the past, Aranya. It wasn’t you.”

Aranya’s mind reeled. What did all this mean? Yet, one thing was clear. She needed to find out what had happened to her mother. And if there was a chance … oh, just a breath of a chance she might yet live … silently, Aranya’s heart expressed a new vow. She would do her utmost to track down Izariela’s killer. She would find out how and why her mother had been poisoned. And she would not rest until she knew whether or not her Mom could be rescued from this death-like sleep.

* * * *

Aranya observed the Kingdom of Immadia by the light of a perfect five-moon conjunction, a short hour or two of a night three times a year when all five moons were visible in the sky at once. She stood beneath a milky archway of light clad in little but her sleeping-shift, such as Izariela might have worn, even though her breath fogged before her face.

The cold was nothing to her.

Her eyes ranged over the mountains to the north, their snowy peaks delineated as sharply as the points of Immadian forked daggers, to the roofs of the town spread out beneath her position on Izariela’s Tower, noting that the fires had finally all been extinguished. She gazed over the Cloudlands, a deceptively still and quiescent blanket that stretched unbroken to the horizon. Aranya asked the night the questions of her heart. She spoke for a very long time. But she heard no reply.

Not a sound broke the perfect silence. Her heart ached at the night’s splendour, but felt bereft. Dragon-Aranya longed to fly out there, seeking answers to the questions of her past.

Her ears caught a soft tread on the flagstones behind her. “Dad?” she asked.

“Not he,” rumbled a low voice, so close behind her, it sent shivers up and down her spine.

“Yolathion. Couldn’t sleep?”

“I thought I might find you up here,” he said, drawing close. “The night is cold, Aranya.”

“I don’t feel cold.” His dark eyes considered this. “I – uh, never realised your skin was so tan, Yolathion.”

Aranya bit her tongue at her graceless words.

“Jeradia Island is fairly westerly, as the map is drawn,” he replied, but his eyes and body were communicating so much more to her that Aranya felt faint. “You should fly there, one day. It is an Island of stark majesty, a place which breeds men such as I. We are not as pale as you Northerners, nor as dark as the men of the Western Isles.”

Now that he stood so close, her shift did feel thin. Aranya turned slightly away from him, seeking to regain her composure. “I was admiring the night, Yolathion. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It pales in comparison, Immadia.”

His words stirred her inner fires – the molten fires he had stirred in her from the first.

At length, he placed his hands on her waist. When she did not protest, Yolathion drew her gently to him and bent to press his cheek to her temple. Aranya leaned against the stalwart length of him, her head tucked beneath his chin. She marked his body’s warmth with surprise. Was it as her father said? Why did she tremble, wanting to flee? His arms crossed at her belly. He held a Dragon, who wanted to know what it was to be held. She sighed.

“Aranya, were you always a Dragon?” he asked softly. “I don’t understand … when you burned Garthion …”

“I did not know at that time, Yolathion,” she replied. “I only took wing – transformed, I mean – after you threw me off the Last Walk. That’s what I meant –”

“At Nak and Oyda’s hut,” he finished for her, in perfect accord with her thoughts. “I threw you into your future. Oh, Aranya, I’m sorry. I’ve so much to learn about you.”

She whispered, “This night is ours.”

Indeed, she remembered a dawn which had been full of portent as Ignathion’s Dragonships beat toward Immadia Island. So was this night. Even a Dragon could not know whether the future held good or ill, or both. But she was prepared to face it now.

“Thy hair is as unbound as the Cloudlands,” he whispered back. “Thy heart is as unfettered as the winds, o jewel of Immadia, but mine has never been more bound. For it is bound to thee, o mysterious beauty, o love and treasure of my heart.” He drew a deep breath, as ragged with passion as her heart was to hear these words. “If thou art willing, Aranya, then I am ready to fly with thee.”

No night in the Island-World’s history had been this beautiful, Aranya thought.

She breathed, “You want … this?”

“If you mean all that you are, Aranya, then that is what I mean, even to what is yet unknown. Everything, without reservation.”

“Flying over the Cloudlands, or even beneath them?”

Yolathion’s big hands spun her about irresistibly, so that they faced each other. Aranya felt the stars must surely burst into song at the passion that raged between them. She slipped her hands up his back. Yolathion’s fingers curled in her hair; she tilted her head back to gaze unreservedly into his eyes.

He said, with a quirky grin, “There’s an old Jeradian saying, Aranya of Immadia. ‘Those who would know the night, must be silent to appreciate it.’”

A smile curved her lips. “And what does that mean, Yolathion?”

“This.”

Aranya discovered that to kiss Yolathion was a kind of flying she had never known existed.

End of Book 1

Book 2: Shadow Dragon

By Marc Secchia

Chameleon Shapeshifters, uncontrollable storm powers, and the rise of Sylakia’s Dragon-elite. The battle against evil scales new heights, but the price of victory grows ever dearer.

Once, a Shadow Dragon ravaged the Island-World. Insatiable. Unstoppable. A Dragon-killer. Now the Shadow Dragon has reappeared, on a collision course with Aranya and King Beran’s campaign to liberate the Islands from the scourge of Sylakian tyranny. He is dark, beautiful and deadly, a predator of untold power.

Meantime, Thoralian weaves his web of guile and betrayal right in the hearts of Aranya’s friends and allies. He will bring them to an encounter only he can win.

Incredible aerial battles. An Ancient Dragon bent on enslaving Aranya. The treacherous secrets of Dragon magic. This is the fight for which destiny has shaped a heroine of rare courage – Aranya, Princess of Immadia. Criminal. Shapeshifter Dragon. A woman who will confront evil at any cost. Spite her at your peril.

Chapter 1: Stranded

The man AWoke when a sword-point tickled his throat.

He leaped to his feet with an inarticulate cry. Bowstrings creaked. Shouts assaulted his ears. He whirled, glimpsing dozens of arrows trained unerringly on his heart. He began to back up, but a sharp prick near the spine cut short his instinctive attempt to escape.

The man found himself standing beneath a lone, lightning-split prekki-fruit tree, on the edge of a titanic cliff. Three feet from his toes, the land carved away into an immense space, devoid of Islands; a horizon-spanning void filled a league below by poisonous khaki clouds. The smell of rotting prekki fruit, cloyingly sweet, filled his nostrils. With it came faintness, a collapsing of the world toward him, black-edged and vengeful. He saw a haze. Voices swirled out of the mist.

“Naked?”

“He’s a warrior,” said another voice. “Look at the muscle on him, the scars.”

“Where’d he spring from? Not this Island, on my mark.”

“Only half a brain in that basket.”

“Who cares for brains on the pillow-roll? Not I.”

Rough laughter beat against his ears with the force of windrocs squabbling over a fresh kill. The man squeezed his eyes shut – as if that could shut out the banter and give him space to think. He could not remember his name.

“You, boy.” A woman, her voice a hammer-blow of command. Her forefinger stabbed his chest as though she wished to splinter the bone into his lungs. “What’s your name? What’re you doing on Ur-Yagga?”

Panic flashed dagger-sharp behind his temples. Where was he? Who was he? His head stopped moving, but the world did not. Hot bile surged into his throat.

The owner of the blade at his back twisted the point into his flesh. “Answer!”

His eyes popped open, but he refused to gratify them with a groan. A warrior’s honour depended on how he suffered. Instead, he tried to focus on his interrogator.

He saw a tall, deeply bronzed female warrior – by her proud bearing, clearly the leader of this war-band. She carried four curved daggers slung from the belt of her fitted leather trousers. The leather-bound hilt of a scimitar jutted above her left shoulder, a weapon so massive that the tip of the blade protruded a foot beyond her right hip. Worn boots and brief upper body armour which left her muscular arms exposed, completed her outfit. She called him boy, yet she had to be younger by a number of summers.

Great Islands, and what a windroc’s scowl greeted his unthinking appraisal!

His eyes flicked to her troop. They were all warriors as dark as she – perhaps a hundred heavily-armed, exclusively female warriors of the Western Isles. A seasoned crew, he judged. No eye gladdened in greeting, nor did a single hand stray from a weapon. They struck him as strangely ill at ease; despite their rough jests, clearly itching for an excuse to spill out his intestines beneath the prekki-fruit tree. No trifling with such as these.

Especially not their leader.

The pressure between his temples ballooned. She was a blade poised to strike, craving the sweet bite of a scimitar into flesh – his flesh.

“May I ask whom I have the honour of addressing?” he asked, treading that scimitar-edge with care. “And who are your men – your warriors?”

Her hard-planed face became harder, if that were possible. The dark brown eyes flashed. “I grow impatient for answers, boy.”

Answers were the problem.

“I don’t remember,” he said, simply.

“You don’t remember what?”

“Anything.” He clasped his hands beneath his throat and bowed from the waist. “My lady, I apologise if I –”

The scimitar whistled over her shoulder. Before he could blink, the blade stopped a whisker short of trimming his left ear. Dangerous? Make that lethal. He would need to tread like a leopard stalking his prey just to stay alive, while he tried to work out what in the Island-World he was doing in a place with female warriors of this calibre, and not a single memory of his past.

“I’m not your lady,” she hissed. “I am Kylara, Chief Warlord of Yanga Island of the Ur-Yagga Cluster, and I will not stand for your insults. Speak!”

“You have me at a disadvantage, Kylara.”

“Address her as ‘Chief’ before ya lose your head,” growled the woman behind him, punctuating her words with digs of her scimitar-blade. Warm blood trickled down his back.

Kylara said, “Somebody find a cloth for his loins. His nakedness offends my eyes.”

Did it? Abruptly, he revised the words readied upon his tongue. Staying alive required a bold strategy.

As he spread his hands to plead his case, he noticed a number of deep cuts and scrapes on his arms. His chest, chin and knees were abraded, the lesions thick with dirt. A broken-off arrow sprouted from the slab of muscle above his right knee. But nothing hurt as much as it should. He felt well. Weary, but strangely abuzz.

Well. Time to leap off a cliff and see if he could soar.

Drawing a deep breath, he said, “Chief Kylara, you do not offend my eyes. Far from it. Your neck is a tower of strength. The muscle tone of your biceps –”

Kylara’s eyes spat fire. “How dare you comment on my person?”

Ignoring the alarm gong crashing in his ears, he drawled, “Compliments, not comments. Not a word of a lie.” He took the strip of cloth pressed into his hand and wound it about his vitals until he was decently covered. “Besides, you handle your blade with surpassing skill –”

The scimitar nicked his throat. Kylara snapped, “Shut your vulgar mouth.”

“Would you prefer that I lie?”

“Aye!”

“As you wish. Lies.” He looked heavenward for inspiration. The yellow moon, Iridith, cut hugely through the twin suns, creating a partial eclipse which gilded the late afternoon with deep coppery hues and crimson tongues of fire. He gestured broadly at the vibrant scene. “O Chief, your hair does not ripple like a dark waterfall glistening beneath the suns. No, it straggles like the pelt of an unwashed goat.” The warriors gasped, the Chief loudest of all. “Your body odour is redolent of a bloated, week-old carcass. I would rather leap off this cliff than gaze one more second upon your visage, which is so unspeakably hideous –”

He wheezed as the warrior behind him punched him above the left kidney. “Shut your trap!”

“Flying monkey droppings, woman, I did only what she asked.”

Kylara snapped her mouth shut. What was that expression in her eyes – disbelief? Wrath? A spark of admiration? Whatever it was, it vanished behind a gimlet-eyed glare. “Your tongue is far too clever for a madman,” she said, dangerously soft. “Perhaps you are a Sylakian spy.”

He glanced at his ebony skin; at the thrice-scarred pectorals of his chest and the swirling, scarified tribal tattoos on his arms and shoulders, and grunted, “I’d rather cut out my own heart.”

The scimitar menaced his nose once more. By the Islands, he frowned, this Kylara was all too fond of her blade. He had always liked that quality in a woman. Had he? How did he remember nothing, but this he knew as clearly as the suns burnished her features into a statuesque rendering of the goddess of warrior-women? The braids she wore … there, a memory popped into his mind. Finally. Only the Leopards, the warrior-tribes of the farthest Western Isles, wore their hair in this way – closely and intricately braided to the skull, each pattern unique to an Island in the Cluster. She had mentioned Yanga Island. He had never been to Yanga.

Kylara reached out. “You wear the ur-makka on your wrist.”

“Don’t.”

“Give it to me, or I swear I’ll rip it off your carcass when you’re wearing twenty arrows between your teeth.”

Anger burned away his bile. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt in his mind that she would carry out her threat. The arrows trained on him did not waver so much as a quarter-inch.

The man unstrapped the narrow wrist-pouch and handed it over, keeping his face impassive. A warrior should die rather than give up his ur-makka, the symbol of the protective spirits of his family. The flat leather pouch housed a chip of bark with his names charred on it – his real name, his family name and his spirit name.

He wanted to live. Did that brand him a coward? Or wise? He looked to the skies, but found no answers scribed upon the infinite blue.

He could not have picked a lonelier spot to lose his mind. The prekki tree stood on a rugged peninsula, the western tip of what must be a sizeable Island for the Western Isles, which were mostly small and rugged. They were sparsely inhabited by warmongering Human tribes and multitudes of deadly animals – rajals, leopards, carnivorous baboons, windrocs, scorpions and cobras being among the most common offenders. From the peninsula he gazed either over endless Cloudlands to the western horizon, or back to an abrupt ascent into forested hills which appeared green and verdant at first glance, but doubtless disguised a hundred ways to die.

He could fling himself off the cliff. That would solve the problem of living by the time he struck rock, or poisonous cloud, or whatever lay below. The height did not bother him. But some of Kylara’s troops cast mistrustful glances at the abyss. They stayed a good fifteen feet from the edge, probably fed from birth with some superstitious drivel about Land Dragons eating whole Islands.

Kylara extracted the name-chip from the ur-makka and turned it over in her fingers. Without so much as glancing at what she held, the Warlord passed it to him. “Read it.”

Oh, she was shrewd. A game of trust. He turned the smooth wooden chip over in his fingers, saying, “Can’t read, Chief?”

She stiffened. “I can read.”

“Ardan,” he said. “Family name, Yoaggaral.” He caught his breath as he stared at the reverse side. His spirit name was written there, as it should be, but in runes. Runes? He had no hope of reading those. Who in the Island-World wrote in runes? Dragons? He shook off a chill. He must have hit his head harder than he thought.

“And has this knowledge miraculously sharpened your memory?”

“No. I’m not even certain it’s my name. Check it.” He extended his hand, palm up, openly displaying the name-chip.

Kylara’s eyes bored into his for a moment before they flicked downward. No trust. She read the chip. He had not lied. That would have spelled his ruin as surely as jumping off the cliff. She said, “Naphtha Cluster? They were overrun by the Sylakians a month ago – burned out by Dragons, they say. We saw the smoke from here. You’re probably the last Islander from Naphtha left alive.”

“Begs the question, Chief,” said the warrior behind him. “How’d he get here?”

“I don’t care.” Suddenly, her gaze seemed hooded, a cobra’s stare before the fatal bite. “He insulted me. Kill him.”

A blade hissed though the air. Ardan sensed the direction of the warrior’s swing, left-handed, from behind. He whispered into motion, ducking forward so that the point only clipped his shoulder blade. The warrior stumbled, thrown off balance as the expected impact never occurred. He jabbed with his elbow, catching his assailant in the throat. As he twisted in search of the blade, an arrow sliced a strip of skin off his right buttock. He grunted, but still wrenched the scimitar out of the stunned warrior’s fingers.

“Hold!” Kylara stilled her archers with a sharp command.

He rose, dangling the heavy blade from his fingertips.

“So, you want me to kill you?” A wry smile touched the corners of Kylara’s lips. “What are you hiding, Ardan of Naphtha Cluster? Shall I torture it out of you?”

“I’d tell you if I could.”

Kylara’s manner lost not a hint of its furnace-forged steel. “Maybe you would, Ardan, at that,” she said. “But you’re nothing but a pathetic man. I’ll give you a chance – a duel.”

“A duel?” he echoed.

Someone called anxiously, “I’d watch out. He’s a big rajal, Chief.”

Kylara did not even glance in the direction of that voice. “You offering to take his place?”

“No, Chief.”

“I feel in need of a little exercise,” she sneered at Ardan. “First to fall, loses. If you win, you’re a free man for one day. After that, we’ll hunt you down for sport and kill you. If I beat you, you will become my slave, body and soul. After all, you dared to insult the Warlord of Yanga.”

Her women roared their approval, beating the flat of their scimitars against their thighs.

Islands’ sakes, he was supposed to fight this warrior-chief in his condition? Ardan did not fancy his chances. Nevertheless, he offered his biggest, most confident smile yet, and said, “Ah, if my greatest folly was to remark upon a Warlord’s beauty, I shall die a contented man.”

“Let’s see if you can manage to fall to the ground … alive.”

That added an unwelcome perspective on her game. Kylara intended to kill him. No hint of mercy lightened her foreboding gaze. Ardan flipped his blade upright, ears throbbing, feeling strangely light-headed and reckless. If today was the day to spill out his life, so be it.

He crossed scimitars with the Warlord.

Kylara attacked first, as he expected, but not how he expected. Pain stabbed into Ardan’s knee as he hopped over the low swing of her booted foot. The scimitar swished past his head. Had he not been clean-shaven all over his scalp already, he would have been after that first stroke. By the Islands, she was fast! He touched his pate. It was stubbly, but not to the point of many days of hair-growth. He must have been somewhere civilised of late. Their blades scraped together. He eased into the duel, trying to read her style. Kylara appeared to be the all-offence type of duellist – and he did not trust that assessment as far as he could throw a ralti sheep.

He allowed the Warlord to beat him backward around the prekki-fruit tree. Her warriors gave them leeway, but not so much as to provide an escape route. No fools, these women. They shouted and betted with gusto, especially when Kylara opened a cut on his left forearm. She pressed in, swinging hard. Their blades juddered and sparked off each other as he countered even harder, trying to jar her wrist. She responded by kicking the side of his knee. Not only was she quick, but she was strong, as that kick evidenced. Ardan stepped inside a powerful overhead strike and jabbed his knuckles at her sternum. He struck nothing but rock-hard abdominal muscle. His knee was not good. Ardan limped where he needed the foundation of two sound legs for the power that scimitar-play demanded. He defended furiously, calculating in his mind how he might yet contrive to live through this duel.

Surrender? He should rather kill himself. Perhaps she could be baited …

The clash of blades rang in the still afternoon air as the combatants circled, sweating freely as they matched each other stroke for stroke. Ardan opened a cut on her right flank. Kylara’s riposte punctured the muscle of his left shoulder.

“You could stand a few lessons in fighting,” he drawled. Kylara’s scimitar hissed past his right ear. Ardan dodged behind the prekki tree. “Need a good teacher?”

She opted not to reply, letting her blade do the talking. Ardan defended robustly and managed to tap her jaw rather ungently with his forearm. Kylara gasped, touching her fingers to her bloody lip, but fell to the attack immediately with a flurry of blows that he was hard-pressed to defend. Another cut materialised on his shoulder as if by magic. Their clash developed an ebb and flow, a pattern of strikes and counter-strikes. Kylara seemed able to read his every trick. Ardan’s lungs wheezed already. So quickly? Something was wrong.

“You really think your troops can hunt me down in twenty-seven hours?” He dodged her spinning blade. Kylara’s cunningly-hooked foot would have toppled him, were it not for the prekki tree.

“I’d save my breath for living,” she retorted.

Ardan leaned casually against the rough trunk, swiping at her a touch lazily. “Then I’ll take a breather right now. You don’t mind, lady?”

“I am not your lady!”

His posture was spoiled as Kylara bruised his fingers on the scimitar’s hilt with a blow of her fist. Transferring the blade to his left hand, he kept fighting. “Not my best hand,” he grinned, “but I can still beat you left-handed.”

Kylara responded by thrashing him backward around the ring of her warriors, who hissed and snarled insults at him as he gave up step after begrudging step.

Deflecting another mighty overhead strike, Ardan allowed himself to fall forward, creating exactly the opportunity he had hoped for – to close with her. He snaked beneath the arm holding her scimitar as her blow looped over his back. Now, his greater strength should tell.

Ardan locked his right arm around her waist and jerked Kylara bodily off the ground, aiming to raid a kiss from her lips. A kiss would certainly madden her, which was the only way he was likely to win this fight. That earlier feeling of wellness had vanished like a brief dawn mist.

Two-handed, Kylara slammed the hilt of her scimitar down atop the crown of his head. Ardan staggered, tasting blood. Her knee jabbed into his crotch, but a last-second twist saved his worst blushes as he deflected the blow with his thigh. Quicker than he could follow, she punched him in the jaw with a near-perfect right cross. Pain exploded through his jawbone into his skull.

Again, the tree came to his aid. Ardan dabbed his mouth. She had bitten his lip!

“Feisty, my hot-blooded Island maiden,” he quipped. But he wobbled as he tried to push himself upright.

Kylara switched hands. “Unlike you, slave-to-be, I am left-handed,” she smiled. “And I was just getting warmed up.”

His eyes flew wide. The surrounding warriors laughed cruelly.

Ardan wiped sweat from his forehead. At that precise instant, Kylara struck, kicking the arrow stump embedded above his knee.

Pain blasted into Ardan’s leg, beside which the punch was nothing. For a moment all he could see was white agony. He heard a grinding sound; his teeth grating together like mohili wheat kernels beneath a grindstone. When his vision cleared, it was to see Kylara standing just a few feet off, twirling her scimitar indolently between her fingertips.

With a sardonic smile, she said, “Payment for the kiss, boy. Give up?”

Mockery!

Fire raged in his body, blazing through the pain and clearing his mind of any remaining rational thought. He was not Ardan. He was fire. He was the flame of the dawn. Ardan felt his muscles swell, ingesting a flood of adrenalin and strength. A low growl throbbed in his chest. He was a rajal unleashed. The massive black felines, which stood shoulder-high to a man, had always fascinated him. Now, he pounced with catlike swiftness.

The primal fury of his attack staggered the young Warlord. A dozen blows of his scimitar brought the flash of fear into her eyes. For the first time, he forced Kylara into frantic defence, dodging and parrying with only one thought in her mind – preserving her life. Her warriors skipped backward with surprised cries. Someone shouted that she needed help. Kylara scrambled away, but Ardan bore down on her relentlessly. He beat her and beat her, blow after massive blow, but she would not fall even when crushed to her knees – her spirit and her courage denied him.

An arrow hissed past his left cheek. Kylara shouted at her warriors not to interfere. Ardan used the distraction to jab through the armour protecting her left breast, but suddenly, she slipped out from beneath his assault and launched a pugnacious counterattack of her own, hissing between her teeth with every clash of their blades. They struck so hard that they both shuddered at every blow. Kylara was beyond mockery now. No beating him to the ground for her. His insults had seen to that.

For a brief instant, he smiled at the irony.

Words gave way to grunts and hisses of effort. Darkness lurked at the corners of his vision; not shadows, but a flickering of black flames. He knew he had to remember, for there was something very important about the inferno within him … Ardan’s arm worked mindlessly as he deflected another assault from Kylara. He sensed a power buried within his being, familiar yet forbidding, an eerie, depthless pool that stirred as if aware of his regard. He feared it. He dreaded the monster within, yet if only he could exploit that power, he would surely crush this gleaming dark woman, who, with a snarl pasted on her otherwise attractive lips, was slowly but surely beating the living pith out of him.

Ardan wondered if he had ever encountered a more formidable warrior, male or female.

His sword-arm jabbed repeatedly overhead, blocking her dominant overarm swings as she sought to split him in two. Kylara howled, a building of rage that had a terrible force of its own, surging toward her final onslaught. He had to stop this before she killed him. Ardan stepped hard on his right foot, intending to smash both arms upward to break her wrist as she struck again. In that instant, his wounded knee buckled and collapsed, flinging him forward onto his knees. He broke his fall with his elbow.

As the muscles of Kylara’s arms, shoulders and abdomen contracted, bringing her stroke from a full overhead stretch down to intersect with the precise centre of his skull, Ardan had time to grasp that his defence had gone hopelessly awry. Kylara’s expression registered surprise. But she could not temper her stroke in time.

The scimitar blade smashed into Ardan’s skull.

The lurking darkness snatched him away.

Chapter 2: Campaign

Aranya, DRAGON-Princess of Immadia, shuffled her massive paws restively. Yolathion was making an awful fuss of his first flight on Dragonback, she thought. Patience was apparently not a Dragonish virtue. His fussing made every scale on her amethyst hide prickle as though she had a severe case of the scale-mites Zuziana had just been teasing her about.

Her friend, the equally scaly first lizard of Remoy, was already zipping about in the air above the castle, home since olden times to Immadia Island’s royal family. The Azure Dragoness’ scales glinted like suns-light sparkling off a perfectly clear mountain lake. Ri’arion, Zip’s Rider, waved at Aranya as they swooped by at high speed. Zip performed a barrel-roll to starboard followed by another to port, which ended in a snarl and a stall. Her hiss of annoyance carried all the way to where the Amethyst Dragon perched on the top of Izariela’s Tower.

Her perch gave her a panoramic view of the Island of Immadia, her home. Aranya’s hearts soared with a draconic delight in high places. In contrast, her new Dragon Rider was a taut bundle nerves, pacing around behind her.

Dragon-Aranya tilted her head coyly. “I say, Jeradian warrior?”

He essayed a wry smile. “Aye, Dragon lady?”

“Those are my haunches. On a Dragon, the part of me which speaks is at this end.”

“Ah, I wasn’t … right.”

Aranya loomed over her boyfriend as she nosed him toward her shoulder. “Mount up. It’s a perfect Immadian afternoon and you’re dragging your oversized boots.”

“Look, I’m over seven feet tall. I am not used to being overshadowed by anyone, least of all my girlfriend. My forty-three foot, two and one-quarter inches long girlfriend, as measured yesterday.”

Aranya’s rising irritation made smoke curl out of her nostrils. “Whatever happened to, ‘I am ready to fly with thee’ and all those other lovely things you said – when was it?”

“Beneath a quintet of full moons, these four evenings hence, I did declare my love for thee, Immadia,” declaimed Yolathion, but he rather spoiled the effect by slipping off the scales of her right leg and falling on his rump. A treacherous snort of Dragon laughter blew his dark fringe over his eyes. He said, “The problem is that in your Human form you are beautiful-beautiful, Aranya, while in your Dragon form, you are scary-beautiful.”

Rising, he dusted off the seat of his trousers. With that frown of concentration she had come to find so endearing, Yolathion gingerly negotiated the hop from her leg to her shoulder. He took one gigantic stride up to her spine-spikes and stepped carefully into her Dragon Rider’s saddle.

“Nak didn’t make such a fuss on his ride,” she said.

Yolathion buckled the straps over his thighs and fumbled with the waist belt. “Aye. And he had a hundred and how many years’ experience flying Dragonback? Look, it’s my first time. I want to remember –” and he sighed so deeply that all three of Aranya’s Dragon hearts leaped as one, “– everything. Ready. I hope.”

He really was too funny, Aranya thought, stepping over to the edge of the battlement. Her injured knee twinged unhappily as she put weight on it – Garthion’s parting gift. But her healing was proceeding at Dragon speed. Two or three more days, and the joint should regain its full function.

If his life could be neatly jotted down on a scroll and ticked off item by item, Yolathion would have it that way. King Beran’s eyebrows had crawled toward his hairline more than once. Aranya knew that her father was considering the differences between his artistic, grapple-with-life’s-surprises daughter and the surprises-are-evil man on her back. She could reform him, given time. Especially when he smelled so scrumptious – but she must remember not to call his Jeradian perfume … well, perfume. He had been so insulted. What had he called it, shaving balm?

Aranya grinned toothily over her shoulder.

“Is that a smile, Aranya?” asked Yolathion. “Or rather, ‘you look like a snack’?”

“Mmm,” she rumbled, licking her lips with her forked tongue. “Seven feet of Jeradia’s finest man-steak served on a platter? I could sink my fangs into that!”

Yolathion’s heart-rate doubled, coming to her fantastic Dragon hearing as a mad drumbeat.

Great, now she had scared him. Aranya would have preferred a little more trust on his part. Maybe that would come, too, given time. She eased up onto the battlements, wincing again as pain radiated from her knee. The rents in her scales also needed to heal, gouged by six-foot crossbow quarrels.

“Ready to burn the heavens, Rider?”

“Aye.”

They gazed over the Island-kingdom of Immadia. Much of the capital city had been burned in the great battle against Sylakia’s Dragonship fleet, in which they had defeated Garthion, the son of Sylakia’s Supreme Commander, with the help of a defection by Yolathion and his Jeradian forces. Beyond the city walls, a wide field filled up steadily with Dragonships cobbled together from salvaged parts. An Amethyst Dragon’s fire or her Rider’s burning arrows did not leave much behind when they exploded one of the hydrogen sacks. But the Immadian fleet and the ground emplacements of war crossbows and catapults had downed many Dragonships, too.

Zip was now a Shapeshifter, changed irrevocably by Aranya’s life-saving Dragon tears. Zuziana, Princess of Remoy, was now able to transform between her Human and Dragon forms at will. Guilt and happiness roiled in Aranya’s breast whenever she remembered what she had done to her friend. Zip said she was happy. She had to cling to that, or the remorse would grow wild-animal claws and fangs within her.

With a heavy sigh, Aranya spread her wings. The huge, flexible flight membranes flexed at will, the thousands of auxiliary muscles along her wing bones and flight struts turning them into the highly responsive instruments of Dragon flight. Garthion had fallen onto the flagpole set upon this very tower. Speared through the brain, he had died instantly. His crimson Dragon body still filled the castle courtyard below – the body of a Shapeshifter Dragon, the Sylakians’ great secret.

If the son had been a gigantic Red Shapeshifter Dragon, what about his father? Or any other siblings and relatives?

“Now you’re the one dawdling,” said Yolathion. “Why so pensive, beloved?”

“I was thinking about Garthion.”

“Forget that coward,” Yolathion said. “Fly, Aranya. Let the splendour of Immadia Island fill your Dragon hearts and erase that man’s evil forever.”

Thank the heavens he understood.

The merest tilt of her wings caught the breeze. Aranya glided over the rooftops of Immadia city. The streets had been cleared of bodies, while the graveyard beyond the city walls had swelled immensely, filled with Immadian Islanders and Sylakian troops alike. So many killed. So many immolated upon the pyre of Sylakia’s ambition to rule the Island-World.

She eased into a few wingbeats and peeked over her shoulder. Precious! Yolathion’s face was a picture of wonder.

Aranya climbed, circling slowly to give her Dragon Rider a fine view of Immadia’s jagged, snowy peaks north and west of the city. The Island was only five leagues long; seven if one counted the outlying Islands to the north. Around the edges, above where the Island massif rose from the poisonous gases of the Cloudlands, the ancients had built great terraced lakes to trap Immadia’s unreliable rainfall. Iridith covered fully two thirds of the south-eastern horizon, while the crescent Jade moon dominated the northern sky as if to form an archway leading to the end of the world.

Her Rider shouted, “This is incredible, Aranya!”

“No need to shout, you daft rajal,” she returned. “Ready for a bit more?”

“Er, steady as she goes, gorgeous Dragoness, or my lunch will make a bid for freedom.”

“Look, here comes Sapphire,” said Aranya.

The tiny dragonet abandoned Ri’arion’s lap and shot over to Aranya and Yolathion, calling shrilly. Aranya laughed. Hello, you ridiculously beautiful creature, she greeted her in Dragonish. Sapphire flitted around Aranya’s muzzle, her jewel-like eyes swirling with excitement and appreciation. At only one foot long and perhaps one and a half in wingspan, the dragonet was as manoeuvrable as a bat. Right now, she demonstrated her skills in a spiralling double-backflip, before suddenly noticing Yolathion in the saddle and coming to a mid-air stall of surprise. She volleyed a series of querulous chirps at Aranya.

He’s my Rider, she said. My … er, mate. He’s called Yolathion.

“What did you say to her?” asked Yolathion, crossing his eyes as the dragonet flipped around his head, examining him suspiciously.

“That you’re my Rider,” said Aranya, editing her response hastily. Despite that, her belly-fires soughed, stoked by her embarrassment. “I think she expected Zip – who is far daintier than you, you great lump. You weigh a ton.”

He laughed, flexing his powerful frame. “I’m sure you’ll grow into the task, o mighty Amethyst Dragon. No, I am a man and a warrior, riding a great winged beast over the Islands, not a diminutive wisp of a Princess from Remoy. And you are dainty in your Human form, compared to me.”

Her height did seriously reduce the potential pool of boyfriends who were taller than her, Aranya thought. She loved it when he tucked her head beneath his chin, making her feel safe and cherished. But he seemed so wrapped up in her looks, as though a Princess should be perfectly coiffed at every hour of every day, and her smile should never fail to dazzle. Perhaps a hundred-fang smile was a little over-dazzling? And should come attached to rather less of a Dragon?

“Who’s diminutive and wispy around here?” growled Zuziana, slipping into formation with Aranya. Ri’arion greeted them across the divide.

“Easy on the fires there, Dragon-love,” said the Fra’aniorian monk, giving his own mount such a hearty slap it had Yolathion’s eyebrows hopping. “We’ve been practising fire-breathing. Zip hasn’t learned to burn the heavens yet, but if you keep insulting her, it shan’t be long.”

“Darn right,” said Zip, still snarling. “Nice of you to saunter up here this afternoon, slow-slugs. King Beran has a job for us.”

Aranya interjected, “Don’t you find it cute to hear that soft-as-dorlis-flower Remoyan accent growling between a Dragon’s fangs?”

“Bah, says the Immadian parakeet who pronounces every vowel six distinct ways?” retorted Zuziana.

The Dragonesses took playful nips at each other, startling their Riders.

“Zuziana is dainty compared to my Dragon,” the Jeradian put in. “Aranya says that when she grows up to be a big Dragon …”

They all laughed as the Amethyst Dragon’s belly-fires rumbled and a hiccup of flame flared ten feet out of her nostrils. Sapphire gave a squeak of delight and dived into the flame, bathing in it.

“Well,” said Zuziana, as surprised as everyone else at the dragonet’s response. “How’s about a trip into the mountains to see if any of Garthion’s Dragonships are still salvageable? Beran interrogated the Sylakians who survived the hike down. They said the Dragonships the ice-dragonets downed weren’t destroyed – but they couldn’t repair them because of the cold. Do you think you could manage that, or do Jeradians turn as blue in the snows as my monk from the overheated volcano-Island, here?”

“It will be freezing,” said Aranya.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Zip smirked. “Yolathion can cuddle you all you want later, Aranya.”

With a clip of her wings, she darted away toward the nearby peaks.

Aranya gasped, “Zuziana of Remoy! Just you wait until I catch you …”

* * * *

Family dinners had now expanded to include Ri’arion, Zip, Yolathion, Beri and Commander Darron. The table was a riot of laughter as Zuziana had them in stitches with her colourful retelling of how they had dealt with her diarrhoea while flying from Ferial Island to the great volcano in the middle of Immadior’s Sea, the huge Cloudlands space south of Immadia Island. After that, Aranya retired to bed feeling just as warm as Zip had promised. She touched her lips, still tingling from one last kiss. Yolathion was gallant in just the right measure. Perfect manners accompanied by an ever-so-wicked kiss.

Leopard, to borrow Zip’s favourite phrase.

She eased onto her pillow-roll, wondering when Zip might leave off whatever naughtiness she was perpetrating with her monk – now ex-monk – and come to bed, too.

They had managed to drag a Dragonship’s hydrogen sack intact out of the mountains, and had located nearly a dozen salvageable vessels. Beran would despatch several troops of soldiers and engineers in the morning.

Mercy, she was tired. Her wounds ached. A storm rolled in behind her closed eyelids.

Aranya fled on the wings of her inner fires.

For an interminable time, she soared across the Island-World, embroiled in a bizarre mixture of battles and falling into the Cloudlands. Garthion’s paw reached out from the smoky, billowing storm clouds to tear her wings. Battered, tattered, she escaped once more. But the storm swelled, growing blacker and more menacing by the moment.

Zip’s cool fingers soothed her brow. “You’re burning the blankets, Aranya.”

She moaned, flopped over onto her right side, and dreamed again. Thunder pummelled her world. As fast as she flew, the storm moved faster. Evil green-black thunderheads boiled all around her, trapping her Dragon-self in a cloud-canyon. Lightning jagged nearby.

Suddenly, three of the Black Dragon’s seven heads lunged out at her, roaring, How dare you flee? Listen to me!

Aranya screamed.

His voice was a crack of thunder. Find me the Dragon of the Western Isles! Aranya tumbled into the maelstrom.

She jerked upright, tasting a metallic tang of blood in her mouth, panting, “Fra’anior? Great Dragon?”

The dream was gone. Suddenly wide awake, Aranya hugged her knees to her chest. Why was the Ancient Dragon so furious with her? Perhaps foolishly, she had once promised him her help – puny as she might be in comparison to his Island-shaking might.

Aranya slipped out from beneath the covers. Great. Another couple of scorch-marks. Zuziana’s soft breathing assured her that her friend was sound asleep in the bed opposite. She padded over to the drapes and peeked out of the tall crysglass windows of her royal bedchamber. Dawn in two hours, she judged from Jade’s position in the sky. The Mystic moon rose within Jade’s crescent, a perfect disc clasped by a lover’s two arms. The artist in her sighed. Beauty to snatch one’s breath away.

A twinkle of light in the tower opposite caught her eye. Beran’s map room? Her father must be awake. At once, Aranya tiptoed over to the doorway, picking up a brace of Immadian forked daggers and a cloak for decency’s sake, before stealing out into the hall.

“Islands’ greetings, Princess,” the guard greeted her. “Up early?”

“Oh, Felial? It’s Felial, right?”

“My lady,” said the young soldier, straightening until he resembled a fire-poker.

“Felial, are your brothers still teasing you about being the one who discovered the Dragon on the battlements?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“Why don’t you tell them that the Dragon will come to visit if they don’t behave? How’s your father, Felial?”

“He wanted to thank you for healing …” Felial’s cheeks developed high spots of colour as Aranya smiled at him. Suddenly, he spluttered, “The stump of his knee is better and Commander Darron also came to see our family and talked to him about working as a Dragonship navigator in the future and he sent engineers out to repair our house and we’re so thankful, Princess.”

Aranya nodded. “Well, I’m just going to see the King, Felial. At ease.”

“Aye, my – watch out!”

Felial’s shoulder punched her aside. Cloth brushed her head as a tapestry fell nearby. The young soldier tangled with a man, grunting, spoiling a flailing sword-blow aimed at her neck.

The man shouted, “Die, Dragon scum!”

A face, half-seen, snarled at her over Felial’s armoured shoulder as the guard thumped her assailant awkwardly against the passage wall. The would-be assassin groaned, but his left hand rose behind Felial’s back. Metal winked in the half-light. Whipping one of the forked daggers from her belt, Aranya hurled it instinctively in a low arc. A short blade spun from the man’s severed fingers.

“Dragon sc –”

His cry choked off as Felial’s sword slipped into his chest.

Aranya blinked as she observed a wisp of navy-blue smoke curl from the fallen dagger. Taking the form of a dragonet no larger than the ball of her thumb, it flew toward her faster than her eye could follow, and … vanished? She rubbed a tiny, icy patch on her upper arm. Nothing. Or, magic? Her inner fires flickered briefly. Not quite awake, shaken by her dream, she might have imagined it.

“Quick, Princess.” Hands grasped her arms.

“Take me to the King’s tower,” she said. The soldier who had seized her was a hulking Jeradian, fully a head taller than her.

“Just a crazy man,” she heard someone say. “How’d he get in?”

“A servant,” said another soldier. “Worked here longer than I remember. Good work, Felial.”

Aranya glanced over her shoulder as the Jeradian hustled her along. Judging by the red-black blood seeping across the corridor, there would be no questioning that man. Crazy? Armed with sword and dagger, hidden behind a tapestry? She was not so certain. She limped up the winding staircase one step at a time, trying to still the racing of her heart, and then followed a chilly stone corridor to the eastern tower. Another staircase greeted her there.

The Jeradian handed her over to two Immadian guards. “All quiet here?” he rumbled.

“Aye.”

Leaving the guards discussing the incident in low tones, the Princess slipped within. She found King Beran, babe on arm, staring at his map table in deep concentration. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Sparky. Couldn’t sleep?”

“No. You? Leanya’s keeping you awake?”

He chuckled. “Just a little. It’s Silha’s turn to sleep. Two busy twin boys to run after in a couple of hours and this baby girl … what was that shout I heard?”

“An assassin,” said Aranya. King Beran blanched paler than the ice of an Immadian winter. “Dad – I’m fine.”

“A – what?” Boots thumped down the corridor outside. “Aranya … I’ll kill –”

“Dad, I’m not hurt. Can we talk?”

With an evident effort, the King uncurled his white-knuckled fingers from his dagger hilt. He sighed, “Aye. An assassin, you say?”

“Or a crazy man.”

“Forgive me, one moment.” Beran stalked over to the door and yanked it open. Aranya winced at the low-voiced but acerbic tenor of his interrogation of the duty guard. But when he returned, all he said was, “A trusted insider. It’s almost impossible to defend against such an attack. Are you truly unharmed?”

“Not a scratch.”

Aranya decided not to bother him with the question of the magic she may or may not have glimpsed. Seeing his daughter apparently rise from the dead was more than enough for a father to deal with for one week, wasn’t it? She touched her upper arm pensively. Not an inkling of magic.

On cue, King Beran said, “Apart from assassins, what’s on your mind, Aranyi?”

Aranyi – the intimate form of her name. She always considered it a special sign of his affection for her. She wondered what he had called her mother, Izariela. Izari? Izi?

She stared at the map table, which depicted the northern part of the Island-World from the northernmost Islands, the frozen spits of rock north even of Immadia, to a thousand leagues south of Remoy. The surface was a square thirty-six feet across, but separated into nine parts so that a person could walk between the segments rather than trying to reach across that width. It modelled every known Island and significant spire of rock. Each was meticulously labelled in Beran’s own hand. Aranya noticed that the volcano and the Dragon’s Foot had been added, near a label for Immadior’s Sea. Zuziana, with her obsession for maps, had probably added that detail.

But the disposition of Beran’s forces was what trapped her attention. Model Dragonships, Sylakian outposts … King Beran had been strategizing. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she grasped his intent.

Find me the Dragon of the Western Isles.

Trying to disguise her discomfort, Aranya held out her hands. “Let me cuddle Leanya for a bit, Dad, while you explain this two-front strategy. Do I not recall –”

“That I swore never to fight on two fronts? Indeed.”

Beran passed over Aranya’s baby sister – her half-sister, although she did not think of Leanya that way. She cradled the babe in the crook of her left arm. Her Dad was not fooled by her calm demeanour, she knew.

He turned to the table, saying, “I’ve been toying with this two-prong strategy ever since we defeated the Sylakians, Sparky. Let’s be clear. Despite the severe reverse we handed them, we still need to deal with the Sylakian Southern Dragonship fleet, currently under First War-Hammer Ignathion.”

“Given as we stole Ignathion’s son,” Aranya put in.

“Exactly. Even disregarding the remnants of the Northern fleet, we still face a force greater than any we can assemble.”

“There’s at least one more Shapeshifter Dragon.”

“Aye, that too.” He swept his hand across the map. “You see, the problem has always been that there are two viable routes to attack Immadia Island. One from the south, the other from the far Western Isles. There are sizeable enemy strongholds placed along both routes. The time to strike is now, while they are disorganised and dismayed. But we need to balance readiness against capability. Our forces are severely depleted. The Sylakians have vastly greater resources. So, coming to our strategic needs. Resources. Securing our borders. We know that Ignathion is the real strategic thinker, while Supreme Commander Thoralian is one-dimensional in his approach. So, if we’re dealing with Thoralian we must fight on two fronts. However thin that spreads us, it will cloud his judgement.”

“But my mind keeps returning to two Islands. And they lie reasonably close together, here to the west and southwest of Sylakia – Fra’anior and Jeradia.”

Aranya nodded, enjoying the spark in her father’s eyes as he expounded his views. She said, “Fra’anior I understand, because they’re our ally and there’s Dragon-lore to be found there – we discussed that. But, Jeradia? Dad, you’re not doing me a favour because of Yolathion?”

“A teensy favour,” he said, illustrating with his fingers. “I’m hoping Yolathion can persuade his people to rebel. That would give us a pool of excellent warriors and a powerful bargaining-chip with Ignathion. In twelve summers’ fighting against him, I never enjoyed that luxury. Jeradia and Fra’anior are the keys to the Isles west of Sylakia. Hold those and you hold the West – if you don’t have a group of angry tribes or Sylakians backstabbing you. Hence the surprise tactic, the attack that sweeps north-south along the Western Isles before turning – suddenly – toward Sylakia.”

Moving between the tables to his side, Aranya quizzed him, “Dad, you aren’t planning to conquer the tribes?”

“No, Sparky.” His well-loved grey eyes rose slightly to measure her stature. “When did you rise from the Cloudlands to overtake your Dad, eh?”

With a grin, Aranya rose onto her tiptoes. “My, how you’ve shrunk, old man.”

“Huh. A father should not have to look up to his headscarf-less daughter. It’s not right.” But his complaint came with a wry grin and little force.

“Sorry.” Self-consciously, she began to brush her long, multi-coloured tresses back from her face.

“Stop that.”

“Wearing a headscarf is so awkward when I keep changing –”

His snort brought her up short. “I love it,” he said. “You’re so much the image of your mother, half of my heart feels as though it has flown back in time. Don’t you ever be ashamed of that glorious mane.”

Izariela! Aranya groaned at the weight of unbearable grief. Her pale, half-transformed face. Her unmoving chest. No, she had to hold firm to the hope that her mother had only been poisoned, that she could somehow be revived and brought forth from her strange crystal tomb. Seeking justice for Izariela paled in comparison to this hope which burned so hotly in her breast, it flickered as a living flame within her.

“Now,” said Beran, “you and I both know that the tribes would never be content to be yoked to Immadia, nor do I have ambitions to replace the Sylakian Empire with one of my own. But I will do what is necessary for the Island-World.”

Aranya gave him a one-armed hug. “You know, as a Dad you’re just about tolerable, besides being an adequate King.”

“Ah, you flatter me,” Beran chuckled in his beard. “I’m just trying to resolve all the trouble my prodigal Dragon-daughter has stirred up. If we accidentally fix the Island-World in the doing, that would be a smashing result. So, Sparky. Cough it up. Why the shadows lurking in those amethyst eyes?”

He knew her far too well.

Aranya considered the map for a space. His strategy was as clear as fine crystal. It made sense – but there were many unknowns, not least, what they might have roused now that the secret of Sylakian Shapeshifter Dragons was revealed to the Island-World. As her father regarded her expectantly, Aranya took up his unspoken challenge.

“Darron moves south to Yorbik Island,” she said. “He lays siege to the Sylakian fortresses and the Dragonship shipyards there. I adjudge from this blue counter that you have Zip and Ri’arion accompanying him?” Aranya rocked Leanya as she stirred. “The Commander tromps through Gemalka, Helyon and Ferial with all trumpets blaring, while your second line of attack stealthily makes the long westward haul to Yar’ola Island, then sweeps south, down toward Ur-Yagga Cluster. This chip of amethyst stone represents me, right?”

“Aye.”

“Having tied the Sylakians up at Yorbik Island, if the timing is right, we then broadside them from Fra’anior or Jeradia. We have a Dragon in each line of attack to give us a massive tactical advantage. The strategy, initially, is to capture as many Dragonships as possible. We send all the vessels we can with Darron, a big show of force, while the real target is these Sylakian outposts here in the Western Isles.”

King Beran clapped his hands softly. “Bravo. I didn’t waste my time whacking you into shape, did I? But you still haven’t told me –”

“Dad. Even a cliff-fox needs to learn patience.” Aranya placed her hand over the model of Ur-Yagga, a busy cluster of over two hundred Islands, small and large. “I dreamed of the Black Dragon last night, Dad. Fra’anior spoke to me. That’s why I find your strategy for the Western Isles so freaky.”

“It’s the only strategy that makes sense.”

“Dad, there’s a Dragon in the Western Isles. I’m charged to hunt it.”

Open-mouthed in amazement, Beran scratched his beard. “By the mountains of Immadia, are there Dragons dropping from the skies these days?”

“Yes, you can catch them like raindrops.”

King Beran smiled at his tall daughter with such a fierce pride it fairly took her breath away. That was what her mother, Izariela, must have loved in him. She saw it so clearly. “So, Sparky, let’s work the counter-strategy. How will Thoralian respond? When, and where?”

* * * *

Seventeen Dragonships plus one Azure Dragon and her Rider set out for the mineral-rich Island of Gemalka that same evening. A further eight vessels were well advanced in repair. Beran ordered a second wave to depart as soon as possible in support of Commander Darron. The King would command just six of the hundred and fifty-foot Dragonships, carrying full crews of fifty warriors apiece.

Zuziana shed a few tears before her departure. “See you in a month, Aranya. Be safe.”

“Take care of that maniac monk, Remoy.” Aranya hugged her best friend as though she could somehow transfer her strength to Zip. “Work on your Lightning powers. Fly strong and true.”

Zip did not say what Aranya knew – that she knew nothing about fighting other Dragons, should it come to that. Aranya’s Dragon hearts pounded in her chest. They were only juvenile Dragons. What if she or Zip ran into a Garthion-sized Red Dragon, two and a half times her size? The Sylakian forces still outnumbered them greatly. Who knew how many of Garthion’s siblings or relatives might be Shapeshifters, too? Would an Amethyst Dragon make the difference, scaring the Sylakian outposts into surrender? Beran had called her ‘the hand of justice in the Islands’, making Aranya squirm. Who was she to judge and avenge? According to the scrolls they had read back in Remoy, that was what the Dragon Riders used to do – judge disputes between the Islands. Keep the peace. Fight evil … but not all Dragons or their Dragon Riders had been good. Many had done exactly the opposite, or had simply not cared for that kind of work and sacrifice.

Therein lay another mystery. Why had all the Dragons vanished? Where to? One hundred and fifty years before, approximately, the Dragons had simply evaporated like a winter’s mist from the Island-World. The few survivors had dwindled, hunted and killed by men, or died of old age. Perhaps the Fra’anior Cluster hid the knowledge she sought. Or she could ask Nak and Oyda. Oyda was one hundred and seventy-six years old. Their long lives had overlapped with those events; surely they would remember some momentous war between Dragons, or a mass migration, or … what? She had no idea.

The following morning, having packed and made preparations all night, King Beran and his forces departed Immadia Island for the far Western Isles, starting with the Sylakian outpost of Yar’ola Island, six days flying by Dragonship. Beran ordered his Dragonship Steersmen to push hard. Hourly shifts of warriors worked the turbines manually, using the contraption in the common area fondly called the ‘back-breaker’, while they saved on meriatite.

“Otherwise we’ll hitch Aranya to a rope and she can tow us,” Yolathion teased.

Aranya took off so fast that the Jeradian’s eyes watered. Ha. She was not a pony or a water buffalo, she was a Dragon!

But she had to giggle at the sight of a hundred and sixty white ice-dragonets hanging off the gantries of one of the Dragonships, chuckling and chirping with their mouths hanging open in the breeze, bound as she had promised for Ha’athior Island in the Fra’anior cluster, and a reunion with their kin there. The dragonets had agreed to fight if called upon.

How strange it would be to travel and fight alongside her father. As she rose into the still morning air, Aranya struggled to make sense of the mass of conflicting feelings swirling in her Dragon hearts. She loved being with Yolathion. She missed Zip and Ri’arion already. She worried about her friends. Human-Aranya felt anxious about the battles to come, but Dragon-Aranya’s chest swelled and adrenalin pumped into her veins as she blazed across the sky in glorious Dragon flight. The difference between her two minds made her feel dislocated. She wished Zuziana were on her back, chattering away and distracting her, rather than the serious-minded man gazing about in awe as they left Immadia Island far behind.

Why should she be so ungrateful?

Once again, she was winging away across the Cloudlands. Only this time, it was not in chains, but by the power of Dragon wings. Aranya stretched her flight muscles, accelerating to catch up with her father’s Dragonship. Yolathion needed to practise his airborne landings. And why, by the five moons, was she feeling so chary about Yolathion seeing her nude, as he inevitably would when she transformed?

Aranya snapped her fangs at a passing insect. There. That described exactly how she felt.

Chapter 3: Village Battle

Ants feasting on the hole in his skull resolved into a vague itch Ardan needed to scratch. His hands jerked, but only occasioned a jingle of chains. His eyes snapped open.

He was alive, for the second time since … whenever. His head pounded as though a blacksmith had set up a blast-furnace between his temples, working the bellows until the heart roared white-hot. He should be grateful, but instead, all Ardan could do was voice a long, dull groan as his body began to catalogue its aches and pains. His skull won a fierce competition by virtue of feeling as though he still had a scimitar stuck midway between his ears.

Ardan instinctively checked his surroundings. A ceiling hung with herbs and plants and all manner of healing paraphernalia met his roving gaze. A large tallow candle burned on a rude table nearby, lighting his small alcove and not much else inside the hut.

Windrocs were not squabbling over his rotting entrails? Ridiculous. Utterly beyond the Island.

He pictured his encounter with the deadly-as-poison Warlord, smiling at the memory of their kiss. That thought would have to warm him through a great deal of slave labour to come – the chains made that much clear. For a warrior, chains represented the ultimate humiliation. Only slaves were chained in the Western Isles. Whatever fey spirit had possessed him that day, it had preserved his life. He only hoped it would not be to meet a fate worse than death.

Kylara’s blade had shattered on his head.

Ardan recalled the strange sound he had heard just before collapsing; a shattering blow to the crown of his skull, a shard of metal spinning past his eyes. Right. That settled it. This was a dream. Nobody lived through such a blow to the skull, especially not one from the victorious Warlord.

So … what was he doing chained to a bed?

Ardan’s head jerked as the door banged open. Ouch. Rotten idea.

“Time ya rise with the birds,” rapped a voice. He scowled. If he wasn’t mistaken, it belonged to the warrior who had almost decapitated him from behind, on Kylara’s order. “We’re moving out.”

He waggled an eyebrow at her. “And you are?”

“Try ya fancy words on me, boy, and I won’t hang about to cross swords with ya,” she growled. “I’m Rocia, named after the windroc. Ya remember that. Nobody bests Rocia, least of all a wretched slave from Naphtha. Lucky the Chief wants ya alive. Says death’s too good for ya.”

Rocia spared him no kindness as she manacled Ardan’s hands behind his back and hauled him out of the bed. He stumbled against the low table. “Islands’ sakes!”

Lumbering like a dazed ralti sheep, Ardan followed Rocia out of the hut. He surveyed his new surroundings, but the pre-dawn gloom did not help him draw any conclusions. Kylara’s command was mounted on the small, tough ponies beloved by the Islanders. Rocia tossed a noose around his neck and ordered him to march.

Perhaps they had forgotten he was wounded?

No, they wanted to break his spirit. Knowing this and experiencing it were two vastly different Islands. Ardan had three days of dawn-to-dusk forced marching to appreciate this, trudging along on torn and bloodied feet. Every step jolted his wounded leg. His head pounded so severely that he fainted five times during that first afternoon. They dumped him on a pony’s back for the balance of the day and gave him six lashes for his trouble. Kylara did not speak to him once. He decided that being alive had its drawbacks. There were burning skies and pain. Nothing else.

But he healed quickly. During the fourth day’s march, as they entered a region of torn-up ravines choked with dense vegetation, Ardan’s alertness returned, as did his thirst for vengeance. Nothing else could satisfy a warrior’s honour.

He gazed about, hard-eyed. This was leopard country, or he missed his mark – the cats for which Kylara’s forces were named, night hunters of legendary skill. There. Sallow, slit eyes peering at him from a branch, quickly vanishing into the undergrowth.

Kylara’s force had just crested a small rise, preparatory to diving into another thicket which these warriors all navigated effortlessly, when his keen eyes spotted a small fleet of Sylakian Dragonships skulking past a peninsula to the south. He liked the Sylakians less than these Yangan warriors, even if they intended to have him digging latrines for the rest of his days.

Raising his voice, he called, “Dragonships!”

That was a way of dropping the proverbial windroc among the ralti sheep, as the Islands saying went. Ralti sheep stood six to eight feet tall at the shoulder. But windrocs could boast wingspans of up to twenty feet. With their hooked beaks and vicious talons, and tempers even shorter than Kylara’s, they were awe-inspiring predators. Ardan remembered once seeing three windrocs taking on a wounded rajal. He remembered? Perhaps his memory was returning.

Kylara galloped back along the line to where he stood, eating the column’s dust toward the rear. “Slave,” she glowered. “Had to be you trying a stupid joke. No-one in my command calls ‘Dragonship’ without cause. A dozen lashes, Rocia.”

“They’re coming along the cliff from the south,” he replied evenly. “I count five Dragonships. I’d point them out for you, my lady, if I had the use of –”

He gasped as Rocia punched him abruptly in the gut. “Not ‘my lady’, slave. Not ‘less ya made the ten promises of troth.” Silently, he added her to his ‘revenge later’ list. Ardan champed his jaw, saying nothing.

“Lost your tongue, boy?” Kylara ridiculed him.

He narrowed his eyes against the suns’ glare to follow those tiny dots – tiny only because of the great distance. The dirigible balloons were one hundred and fifty feet in length, sleek and ominous, their multiple turbines bulging like clusters of poisonous tarak-gourds sprouting from a branch. Each vessel carried a cargo of up to fifty Sylakian Hammers, the dreaded crimson-robed warriors of Sylakia – suddenly, an image froze in his mind. He saw a boy-child pierced through the torso by a burning six-foot crossbow quarrel, a Sylakian warrior laughing as he kicked the child aside. Dragonships flying overhead … cold sweat beaded his brow. He could not breathe. He had to …

“Ardan!” With a shudder, he flipped back from that cold place to the noon heat. A flicker in the Warlord’s eyes told him she had missed not a beat of his response. She said, “Speak, or be whipped.”

“Run your eyes along the cliff-top across the inlet, Chief,” he said, bleakly. “A league beyond that there’s a stand of flara-fruit trees, you can tell by the silvery leaves. Now, move to the cliff edge where you see a clump of boulders shaped like an upraised fist. Below that … I make it five hundred feet below, just off the cliff, you will see five Dragonships.”

Everyone squinted, shading their eyes. “Burn him in a Cloudlands volcano,” grunted Rocia, “I do see something. Dots, aye. Ya see Dragonships, slave?”

“Headed for that village,” he added, pointing with his chin.

Rocia swore coarsely; Kylara gave him a searching look. “You’ve a windroc’s eyes.”

Ardan said, “I see what I see.”

Every eye turned to the village. They knew the Sylakian Dragonships had set a course along the cliff calculated to conceal their approach until the last moment. There was no way, unless Kylara’s Leopards could fly like windrocs over the inlet, which sliced deeply across their path ahead if they continued southward, that they could reach the village in time.

But the far side of the inlet was a towering cliff, sheer and unrelieved, daubed with white guano from the numerous windrocs roosting there. And the chasm before it, impassable to any beast lacking wings.

Rocia spat, “Cowards’ tactics!”

“We have to try,” said Kylara.

* * * *

Smoke belched into the evening air.

Kylara and her command rode hollow-eyed into the village. Every hut was gutted. Bodies lay strewn where they had fallen – young and old, warriors and invalids alike. Black flies already buzzed about in their thousands, so sated they barely bothered to rise at the warriors’ approach. The Sylakians had even torched the great basket-weave granary, ensuring that anyone who did survive would find no food. Every pony and ralti sheep had been put to the sword. Ardan wondered if a single Sylakian had died in this uneven battle, their forces striking from the air with arrows, crossbow quarrels and burning oil. Five Dragonships against one village. These people had been trapped and slaughtered like animals.

Once more, a cold, soul-lost feeling assaulted him. Dark tongues of fire lapped across Ardan’s eyes, a second scene imposed upon his vision. He saw Islanders screaming and a hut ablaze and arrows plopping into flesh like frogs leaping into a pond, him shouting as he sprinted through an endless place, slamming his blade into red-robed Sylakian Hammers, the dull roar of battle battering his ears, the piteous cries of the wounded and the scorched, the burning and killing … he vomited.

Rocia threw him a disgusted look. “Oh, roaring rajals, would ya look at this weakling?”

Whatever was the matter with him? Ardan was a warrior. If he had not known from the fight against Kylara, he knew it now. He could not even wipe his mouth.

Ardan spat, “This head wound, Rocia. I need rest.”

“Well, you’re not getting it,” said Kylara. “Move out. We march through the night. They’re headed for the next village. We’ll set a trap; give those Sylakians a taste of their own fire.”

“How do you plan to fight Dragonships?” he blurted out.

“Shut your trap and march, slave,” said Kylara.

“Watch and learn,” said Rocia.

Kylara’s Leopards, who numbered ninety-three fighting-fit women, marched until the early hours to reach the next village. Either the Sylakian Dragonships had vanished, or they were hiding in a ravine somewhere. Ardan sensed the latter. They had tracked down just one survivor from the previous village – a girl of thirteen summers. She had agreed to join the Leopards and would be sent to their secret base for training. Kylara looked after her with an expression on her proud face that he could not place. Had this been her story, once, he wondered?

The Sylakians were softening up the far Western Isles. Ardan wondered if they would bother to invade. Perhaps this was just population subjugation, or entertainment for the troops. The Isles had gold mines, which might interest the Sylakians. But they had little meriatite, the expensive rock which was burned inside the meriatite furnace engines to produce the hydrogen which both floated and propelled their Dragonships.

Compounding his humiliation, Kylara had him chained to a tree outside the village while her troops evacuated the villagers. He watched Kylara gently boosting an elderly woman onto a pony, before taking three mischievous children in hand and leading the small procession out of the village. So, the Warlord was not half as heartless as she pretended.

Ardan sat with his back against the prekki tree and considered how exactly Kylara had not succeeded in halving his stupid skull. Right now, windrocs and vultures should have finished picking his bones clean, beneath the cliff-edge tree. Something was wrong. Only a fool would think otherwise, for hers had been a killing stroke.

To his surprise, his eyelids drooped shut. Ardan dreamed.

* * * *

Slit eyes glowered at him from a pit of darkness. They spit titian flames at him, bathing his body in flame. He ran. And though he lifted his knees and sprinted until the wind whipped past his ears, there was no escaping the flames, which pursued him with the resolve of an animate, rational being. But he did not burn up. The everlasting combustion played across his ebony skin, cracking it in crazy patterns like clay baked beneath the dry season suns. Ardan opened his mouth and breathed in the flames. The sizzling of fire filled his ears.

At some dim, subconscious level, Ardan realised that the sound was real.

He leaped to his feet, ready to fight. The chain binding him to the gnarled prekki-fruit tree jerked him up short.

Panting, he stared down at the village from his vantage-point on a small, mossy hillock crowned by the tree. Five Dragonships surrounded the cluster of two or three dozen wood-frame huts which comprised the village. The sound he had heard was burning oil being dumped on the first few rooftops down at the lower end, furthest from his position, multiple bonfires roaring into life as the bundled rushes ignited like torches. He saw the red-plumed helmets of Sylakian ground troops storming between the huts, flinging burning brands this way and that. The heads of their war hammers gleamed in the early suns-shine. They kicked down doors and bellowed their war-cries. But this time, there were no villagers left for them to slay.

Kylara whirled out of a doorway, swinging her scimitar in a flat, vicious arc. Blood sprayed into the air as a man’s body and head parted ways. Bizarrely, his legs and torso kept running for several steps before the inevitable collapse.

Ardan’s eyes jumped. Three Leopards, one with a short metal tube on her back, crouched between the huts. As he watched, the warrior with the tube – Rocia – held up a piece of thick elastic cord. She locked her arms at full stretch, about two feet apart. The warriors behind her loaded a crossbow quarrel into the tube, and then stretched the cord until they formed a Human catapult. They aimed carefully, adjusting Rocia’s position. A spark-stone clipped sparks onto the quarrel, which must have been primed beforehand, because it caught fire instantly. The quarrel shot upward.

KAARAABOOM!

The explosion echoed off the nearby hills as the Dragonship vaporised in a massive ball of flame.

For the first time in days, Ardan smiled.

A second quarrel from the far side of the village narrowly missed its target, pinging into the cabin slung on thick hawsers beneath the dirigible’s multi-segmented hydrogen sack. Men rushed along the gantries to put out the blaze, while a Sylakian trumpet sounded the alarm, carrying with clarion sweetness up to his position.

He never wanted to fly in a Dragonship. That much highly volatile hydrogen right above his head? It required a special type of madness. One spark in the wrong place, even a touch of static … better to jump into a Cloudlands volcano.

The Dragonships rose at once, turbines whining as they spread out. Additional Sylakian troops boiled out of concealed positions east and west of the village. Now Kylara’s troops would face a true test, he saw – the Sylakian War-Hammer in charge knew what he was doing. The ambushers had just been ambushed.

The Dragonship nearest his position imploded, the sound ripping through an otherwise tranquil dawn. Ardan winced at the concussion. But the remaining three vessels rose out of range. A violent, running fight developed between the huts. The Sylakian dirigibles patrolled either end of the village, ensuring that any enemy warrior who stood still for more than a few seconds received the gift of a swift quarrel between the shoulders from the Dragonships’ massive war catapults, set on gantries fore and aft of their cabins. The Sylakian troops were first-rate. Crimson Hammers – the name leaped into his mind as though it were a bloody flag waving a warning. Sylakia’s crack troops. Killers.

The Sylakians favoured stout, two-handed war hammers over the scimitars wielded by Kylara’s warriors. They worked in groups of four, protecting each other’s backs. Kylara and her women faced them with round shields and their deadly scimitars, supported by archers hidden among the village huts. Corpses piled up faster than he could count. Ardan jerked his chains one more time, hating being left out, hating to watch the Sylakians pick off Kylara’s troops, penning them in steadily from all sides. With a high-pitched whine of its meriatite turbines, a Dragonship pressed forward, angling for a position overhead of a knot of Kylara’s warriors, including the matchless Warlord herself.

Burning oil would follow.

Kylara was even deadlier seen from afar than when she was beating his head in, Ardan decided. But fear seared his throat. She led a charge to try to break free of the Sylakian troops, but they held firm and pressed the women back – outnumbering them two to one on the ground, working with the taut discipline of veteran troops. Kylara struck out ferociously, slicing off a Sylakian’s arm and catching her blade in the ironwood haft of another warrior’s war-hammer. No mind. She grasped the hammer in both hands and swung a high-kick up beneath it, breaking the man’s neck with the heel of her boot.

“Roaring rajals,” he breathed.

The terrible hammers beat back Kylara and her troops. The women gathered amidst the huts, darting quick glances at the Dragonship menacing them from above.

Another memory seized him. Ardan remembered watching Dragonships from beneath the eaves of his hut, the world burning, sobbing over a fallen woman, screaming and shaking his fist at the sky as the cowardly Sylakians continued their assault from out of range of the warriors trapped on the ground while huge, winged shadows soared over his Island. Vengeful fires filled him up to his throat. He tore at the chains.

Ardan screamed, “Burn these manacles in a Cloudlands volcano!”

The metal slipped off his wrists. He barely noticed. All he knew was the sweet savour of freedom. Ardan sprinted down toward the village on the wings of his inner blaze, listening only to the song of wailing madness in his mind, not even hearing the cries of the warriors as he slammed, weaponless, into the back of a squad of Sylakian Hammers. He smashed two helmeted heads together. Ardan kneed a warrior in the gut and stole his hammer. Spinning from a blow to his shoulder, he struck out, crushing a hapless Sylakian’s skull.

Ardan snatched up a second war hammer. One for each hand. Fiery laughter roared out of his madness. Spinning the hammers about his head, Ardan waded into the fray. Twenty, thirty Sylakians? Who cared? They would fall. He smashed a warrior through the wall of the nearest house. He took a direct hammer-blow to his chest and guffawed at the surprised warrior as he head-butted him sharply, breaking his nose. Ardan lashed out with both hammers at once, staving in the warrior’s helmet so that it crushed his skull. A hammer ricocheted off his head. Ardan spun smoothly on his heel, using the force generated by his turn to unleash a mighty blow that launched the unfortunate Sylakian over the nearest hut.

By the Islands, he could do that? Ardan ignored the warning gongs sounding in his head. No time to think. He jabbed backward with the haft of his right-hand hammer. A breastplate crunched four inches inward. Ignoring the strangled cry behind him, he waded through a knot of Crimson Hammers, crushing them as though he were a dark boulder hurtling down a cliff.

Suddenly, there were no more Sylakians left standing in his path.

Kylara caught his arm. “What’re you doing here?”

“Saving you, my beauty.” Ardan panted, before thumping her on the shoulder. “Don’t leave me in the cold when there are Sylakians to be killed.”

“You’re mad.” She shook her head as though she had a wasp in her ear. When his gaze lingered on her eyes to puzzle over their unreadable expression, her palm impacted his cheek. Whack! “Mind on the battle, man. What’s wrong with you?”

Ardan champed his jaw, hating the man emerging from the trackless mists of his past, feeling as shallow as a puddle left after rain. Maybe he needed a fresh start beneath another prekki tree. But having started at a gallop down this particular animal-trail, how could he find another? He felt driven by passions beyond his understanding and thoughts not his own. If he truly wanted to be the honourable Western Isles warrior the praise-songs of his people extolled to the heavens, then he had better start behaving like one.

She said, “Follow me. Rocia – another shot at that Dragonship.”

“Too high, Chief.” But the warrior bent to her task.

With Ardan at her side, Kylara almost broke the Sylakian line before a barrage of blazing oil splashing from the heavens forced them to turn back. The Dragonship crews fired each hut as it passed by, reducing the available cover. They ignited their own troops without a qualm. Smoke and fire billowed up, forcing Kylara to order the retreat.

“This is bad,” she muttered.

Ardan followed the upward-bound quarrel with his eyes. Rocia’s method didn’t have enough power. That dirigible would be overhead in seconds.

“Down!” Ardan’s shoulder knocked Kylara sprawling. A quarrel bit the earth right between her legs. Another sliced a chunk of skin out of his thigh. “Nice,” he grinned, yanking the burning quarrel out of the ground. “You boys want to play?”

Ardan hefted the six-foot quarrel over his shoulder, testing its balance. He slid his grip a handspan backward on the shaft. Taking a short run-up, he slammed down on his injured leg, using the jarring pain to fuel his scream of effort as he hurled the quarrel like a javelin, an impossible distance, over four hundred vertical feet into the sky.

KAARAABOOM!

Ardan danced and screamed his defiance as bits of Dragonship spiralled down – cabin struts and crysglass portholes and burning bits of warriors caught in the conflagration. Kylara yanked him beneath her shield, deflecting a large piece of metal away from his head.

“You’re moons-mad. Are you a berserker?”

Ardan showed his teeth in a smile that was more a grimace. “I don’t like Sylakians, my lady. You can thank me later. We need to move.” His finger jabbed upward. “Catapults.”

The Dragonship hovering at the northern end of the village was readying her catapults with a load of what looked to be naphtha, Ardan realised. A Sylakian trumpet sounded the retreat. The Hammers withdrew steadily, covering their backs with archers.

“Two left,” said Kylara, thrusting a quarrel into his hand. “Think you can repeat that throw, slave? We’ll cut you a path.”

A dense wedge of Kylara’s Leopards trotted out of cover, coming under a withering hail of crossbow quarrels and arrows. Most were caught on shields, but three warriors fell as they closed with the Sylakian Hammers. Ardan calculated the distance with his eyes. Two more paces … he bounced lightly on his toes and broke into a sprint, raising the quarrel behind his head. Ardan poured all of his fury and pain into the throw. The burning quarrel reached for the noon skies before whistling down and plugging diagonally atop the cabin of the Dragonship, right beneath the hydrogen sack. Flames licked up the shaft.

Ardan cursed. But the Sylakians up there were scrambling up the netting encasing their hydrogen sack, desperate to reach the quarrel before the fire leaped the small gap between the blazing feathers and the bottom of the hydrogen sack. It licked. It lapped. It caught …

KAABOOM!

The blast pounded Ardan to his knees. Heat rolled over his back. Kylara and her troops slammed into the Sylakians at a full run, with their Warlord right at the spearhead of that tight, well-organised wedge of warriors. Scimitars flicked hungrily, like the many claws of a ravening metal monster. They sliced through the Sylakian line. Ardan sprinted to catch up. Almost as an afterthought, he snatched up a war hammer to brain a couple of Sylakian troops on the way past.

Now, this was the type of work he enjoyed.

Chapter 4: Dragon Fear

Aranya’s thunderous roar reverberated over the tan hills of Yar’ola Island. Below her, all activity in the Sylakian outpost ceased. She could almost smell the Dragon fear drifting up on the breeze. King Beran’s Dragonships, which had approached the Island low over the sickly yellow Cloudlands, now raced their engines to a full-throated growl as they rose rapidly above the fortress walls. One Dragonship peeled off to the south, aiming to intercept any message hawks that might be despatched in a twenty-eighth hour attempt to warn the Islands further south.

“Stop where you are!” shouted Yolathion, waving his large bow aloft. “Ground the Dragonships!”

When there was no immediate response, Aranya boomed, “Surrender or die!”

Her Rider rubbed his ears. “Islands’ sakes, girl, it sounded as though I was sitting on top of a thunderclap, there.”

“It’s storm power, so the thunder’s real enough,” she said over her shoulder. Down on the ground, the Sylakian troops fell to their faces in abject surrender. “I’d thought of getting Zip ear-plugs. What do you think?”

“Can’t hear you.”

Yolathion smiled at his joke, but Aranya wondered if she could genuinely hurt her Rider with power of that magnitude. Dragon ears adjusted automatically, unlike Human ears.

Dragon and Rider had prepared for battle by shooting arrows and fireballs at passing clouds as they crossed between the Islands, making two or three flights each day, so that Yolathion could familiarise himself with buckling the Dragon Rider saddle in place, mounting or dismounting rapidly, and the mechanics of fighting Dragonback. The Jeradian warrior was a fair archer, but not as skilful as Zip. Aranya had not realised how close she and the Remoyan Princess had come in understanding one another until she tried to line Yolathion up following a roll or a dive. He took many seconds longer than Zuziana to orient himself, which in battle, would likely as not spell a crossbow quarrel between the teeth.

Well, he was new. She had to grant him a little grace.

“Set me down, Aranya,” said Yolathion. “I’ll help your father round them up. You keep a Dragon’s eye out for trouble.”

“Four’s a good haul,” said Aranya.

But the Dragoness was left drifting on the winds as the men negotiated the peace and freed the King of Yar’ola Island, locking up the Sylakian contingent and their Third-War Hammer instead. Aranya turned lazy and she hoped menacing circles over the fortress at the edge of a small town of perhaps two or three thousand citizens. She compared Yar’ola unfavourably to Immadia in her mind. Tan hills and wide pasturelands compared to soaring mountains and forests? Grr. She knew which Island she preferred. Aranya spotted a fleet of small, swift trader Dragonships moored at the far end of town. They could be useful.

She should hunt. She wondered what Yolathion would think of his girlfriend tearing into a ralti sheep or better still, a deer. Raw venison was so much tastier than mutton. On cue, a blob of drool escaped the corner of her lip. Aranya grimaced. Perhaps Dragon manners were not for princesses.

Later, having transformed, King Beran introduced her to King Urdagal, a dark, dapper man who took possession of her proffered hand and kissed her palm sixteen times, once for each summer of her life, he declared with an oily smile. Aranya found herself grateful for Yolathion’s dark glower which she caught from the corner of her eye. She even forgave Yolathion a jest about women taking part in strategy discussions, but smouldered as he patted her hand patronisingly when King Beran asked her opinion about which Island they should invade next.

Urdagal suggested she might go sit with his wife and five children.

Aranya countered by politely asking him where she could hunt and kill a wild sheep or spiral-horned buck for her dinner. Ha. These men had better wish they did not end up on the wrong end of an irascible Dragoness’ claws.

After her private dinner, however, the giant Jeradian appeared to escort Human-Aranya on a walk around the royal lodge’s gardens. They tarried in an arbour covered in the last climbing roses of the season, the fragrant bouquet drifting around them on the barest hint of a breeze, and together watched the Mystic moon as it sailed above the Cloudlands like a stately Dragonship. Yolathion caressed her cheek with his thumb until she tilted her head upward to meet his deep, consuming gaze. Aranya’s inner fires simmered and morphed into a different form. But just as they were on the cusp of kissing, a messenger appeared to request that they board the Immadian Dragonships, for Beran planned to fly overnight and surprise the Island-Cluster of Haffal at dawn.

King Beran looked up as Yolathion and Aranya entered the forward navigation cabin of his Dragonship. His sharp gaze noted their entwined fingers. Aranya stopped herself from releasing Yolathion’s hand, despite the flicker in her father’s eyes.

“Urdagal offered us four hundred warriors, Sparky,” he said.

“Good,” said Aranya. “I’ve been thinking. You told me this sector is complicated because the next three Island Clusters lie relatively close together, each having a Sylakian fortress – the Luda, Rabbal and Haffal Clusters. It’ll be difficult to take all three without alerting the Sylakians somehow.”

“Aye, this is where the proverbial message hawk flies loose,” Beran agreed.

“What’re the distances on the map, Dad?”

“Ten leagues and about eighteen, I believe – oh?” His eyebrows danced. “My next question is, ‘How fast can a Dragon fly’, right?”

“You’re slow, but you’re catching on, old man.”

Beside her, Yolathion stiffened at her disrespectful quip, before he squeezed her arm with a low chuckle. “More Immadian understatement? This gives a Jeradian a headache.”

“Then by all means, go cool your head in a water barrel,” said Aranya, more cheekily than she had intended. Perhaps Zuziana had rubbed off on her more than she thought? “Dad – flying fast, I can cover ten leagues in less than a quarter-hour. My vote would be to try to capture all three Islands before the twin suns break the horizon.”

Beran exclaimed, “Ah, sparks flying from my Sparky. Right, you two, let’s figure this out. Which cluster first? How quickly do you think you can get them to soil their trousers – I mean, surrender?”

“I underestimated you, Aranya,” said Yolathion, his hand warming her back. She loved it when he touched her like that, but frowned inwardly at the disapproval hinted at by the set of her father’s mouth.

“You underestimated me from the beginning,” she said.

“It won’t happen again.”

He always sounded so definite when he made his pronouncements. Aranya hid her smile beneath a courteous little cough. He had a great deal to learn about the powers of an Amethyst Dragon. That said, so did she. How exactly did she expect him to know what she did not even know herself?

Aranya said, “Help us, Yolathion. Which Island Cluster of the three should we attack first?”

As Yolathion bent to the map, pursing his lips, she caught a queer glint in her father’s eyes. Why did she sense his disapproval? After all, she had cleverly deflected Yolathion’s evident discomfort at a woman being involved in strategizing, by appealing to his wisdom. But his grey eyes seemed more hooded than usual.

Beran was not called the Immadian cliff-fox for nothing. Nor was he a rajal, all bluster and roar and posturing. No, her father was more of a leopard, cunning in the hunt and stalking his prey with great skill. But it also meant that he never said the first thing that came to his mind. His Island’s roots ran deep. Whatever was bothering him, she would either have to wait for him to make up his mind on the matter, or be even wilier than he to tease it forth.

Meantime? This Princess of Immadia was going to enjoy getting to know everything about her leopard-man. It was time he answered a few questions about his past.

* * * *

The Immadian Dragoness scared the living pith out of two Sylakian garrisons the following morning before dawn, handing them both a swift defeat. Aranya screamed over to Haffal Cluster at once, passing over a small sea of beryl and ochre Cloudlands before sighting the low Cluster half-hidden by its own layer of mists. The Islands were so different, again, to what she had thought to find. Whereas Immadia or Sylakia loomed massively out of the Cloudlands, a half a league or more of sheer cliffs above the deadly turmoil of clouds, these Western Isles were tiny and low-lying, covered in a thick beard of scrubby bushes rather than tall trees. She saw few villages, but rather what looked like tiny tent-families – animal-hide tents cleverly concealed near streams or caves, usually half a dozen in a group, and always, her Dragon sight would pick out two tireless sentries standing guard. They were dark, muscular warriors, in the vein of the Warlord of Ur-Yagga she had once had acquaintance with in the Tower of Sylakia.

The hand of Sylakia did not lie heavy on these Islands, she thought. Or did it?

Southward of their flight path to Haffal Cluster, Aranya saw many more clusters of Islands, appearing conversely to rise toward the horizon. Was there an unseen land mass pushing these Islands toward the sky? Or a creature akin to what she had seen travelling beneath the Cloudlands en route to Immadia Island? One thing was for certain, King Beran’s invasion had barely brushed the edge of these Western Isles.

Where would she find the Dragon? How? She shivered.

Deeply mired in her thoughts, she did not recognise the enemy’s readiness until they were less than a league distant.

Five Immadian Dragonships puttered over the Cloudlands, making directly for Haffal. A squat stone garrison stood atop a lonely peninsula, isolated from the rest of a larger Island – perhaps half a league in diameter – by a narrow spit of dark rock. Eight Sylakian Dragonships hung in the void, facing them. Warriors stood ready at the catapults and war crossbows. Their engines’ exhausts smoked slightly as the turbines held them against a light westerly breeze.

“Light up, quickly,” Aranya said to Yolathion.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You sleeping, Dragon? I thought you had fantastic eyesight?”

The Amethyst Dragon’s belly fires surged at his tone. “Sorry.”

“No time for apologies now.” His spark-stone clicked as he lit the oil-pot beside his right knee. “Take us in, Dragon. Do your bellow; see if they’ll surrender. If they don’t, let me take out a Dragonship. Once we’ve burned a few beards, we’ll have them singing like parakeets.”

She smarted. He was so attentive to her Human form, but now she felt like a fancy Dragonship taking orders from its navigator. Maybe being in a romantic relationship with her Rider was not as easy as she had assumed.

Aranya cleared her mind with an inward snarl. She had a battle to win.

Her bellow achieved precisely nothing. The Sylakians neither responded nor ran up the green pennant of surrender. But they did try to slap her in the teeth with a round of catapult-shot when she swooped closer.

Yolathion grunted as his ride swirled in the air, changing the angles. Aranya had her fireballs ready, but held back. “Take the one on the end,” the Jeradian ordered.

“I obey,” she said, before biting her tongue. She obeyed? Did she mean that?

Aranya lined him up for a shot with smooth ease. Yolathion’s first burning arrow plugged in a hawser, but his second exploded the Sylakian vessel. Heat and smoke boiled around them. Just let her Rider taste what she knew, Aranya exulted. Her hearts sang wildly as she surged through the air with oily menace, coiling into a sharp turn as they passed over the fortress, constructed of black stone. Power surged through her veins. Instinctively, she shot a fireball at a departing message hawk. Pfft! The deadly, bright spot whizzed off to their port side. Direct hit. Aranya’s neck twisted. Catapult. She missed it narrowly with a second shot, but sent the catapult engineers leaping for cover anyway.

“Nice work,” said Yolathion. “Let’s see if they’ve changed their minds.”

Six more hawks shot away over the Cloudlands. Probably every hawk they had, Aranya thought. Her father’s Dragonship was almost in fighting range. White dragonets and the single, shimmering blue form of Sapphire crowded around the vessel like a buzzing cloud of wasps disturbed from their nest, only a hundred times deadlier. They were as eager as she was for battle.

She had no need to roar. Crossbow quarrels hissed hungrily through the air as they approached – a hint as subtle as her Dragon roar.

“Destroy another?” she suggested.

“Stick to the plan.”

“It’ll be dangerous. Keep sharp, Jeradian warrior.”

Aranya swirled in her flight with deft corrections of her wings, throwing the Sylakian warriors off their aim, before folding up her body, almost touching her nose to her tail, as she flipped over into a nosedive. Her wings drove her downward. Yolathion gasped as air punched him in the mouth. He could not even yell. Aranya crashed full speed into the soft top of a Dragonship’s hydrogen sack, striking so powerfully that it split open like a melon dropped from a height. The Dragonship sagged. Heaving herself free of the sack as it began to fold toward her from both ends, Aranya clawed at two more of the multi-compartmented sacks before realising that there was no need. The power of her attack must have blasted the hydrogen back into the engines and damaged them or snuffed them out, because the turbines fell silent.

She jumped across to the next Dragonship. Yells from below alerted her. Now that the Sylakians knew what she was up to, their response was swift. Catapults creaked and crossbow winches squealed as the warriors on the nearby dirigibles marked her body for destruction. Flapping her wings to increase her speed, Aranya ran along the top of the Dragonship, puncturing it many times with her claws. Quarrels! Her ears caught the sound of incoming shots. Instead of taking off, she ran vertically down the front of the hydrogen sack. Tuck in the tail. Shredded scraps of metal and six-foot quarrels sliced the air above her.

“Nice moves, girl!” Yolathion gave her neck a mighty wallop.

He hurt his hand, but she definitely felt that one. “Here come the dragonets.”

A spray of arrows greeted the dragonets as they swarmed two of the Dragonships, clawing at the tough hydrogen sacks. Aranya could only imagine the amount of repair that would take. She slewed, dodging a speculative crossbow shot.

“Come on, Yolathion. Dagger!”

“Stick with the plan!” he yelled.

Aranya rolled her eyes and snapped, “The idea’s to keep our people out of danger. Work with me.”

Two of the dragonets dropped, pierced by arrows. Her response was as if she had been branded with red-hot irons. Snaking through the air, Aranya arrowed for another Sylakian Dragonship. No way was she letting her friends die – not if she could help it.

She closed her ears to the man on her back shouting at her. Crimson closed in around her vision. She damped it down. Battle rage? Had she warned Yolathion? This was no time to go feral. Aranya ran along the top of a Dragonship, rending it with her claws, before corkscrewing tightly over its neighbour and dropping by surprise on the rear gantry of the rearmost Dragonship in their dwindling fleet. A quarrel skittered off her scales. Aranya ripped the gantry free, sending men and weapons tumbling five hundred feet to the ground. A catapult on the fortress fired but only struck a Sylakian Dragonship.

A Dragon’s laughter bubbled out over the battle.

The giant Jeradian shouted something at her about not destroying the Dragonships. Aranya let her flame lick out around them, taking care where she pointed that incredible hose of fire so that she did not explode any vessels by accident. Suddenly, Sylakian horns sounded below. Green flags and cloth popped up on the battlement walls. The men manning the catapults and crossbows stepped back from their weapons.

Friends! The evil ones have surrendered. Reluctantly, the dragonets broke off their attack. You were amazing, Aranya gushed. We couldn’t have done it without you.

That was definitely the right thing to say. The ice-dragonets broke into a chorus of yipping self-congratulation and silly dancing and posturing, so excited that little spurts of flame kept popping out of their mouths and nostrils.

Sapphire landed on Aranya’s nose, her eyes swirling with excitement. She said, Ar-ar?

Aranya stared. Sapphire, you spoke! Say ‘Aranya’.

“That was completely unacceptable, Aranya,” Yolathion ground out. Sapphire took off at once, squealing in fright. “How are we supposed to work together if I can’t trust you to follow my commands?”

“Your commands? Yolathion –”

“We agreed to leave downing the Dragonships to your little friends.”

“Who were being slaughtered!”

“Islands’ sakes, they’re just animals.”

Her vision blurred. She was so enraged, it was all Aranya could do to keep flying. “Just animals?” she hissed. Her Dragon fire screamed for release, but somehow, she barricaded it behind the wall of her iron will. “I’m just an animal?”

Yolathion smacked her neck again, this time in anger. “I wasn’t suggesting that, Aranya.”

“Well, mighty Jeradian warrior, what exactly did you mean? I’m the man, so you follow my commands? Is that how this relationship is supposed to work?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” he said, coldly. “Working together requires trust. The giving and receiving of commands in battle must be clear, or people die. The chain of command is absolute. Yes, I have been a warrior all my life. You haven’t got the experience in battle, despite your father’s ‘special training’ that you told me about. So yes, I will be giving the commands.”

So she was a spoiled Princess and he was the man of war? Silent now – mutinously silent – Aranya swooped down to land near the Sylakian fortress. She did not dare look at him for fear that she’d snap at her Rider.

“Being Dragon and Rider is different to being Human-Aranya and Yolathion,” he added. “Don’t get the two confused.”

Aranya landed. There was so much fire in her, the air shimmered in front of her nose upon each exhalation. “You can dismount,” she said.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m hungry. I need to hunt.”

Yolathion’s expression clearly communicated that he thought she needed to cool off. But he said, “Will you wait until we secure the surrender?”

“I’ll wait overhead,” said Aranya, dismissing him with her tone.

The Jeradian made a show of marching off in a fit of pique. He ignored the gust generated by Aranya’s wings as she launched into the air.

Sapphire came to keep her company while the Amethyst Dragon whiled away the hours it took to track down the Warlord of Haffal Cluster. After that, she hunted for herself and the dragonets. She felt a little foolish at the satisfaction she took in tearing a giant ralti sheep limb from limb, but one hundred and fifty-five tiny appetites – the dragonets had lost five of their number in the battle – and one much larger one took care of the entire beast within a quarter-hour.

Later that afternoon, as the Immadian force worked on repairing the least damaged of the Dragonships, the Warlord reappeared in a fake, chest-thumping rage to demand payment for the sheep from King Beran.

“I guess keeping a Dragon isn’t a cheap option,” her father teased her afterward.

“I’m sure I could convince him otherwise,” said Aranya. “Ungrateful troglodyte.”

“Been saving that word for a special occasion?” King Beran’s eyes, however, twinkled at her. “Easy there, Sparky. Let me explain. It’s a matter of Western Isles pride. We shamed him in the eyes of his warriors by defeating his enemies. This is a way of saving face – hence the ridiculous overpayment.”

“And the delivery of the Sylakian soldiers to the Warlord …”

Beran nodded. “A tough reality, but the type of decision a King needs to be prepared to take. These Sylakians have been killing Isles warriors by the dozen. They had six of their women locked up in the fortress.” His voice thickened with anger. “To tell you how they were mistreated and abused … it would make the most hard-bitten warrior retch, Aranya. I imagine their torture will last a very long time. But we would otherwise disrespect them. We cannot afford to leave disgruntled Warlords behind us. Our forces are spread too thin as it is.”

“But we’ve tripled our Dragonship fleet, Dad.”

“Aye, Sparky.” His eyes softened as he regarded her across the table. “Now, tell me about this flaming row you had with Yolathion.”

* * * *

The weather grew hotter and stickier the further south the combined Immadian, Jeradian and Western Isles forces progressed. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the clouds gathering and darkening on the horizon, but that distant army never marched across the sky. The Islands rose out of the Cloudlands as though their southward progress was a hike up a long, gradual incline, until every rugged massif stood a half-league or more above the brown-tinged clouds. The round, thatched-roof huts grew ever more elaborate, a far cry from the animal-skin shelters she had assumed were standard Western Isles dwellings, and the vegetation impenetrable.

Aranya hunted for the Dragon Fra’anior had demanded she find, but there was neither hide nor hair of such a beast to be found. Not that Dragons had any hair – not even nostril hair, which would be crisped by the first sneeze of Dragon fire. They did not unearth so much as a rumour.

Her overzealous imagination had her picturing a Dragon beneath every boulder. It did not help that the more southerly of the Western Isles took on craggier, toothier outlines, as though monstrous Land Dragons had gnawed upon their rocky bones in ancient times and spat out the remains. Nor did the Black Dragon’s stalking of her dreams cease. He lurked constantly, his presence a spectral migraine which refused to relinquish its hold on her brain.

The Sylakians gave up ground. Beran pushed harder, saying that a significant battle was looming in the near future. The only question was where and when.

One evening, as they sat around the conference table in the Immadian flagship’s forward navigation cabin, which doubled as Beran’s quarters, with Yolathion and two other Immadian leaders, the King thumped his finger on the map between them. “Naphtha Cluster,” he said. “We arrive tomorrow. Our intelligence says the Sylakians attacked the place about two months ago and razed it. Not far beyond is the start of Ur-Yagga Cluster, the biggest in the West – over four hundred Islands and two very well equipped Sylakian bases, which underpin their entire operation here in the Western Isles. This, my bones tell me, is the real battle.”

“We should start our eastward attack,” said Yolathion.

“South,” said Aranya. “We should go south. The Black Dragon said –”

The Jeradian placed his hand over hers. Dragon-Aranya would gladly have bitten that quelling touch. He said, “Proceeding south from here, King Beran, leaves our eastern flank vulnerable. By now, the message has travelled to Sylakia. Thoralian will not stand idle.”

“Aye,” said King Beran, tapping a scroll lying on the map. “He’s declared himself Emperor of the Island-World and decreed a schedule of worship. This report from our agents in Sylakia Town suggests that his family is on the move. That, we can safely assume, means Shapeshifters. At least one Dragon has been spotted – a Red, of a monstrous size.”

“All the more reason to find this ally,” said Aranya. She and Zip used to joke about the evil empire of Sylakia. Now, it had become a reality. She pictured a dark, ravaging shadow rising over the Islands, and irritably suppressed an accompanying surge of nausea.

Beran stroked his beard. “Did Fra’anior say that this beast was friendly, Sparky? Or just that you were to find it?”

Aranya frowned. The Black Dragon’s inarticulate roaring had filled her dreams once again, the night before. Why would Fra’anior not trust her to complete what he had demanded? “No. Only that I was to locate it – I assume he meant, ‘recruit the Dragon to our cause’.”

“Proceeding further south exposes our flank,” the giant Jeradian repeated. He frowned when Aranya extracted her hand from his grasp. “I’m with King Beran on this. We need to consolidate our position.”

“Aye,” said Beran. “I’ll sleep on it. My best ideas come in the middle of the night.”

She glowered at the map as the meeting broke up. Aranya hated it when her father sided with Yolathion. She was so on edge. Was it just her Dragon senses? Was her target near? Why had the great Black Dragon not been more specific? And why, for that matter, if he was one of the Ancient Dragon Powers, did he only have the power to visit her in her dreams? What did that portend?

In a moment, she and Yolathion were left alone as King Beran left to speak to his Steersman.

Yolathion’s strong hands massaged her shoulders. “Islands of stress in here,” he said.

“Yoli,” she changed his name to the intimate form, “why do I feel that I’ve offended you? Every time we talk strategy, you and I end up butting heads like male ralti sheep in the mating season.” She wanted to add, ‘I wish you’d back me up just once,’ but she did not add this thought for fear of angering him. Could she not just tell him how much that trait demeaned and exasperated her, she wondered? Why tread on eggshells with this man?

His deep chuckle made her bones tingle. “Yoli? What’s that, a nickname?”

“It’s the intimate –”

“Another Immadian thing? Great Islands, this cross-cultural relationship really is about rearranging matters inside my skull.”

Aranya tilted her head to kiss his fingers. “That’s nice. Don’t stop.”

“So, what do I call you? Ari?”

“Aranyi, if you’d like.”

His fingers rested on the pulse in her neck. “Well, Aranyi, when will we move beyond just kissing?”

“When – I mean, if – we marry. You did carry me over a threshold once, if you recall.”

Moons and stars, was Yolathion about to discuss the future with her? Her heart turned cartwheels at the thought. She had so longed for this conversation!

“Thou art beautiful.” He tugged the seam of her headscarf. Aranya shivered, her inner fires stirring like the ever-restless tides agitating the Cloudlands. Her heart galloped up into her throat, and the heat between them grew sweetly intense. Oh, Dragon fires and volcanoes! Was this the moment? What would he say?

He said, “Incomparable Immadia, doth thy heart not move with mine, through the stars and into eternity?”

Although, the Jeradian way of breaking into ancient speech patterns in order to express deep emotion, while it made her want to giggle, was also rather endearing. “It – ah, doth. So to speak.” She sighed, “I mean, our hearts do sing together, thou fierce rajal of a man.”

He said, “I yearn for more than just thy kisses.”

“Don’t.” She caught his hands before they moved too far. “Yolathion! I … it’s not proper.”

Now who was the prize prude? Panicked, Aranya reached out with her magic to snuff out a fire-whirlwind which had sprung to life next to the crysglass window.

“Not proper?” he laughed, but there was an uneasy edge beneath his manner. “We are a couple, aye? You are beautiful, and I desire you. Why does this affront you? Unless I am sorely mistaken – and I’m not without experience – you desire me equally.”

“You’re experienced?”

“You’re not?” His echo stabbed her heart sorely. Mocking, it opened a rift between them she had never imagined existed. Tears pricked her eyes, unshed. “You swept my heart away over the Cloudlands, Aranya. Don’t tell me you didn’t know exactly what you were doing when you first smiled at me, that day in the Tower of Sylakia. It was seduction.”

She choked out, “You’ve b-been with other g-girls?”

The tall Jeradian laughed curtly, walking to the forward crysglass window as though he wished to walk into the stars outside. He whirled on his heel, his dark eyes flashing. “Why does your judgement sting my ears, Immadia?”

“It isn’t judge –” Foolish, Aranya! The knowing curve of his lips destroyed her confidence. It made her recall, incongruously, the warning implicit in the Black Dragon’s belling in her dreams. She thrust Fra’anior out of her head, fighting to find the calm, reasonable words she needed.

She said, “In Immadia, we wait until we’re married.”

“What does marriage matter?” he cut in. “You take your Northern customs so seriously. It’s not the Jeradian way. We have consorts. A relationship for a season. If the relationship does not work, either the woman or the man is free to move on. If there is desire, then there is no impediment.”

“What about commitment? Love? Faithfulness?”

“Of course.” He spread his hands, gazing earnestly at her. “I love you, Aranya. I’d be faithful.”

For how long? The emptiness in her heart made her inward scream echo in a space which had never seemed colder or darker. How long before Yolathion decided to move on, because Immadians took marriage promises ‘seriously’ and Jeradians did not? He did not even define faithfulness as she did. Come that day, her heart would be devastated.

He said, “Do you seek only the Immadian way for yourself? What would you want, Aranya?”

She thought about Ignathion and his two pretty but calculating consorts. She thought about her experience in Remoy with Zuziana’s family, consisting of one father, four mothers and seventeen siblings, none of whom knew who their real birth mother was. What did Aranya really want? Kisses were sweet, but she wanted so much more than for him just to desire her body. Respect for her opinions and her skills would be a good start. Loving the Dragon in her was also essential. How could she say these things without offending him?

In a small voice, Aranya ventured, “All I want is you, Yolathion. Is that so selfish?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, heaving a gusty sigh. “We can work this out, Aranya. We’ve grown up differently. It’s just a cultural distinction, that’s all.”

“We’ll work it out,” said Aranya, allowing him to draw her to her feet and into his strong embrace.

But there were so many differences, her heart wailed. He wanted to be in command. He wanted his woman to smile prettily and not venture a contrary opinion. That was not Aranya. In her Dragon form, even less so. Beran and Izariela had raised their daughter to be strong and independent. Yolathion was cautious. He considered each move carefully, a trait he had picked up from his father. But somehow, Ignathion did not strike her as so rigid in his thinking. It was almost as though, having set his mind on one thing, Yolathion found any change an impossible wrench.

In all this, they were complete opposites.

What creature could be more free-spirited than a Dragon?

But Nak and Oyda were hardly alike. Her father liked and respected Yolathion, didn’t he? Zip had practically shoved her into the Jeradian’s arms. Was she worrying about nothing? At least Yolathion prized her enough to wait for her to make up her mind.

Aranya returned his kisses with growing passion. She had enough of creating fear as a Dragon. She did not want to fear her future as well.

Chapter 5: The Nameless Man

Zuziana bared her needle-sharp fangs at her Rider, Ri’arion. She took a playful snap at his knee. “You moons-mad monk! You still want to dance upon my back, mid-flight?”

“The saddle straps restrict me.”

“Oh, cramping your style, am I?” sniped Zip. “An inexperienced, Dragon-fire-less, powerless Azure Dragon is –”

“Just what the Nameless Man wishes to ride into battle,” Ri’arion interrupted. “Who, I mean. Look, we’ll work it out. You’re nervous about taking on the Sylakians at Gemalka. I promised to take care of you, dear one, and I shall. I am not without powers.”

The Princess of Remoy, thirty feet of azure wings, gleaming fangs and sleek, scaly reptilian hide, stared unseeing at the horizon as she heaved a Dragon-sized sigh. She rested on the wing, riding the slight breeze that pressed against her body and slowed Commander Darron’s Dragonship fleet as they buzzed along to the rear, as though she were a child towing an incongruously enormous string of hydrogen balloons. Zuziana angled her flight upward, surprised as ever by the power of her flight muscles and the ease with which her body rode the air currents. So much for being a diminutive Remoyan, barely five feet tall. Now she was a petite Dragoness. Aye. And less than a third of the size Garthion had been, Islands’ sakes!

Well, it had only been a week since her first transformation. Should she be surprised that everything felt new and strange? She had been comfortable as a Dragon Rider. But actually being a Dragon – that was different. Now she understood how Aranya must have felt, the force of the emotions driving her, the whole, incredible Dragon experience …

She sighed, “I don’t have any powers, Ri’arion. Everyone else can burn the heavens or bring down almighty curses on their enemies and I can’t do anything.”

“You told me Aranya couldn’t even light a cooking-fire when you first declared war on the Sylakian Empire. And you call me moons-mad?”

“Fine, I’m a tiny Azure Dragon with an outsized self-esteem problem.”

Ri’arion chuckled at this. Then he fell silent. Zip could practically smell the smoke rising from his thoughts back there – so very Ri’arion. Always thinking, always analysing, relentless in his pursuit of knowledge and understanding.

The twin suns setting behind them set the Cloudlands afire. They should reach Gemalka Island soon, having departed Immadia three days before. But the winds had been contrary – unusually, for this season. Zuziana scanned the horizon, focussing her Dragon sight as Aranya had taught her. Details came alive to her senses. A flight of six windrocs, flying so low their bellies threatened to scrape the Cloudlands. A sliver of Blue moon, peeking over the stroke of the horizon as though it felt too shy to rise into the evening sky, wearing its insubstantial rings like a halo. What was that odd colour against the Blue moon? She concentrated harder, willing her eyes to provide more detail. Four rings, a crater on the surface, a strange smudge of darker colour below the moon’s rim?

Ri’arion said, “But, my Dragon-love, you are more beautiful than the most achingly perfect suns-set.”

Zuziana’s Dragon hearts squeezed in her chest. Suddenly, she wanted to cry. He loved her! It was the craziest thing, and it made her bounce along as her spirits lifted.

“Since you’re so stuck on my back, I think you should give your Dragon a kiss,” she suggested, curving her head back over her shoulder and puckering up her very large Dragon lips.

The monk chuckled, but squirmed in the saddle. “Do we have to fly all the way to Remoy Island to speak to your father, Zip?”

“I insist, Ri’arion. In Remoyan culture, any less would be an insult to my father and mothers.”

“Meantime, you will tease me most improperly?”

“I’ll tease you until you steam like that volcano you used to live on top of.”

“Steam?” said Ri’arion, scratching his neat beard. “I’ve an idea. Azure Dragons should have powers of Dragon fire, Lightning and shielding, and they’re supposed to excel at special water attacks. We need to find you some water, Zip.”

Zuziana twisted her neck around to peer at her Rider. Ri’arion sat straight-backed in his Dragon Rider saddle. A quiver of prepared fire-arrows was strapped to his left thigh. A holster on her right flank held his enormous sword, the monk’s favourite weapon – but he was equally deadly with his arsenal of throwing daggers, or just his bare hands. The Pygmy bow Zip had used to such great effect against Sylakia’s Dragonship fleet, poked out of a leather saddle-bag in front of him. Oddly, she had begun to sense the even greater powers that lurked within him – the warrior-monk’s Nameless Man powers. There was fire, similar to Dragon fire, and arcane knowledge, and the steely touch of his formidable mind. Perhaps his mind was a weapon in its own right, she thought, shivering delicately.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, frowning.

“Uh …” Zip stumbled, ashamed of fearing her Rider. “Look, I see Gemalka ahead.”

Ri’arion was not fooled. In a tone of stern rebuke, he said, “You think you’re small and weak for a Dragon, but I perceive your hidden potential. Perhaps we should test your powers at Fra’anior Island, as we once tested Aranya.”

Uneasily, she murmured, “Perhaps.”

He reached forward to pat her neck. Despite the armour-plating effect of Dragon scales, a thrill coursed along her sensitive nerves. How was it that she felt his touch – and every shift and nuance of the airstream across her body, wings and tail – so clearly? No wonder Aranya had complained about the overwhelming responsiveness of her Dragon senses.

Ri’arion added, “Now, if that is Gemalka, we need to brief Commander Darron at once.”

“On my way, dear Rider,” she replied.

Zuziana trimmed her wings, starting a spiralling descent back down to the Dragonships. They had been training together each day. For all his abilities, Ri’arion was leery of leaping onto her back from a Dragonship, and Zip knew it would take her some time to become used to diving off a gantry and transforming into her Dragon form mid-air, as Aranya did so fearlessly. Ri’arion said he wanted to stand on her back to fight. All she could picture was the monk falling helplessly into the Cloudlands. Just a few days’ training, however, had seen a marked improvement in her flying abilities. She did not have Aranya’s stamina – the Amethyst Dragon had once flown for forty-three hours straight, and almost killed herself in the doing – but she could now stay aloft for four or five hours at a time without her arms and shoulders feeling as though they were ready to drop off.

She alighted carefully on the extra landing pad which had been fixed atop the Commander’s Dragonship. Furl the claws, she told herself, those seven-inch daggers that adorned her toes in retractable, cat-like sheaths. Ri’arion unclipped the saddle and tossed down his weapons and the saddle bags.

“Cloak, your royal lizard-ness?” he smiled, averting his eyes with a very monkish correctness that made her heart wriggle happily. He was so gallant. Not just any man would be content to wait for them to reach Remoy and formally ask permission.

Transforming, Zip donned the garment and belted it shut. “You reprobate, insulting the royal personage so brazenly. I demand an apology at … mmm.”

His kiss made her tingle down to her toes.

“See?” she said. “I taught you well. Even ex-monks can learn a few tricks.”

Zip gasped, suddenly finding herself floating a foot above the Dragonship. Seizing her by the waist, Ri’arion twirled her in the air. “I’ve a few tricks of my own,” he said. “Flying kiss?”

“Despicable enchanter. Kiss me again.”

* * * *

Commander Darron opted for an attack at false dawn. During the night, the Dragonships traversed the remaining leagues to Gemalka Island. They hid beneath the level of the Island’s cliffs.

The walls of the huge terrace lakes for which Gemalka was famed, rose steeply above the Immadian convoy. The ancients had been able to construct seamless retaining walls hundreds of feet tall, anchored immovably in the bedrock, which held the rainfall or river flow of an entire Island. Gemalka had four levels of terraced lakes with dozens of six hundred-foot waterfalls running at planned intervals from one level to the next.

Rainbow trout, thought the Azure Dragoness. Yum! She sucked up a mouthful of water and tried to place it in the right stomach.

Zuziana coughed and snorted water out of her nostrils. “Not that one.”

“But it’s warm,” said Ri’arion. “Try to make some steam this time. Then we need to join the attack.”

This time, she almost vomited.

They took off from the edge of the lake, a vertical take-off that Zip was still working on. She flapped strongly, surging through the air toward the groups of Dragonships closing in on the Sylakian fortress from three sides.

“They’ve seen us,” said Zip. A moment later, a gong began to sound in the fortress. “Only five Dragonships, Ri’arion.”

“Ready to disable them?”

“Flying ralti sheep,” gasped the Dragon, seeing one of the Dragonships already rising into the pale light of false dawn. “Were they expecting us?”

“Probably,” grunted the monk. “Our counterattack is the logical response. What I don’t understand is why they left only five Dragonships here. That’ll barely slow our advance on Yorbik Island.”

Zip tried to point with her wing. “There! Another … ten, at least. Behind that hill.”

“Aha! Nice work.”

Ri’arion quickly pulled several flags out of their saddlebags and waved them in a prearranged signal, signalling both the direction of the danger and the number of enemy Dragonships.

The monk leaned over her neck. “I’m lighting the oil. Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragon.”

“Aye, Rider.”

Adrenalin pulsed through her arteries. Dragon-Zuziana’s body responded as though she had been stung. Fire roared to life in her belly; magic whispered its uncanny song in her mind. She had only known magic since meeting Aranya. She had known and feared the powers growing within her since Aranya had saved her life with her Dragon tears. But what did one do with a storm churning within? The Dragon fire that burned; a choking sensation in her throat, an awareness of stomachs and power points and valves controlling the outlet of those powers? Dragon-song swelled in her hearts at the expectation of battle. She was the weapon. It scared and thrilled her.

She concentrated as Ri’arion had suggested she do, trying to separate out the different sensations. She should deal with them one at a time. Know the powers, accept them, welcome them as part of who she was. It was tough. Human-Zuziana feared that she might just explode with all that potential. She could not identify much of what she felt.

Then, it was too late.

Dragon and Rider closed swiftly with the rising Dragonships. Crossbow quarrels shot out to greet them, but their engineers had loosed them too early. Over the rushing of wind in her ears, she distinctly heard the Pygmy bow creak. Flames hissed through the air. She watched Ri’arion’s shot as it slowed in her perception, smelled the tiny trail of smoke it left in the air, and sensed her body responding as another quarrel homed in on her flying form.

KAARAABOOM!

A mushroom-cloud of fire filled her vision. Smoke tickled her nostrils. A Dragon’s savage laughter boomed out of her throat. She was appalled at her appetite for destruction, yet she knew she should give the Dragoness rein. Her instincts would carry Zuziana through this battle.

The Azure Dragon twisted, picking her next target.

“Surrender, Sylakians!” roared Ri’arion, amplifying his voice somehow. “Surrender, or be destroyed! A pass over the fortress, Zip.”

She flowed with his request, dodging catapult-shot and arrows, homing in on the south-eastern battlement. She heard the monk muttering in what sounded like Dragonish to her ear. The catapult emplacement lining up a shot at them burst into flame. Men leaped for their lives, screaming and cursing. Ri’arion gestured to his left. Catapults creaked on their moorings, snapping, spinning to the ground. Sucking in a huge breath, the monk let rip with an invisible attack at the fortress gates. They rattled as though kicked by a giant, but held firm. He shouted in frustration.

“The Dragonships,” said Zip, braking sharply to avoid taking a load of fragmented metal in the nose. “Ready, Rider?”

Ri’arion slapped the release levers on the buckles holding his thigh straps closed. “Ready.”

Zuziana targeted four Dragonships rising as a group to engage Commander Darron’s oncoming fleet. None of them had war crossbows or catapults on top of their hydrogen sacks, but they could cover each other with the weapons on their gantries. She hissed as two arrows ripped through the membrane of her right wing.

“Steady … now!”

Releasing his waist-buckle, Ri’arion rose to his feet and leaped down onto the Dragonship beneath them. He ran lightly along the top of the sack, opening a long gash with the point of his sword. Instinctively, she slapped a six-foot crossbow quarrel out of the air with her forepaw. Wow. That was quick. Zip picked up her monk at the nose end of the Dragonship and leaped over to the next one, only fifty feet away. The first Dragonship sighed like a hoarse old man as it deflated and sank toward the ground.

Her unsheathed claws ripped Ri’arion’s shoulder open as she dropped him off atop the next Dragonship.

“Sorry,” wailed Zip.

“Forget it,” snarled Ri’arion, striking the hydrogen sack with his sword. “Quick. That catapult.”

Zip flipped over, diving upside-down at the catapult opposite. The men aiming it at her saw the better side of wisdom and leaped for their lives. The Azure Dragoness crashed into the gantry, splintering the wooden safety railings. She smacked the catapult with her tail. The catapult fired, blasting a hole in the cabin wall of a nearby Dragonship. She saw right through into the furnace room. Fire spilled out of the broken meriatite furnace.

“Ri’arion!” she howled, kicking away desperately. No, he was on a different Dragonship – flying! Briefly, the monk steadied himself with his magic to complete an impossible hundred-foot bound to another Dragonship. He caught the netting expertly. Tail pointed at the explosion, Zuziana felt a wave of heat roll over her body. She scudded forward, sweeping toward the monk – but he was agile enough to dodge her flailing paws and grab hold of her tail one-handed.

“Don’t panic, rajal,” he grinned. “Next?”

She dropped the monk onto the last Dragonship in the group near the fortress. His great sword slashed the sack repeatedly. In the distance, Darron’s Dragonships had reoriented on the intended ambush and the battle was already joined. She saw quarrels buzzing angrily back and forth. A Dragonship flying the Immadian royal purple drifted toward the ground, its cabin dangling by a single hawser.

Two warriors had clambered up the netting to engage Ri’arion. Zuziana threw herself back toward the Dragonship, menacing them as they closed with her Rider. A swipe of her paw sent them spinning to the ground, far below.

Ri’arion wiped his forehead. “I could’ve dealt with them.”

“Just tidying up. How’s the shoulder?”

“A scratch,” he said, climbing back into the saddle as the Dragonship tilted alarmingly. That so-called scratch was leaking bright, fresh blood. Zuziana felt terrible. But her proud monk, judging by his expression, would not welcome any sympathy.

The Dragoness pointed with her chin. “Shall we go even the odds?”

“Aye. I’m in.”

She launched off the flaccid hydrogen sack. Bright flares lit the southern hills as three Dragonships exploded within seconds of each other. Zip’s secondary optical membranes adjusted automatically, cycling through a near-opaque state to clear again. The conflict was thick and brutal. Dragonships tangled together in the sky. Troops hacked at each other from twisted gantries and leaped from netting to netting, trying to down or gain entry to enemy vessels. Catapults and war crossbows fired point-blank at each other. She saw knots of Immadian troops falling from a stricken Dragonship. Rage rose in her throat. This was wrong. As a Dragon, she was supposed to be protecting these people.

The Azure Dragon accelerated sharply, catching Ri’arion by surprise.

He called, “Zuziana …”

But she no longer heard him. Held hostage by her rage, Zuziana shot across Gemalka Island’s rugged terrain, aiming for the centre of that conflict. Three Sylakian Dragonships, flying crimson flags and the screaming windroc, the symbol of Sylakia, clustered together there, pounding an Immadian vessel. Her neck prickled. Her vision narrowed, darkness closing in as power coalesced in her belly. The Azure Dragon revelled in its seductive song. She fed it without stinting. She lost herself in a blue ocean, electrified by the charge building inside her body.

Rise! she sang to herself. Rise and strike the enemy.

Her throat opened. The lightning within her leaped for freedom, branching to strike the three Sylakian Dragonships with a crack! that echoed off the hills. The detonations were instantaneous. Bits of gantries and turbines and war catapults rained from the sky.

Only a black, empty hollow was left inside her. Too much … she had nothing left. Nothing.

Her azure wings crumpled softly.

She heard a voice in the distance calling, “Zip! Zip!” But the gathering darkness was irresistible.

* * * *

When her eyes opened, Zuziana saw Commander Darron’s boots just a foot from her nose. He was arguing vociferously with two of his officers about what to do with the captured Dragonships. She shifted her throbbing head. Ri’arion … three men knelt around the prone body of her Rider!

The Dragoness surged to her paws.

“Zip!” said the Commander. “He’s alright. They’re just dressing his wounds.”

“I’m fine,” Ri’arion called.

He sounded so enfeebled! Zuziana pressed her muzzle between two of the medics. “Ri’arion?”

“Are you ralti-stupid? Lie down.”

“Nice to see you alive, too.” Zip bared her fangs. But she sank to her belly, deflated. “Ouch. I hurt everywhere. You rescued us – how?”

“Well, it was tough, but I can levitate, as you know.” The monk grinned at the ferocious growl her fire-stomach voiced at this comment. “So I tried to levitate both of us – only, you’re slightly bigger than a Human.”

“But we’re alive.”

“Aye. It’s my favourite way to be. What of the battle, Commander?”

He grunted, “Glad to see you two made it. Dragon lady, you hit them with a triple lightning strike. Their courage jumped off the Island at that. We lost five Dragonships. Two more are too damaged to repair, but we gained thirteen, making a net gain of six. Forty-three warriors died or are too injured to continue. The Gemalkans want to be our allies.”

Ri’arion laughed, but clutched his shoulder. All three medics hissed at him at once. “That’s enough for me,” he said. “See to the Princess.” Blank looks passed between the medics. “The Dragoness. Perhaps you should transform, Zuziana.”

“But I’m wounded. Aranya said that transforming with large wounds –”

“Only bruised, according to the medics,” he corrected her. “And, you’ll use up far less supplies in your Human form.”

Deciding that his comment was worth neither a growl nor a smart reply, Zip transformed and accepted a thin ralti-wool blanket one of the medics passed to her. Her chest and sternum ached as though she had been butted by a male ralti sheep. Her landing must have been rough. Various flesh-wounds adorned her body, but none appeared serious. Nevertheless, the medics cleaned and dusted the wounds with healing herbs and bandaged her until adding clothing seemed superfluous.

Darron rattled off orders with the ease and thoroughness of a veteran officer. At length, he turned to Zip. “Anything else you need, Princess?”

Zuziana licked her lips. “I’ll eat about fifty of those rainbow trout, Commander.”

The tall monk, the grizzled Immadian Commander and the three medics all gaped at the diminutive Remoyan. Then Ri’arion burst out laughing. Tucking her slight form beneath his chin, he said, “The Princess will eat a dainty portion. Her Dragon will guzzle the rest.”

The trout were fabulous. Dragon-Zip packed away fifty-seven sleek, gleaming trout, after which Ri’arion accused her of waddling about like an overloaded Dragonship. Zip just smacked her lips extravagantly and burped a decidedly fishy gust of air into the monk’s face.

They learned that bandages did not survive a transformation. The medics had to patch her up a second time. Ri’arion’s glowering over their shoulders put paid to any complaints they might have dared to voice.

At noon, Commander Darron rounded up his Dragonship fleet for the next leg to Helyon Island, having secured their supply route and despatched a flurry of message hawks back to Immadia.

The monk nodded approvingly. “Knows what he’s doing,” he said, unnecessarily. Then he took Zip, returned to her Human form once more, by the elbow. “To bed with you. No arguments.”

She yawned, “Ooh, are you tucking me in?”

“I kept you alive for a reason,” said the monk, with a piratical leer. “Off to the Dragonship, sweet maiden, where I shall demand from thee a chaste bedtime kiss.”

“Not unless thou shavest mightily, o my thorn-bearded abductor,” giggled Zip. But she could not climb aboard the Dragonship without help.

Ri’arion boosted Zip into her bunk before slumping into the bed opposite. “I wonder how often you should transform,” he said. “It demands a great deal of magic.”

Zip stared at him, eyebrows arched.

He pressed, “You confess?”

“It’s been harder the last couple of times.” She pouted, which did not have the desired effect on him – the set of his lips hardened, while magical power surged behind his eyes. “Markedly harder. I need to think about how often Aranya used to transform.”

“We’ll monitor this issue,” said Ri’arion, cool and analytical. Zuziana was just forming a critical opinion when their eyes met across the cabin, a wordless meeting of souls, minds and hearts. That lovely squeezing sensation returned to her chest as his eyes crinkled at the edges. But even he was unable to keep his eyes open for long. Slowly, the powerful Nameless Man’s gaze lidded.

“Thank you for rescuing us,” Zip whispered.

A smile touched his lips.

When she awoke, the muffled thrum of the meriatite-fuelled turbines informed her that their Dragonship was underway to Helyon, a three-day flight. Zip readied herself for a delicious stretch and a yawn before deciding her chest was too sore. Never mind being butted by a sheep, this morning she felt as though a Dragon had punched her squarely in the chest.

Ri’arion sat in the middle of the cabin, his legs folded into an improbable position, meditating. She sensed his presence filling the room. No wonder she had dreamed of him.

“Islands’ greetings, o jewel of Remoy,” he murmured. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Do you ever stop thinking, monk-love?”

His eyes unshuttered. A gaze of the deepest blue, like the bottom of a still terrace lake, fixed upon her. Zuziana shivered. Such intensity! Even Dragon-Zip tingled at the power radiating from his eyes.

He said, “I was considering how we might work better together by enhancing the mental bond between Dragon and Rider. However, I have a confession to make. As the Nameless Man, I dominated the minds of my candidates, forcing them to reveal their powers and secrets to me. But on the day Aranya resisted –” he laughed hollowly “– even now, I struggle for an honest word. Aranya vanquished me. Humiliated, I tried to kill her. But the Word of the Great Dragon lives in her. On that day, I saw my existence for the travesty it had been. I abused my gifts, debasing others, revelling in the conquest, in the sweet taste of secrets wrested from innocent souls. Power is a subtle, seductive mistress, Zuziana. I’ve been in her thrall.”

He bowed his head, displaying the blue swirls tattooed upon his bald pate. After a long silence, he added, “I respect Aranya for her courage and will to use her powers well. Make no mistake, even I don’t know what she’s capable of.”

“I respect your integrity, Ri’arion,” said Zip.

“Aye? I’ll work on finding that Island.” Now, his gaze became searching. “Princess, if we could find a way of linking ourselves in battle – not so that one controls the other, but to share thoughts, impressions, ideas and actions – we could become a formidable team. Imagine battle at the speed of thought? You’d know if I wanted to jump on a Dragonship or when to pick me up; I’d know how you were about to turn, and take advantage of those incredible Dragon reactions.”

Zuziana could imagine that. But she wondered if she could ever stand up to him the way Aranya had. She replied, “It would require trust.”

“Trust is not manufactured,” he said. “Mostly, trust requires time.”

“Ah, the sweet luxury of time.”

Ri’arion laughed, unfolded his legs and perched himself on her bedside. Clasping her hands in both of his, he said, “This Rider seeks to serve his Dragon. I sense the battles ahead will be hard. Trust will be the least of our worries. Islands’ sakes, when I first heard my name and the command to follow, I thought it was to spill out my life in the Great Dragon’s cause. Now, I discover I am sinfully fond of the life I envisage with a magical Remoyan. We Ha’athiorian monks say there are many paths to serve the Great Dragon, but only one right path. I have walked a wrong path.”

Zip reached up to tweak the point of his left ear. “I’ve made the decision to trust you, Ri’arion.”

“I will strive to hold that trust in the highest honour.”

His words rippled through her and into her. Thinking back to the day she had first seen him in the monastery just off Ha’athior Island, Zuziana wondered at the depth of vulnerability he had shown. Had he truly changed so much in such a short space of time? Was he being honest? When she said that she trusted him, was she being honest? Now there was a question. What might happen if she subjected the powers of an Azure Dragon to this man?

Zip said, “Ri’arion, does your monastery have records of magicians like yourself trying to control Dragons? What happened?”

“Ill,” he said, growing pale. “All was ill. I will tell you what I remember, if you wish.”

Her stomach gurgled loudly. “Over dinner,” she chuckled. “Was there any of the trout left? I’m famished.”

Chapter 6: Slave

The type of work Ardan did not enjoy was digging out latrines. But that was his next assignment as Kylara’s battered, depleted force rested at another small village late that afternoon. Probably, he snarled inwardly, they wanted him well out of the way while they discussed the conundrum a slave had created for them by rescuing a number of pert and decidedly attractive warrior behinds from a kicking by the Sylakian boot. That, or they debated the mystery of how he had slipped free of his chains and manacles.

Ardan scratched his stubbly chin. Ha! Not only was he splattered in Sylakian brains and gore, but now he could add faeces to the collection of filth he wore on his skin. Was he a prophet? How else could he have known he’d be digging through a pile of congealed sewage?

This was not the life for a warrior. Except that it kept him near Kylara. Why could he not keep his eyes off the Warlord, she who had tried to halve his skull like a prekki fruit on the chopping block? There was the physical tension between them, which he would like to imagine flowed both ways. If only she would stop calling him ‘boy’ and ‘slave’ with that sneer curling her lip, he might even believe it. But Ardan could not escape the feeling that he was somehow meant to have run into the Warlord of Yanga Island – fated, destined, or whatever prekki-fruit mush his brain was serving up in the guise of intelligent thought, lately.

Ardan heaped his wheelbarrow load of ready-made fertiliser onto the village’s vegetable field and began to mulch it in with a wooden spade. The physical labour helped, or he would only brood over his growing mountain of unanswered questions.

The vegetable field stood on the edge of the inlet they had marched around – was it only yesterday? A stone’s throw from where he worked, the ground sheared away over a thousand feet into a ravine which rapidly descended in a westerly direction toward the Cloudlands. It cut over a league inland into the heart of this large Island, and was the outflow of a river he would dearly have loved to bathe in. He wondered why the river had never been terraced, unlike his Island. It was such an obvious location.

There, another detail of his past. He held the beads of sense, he just could not string them together into a coherent piece of jewellery.

Judging by the gesticulating marking that conference down in the village, he was about to start fielding some hard questions about his unquestionably hard skull. Ardan tapped his forehead experimentally. It didn’t feel like a skull that acted more like a stone, repelling scimitar blades and Sylakian hammers.

At least he no longer wore manacles. What was the point, if he could slip out of them at will?

Troubled in spirit, Ardan trudged back to the blocked-up latrine. He was still alive. The stench that threatened to cauterise his nostrils as he dug further beneath the latrine, confirmed he was alive. Soon, he would open the little sluice gate and let the diverted river water wash it clear. Except that there was no water in the trench. Oh, toss it into a Cloudlands volcano! There must be a blockage elsewhere. His muscles bunched as Ardan heaved the slop-laden wheelbarrow along a narrow, hard-packed footpath to the field. Here came Kylara. She marched up to him, taking care to stand upwind, he noticed. Her brow drew down into her habitual scowl.

“You’re a pain in the backside, slave,” she ground out. “Had you not saved us back in the village, you’d already be swimming in the Cloudlands. My troops don’t like you.”

Ardan decided to continue with his adopted persona. “That’s not what their eyes say,” he claimed, hitching his thumbs into his loincloth. “Maybe you ought to find me some trousers, Chief.”

Putting her hand to her scimitar, Kylara snarled, “Maybe I should finish the job I started on your head, you arrogant, insufferable piece of goat turd! How do you take a hammer to the skull and live? Or a scimitar blade? Oh, keep shovelling the dung, boy. That’s what you’re good at.”

“I’m not a boy, I’m a man –”

Ardan was not enjoying being obnoxious, but it definitely lit the fires beneath the already fiery Warlord. Kylara, with a pointed glare, said, “Trust me, keep mouthing off and you won’t be for long.”

Although, he preferred to keep all of his body parts intact. “Chief,” he said, in a more conciliatory tone, “I wish I could answer your questions. Maybe my memory will heal, given time.”

“I had my physician drill into your skull. It’s ordinary bone.”

Ardan’s hands leaped up to check the dressing on his head. “You did what?”

A hungry leopard’s grin flashed at him. “My blade split your skin like a rotten prekki fruit, slave, but didn’t so much as chip the bone beneath. It’s not metal or stone on your shoulders. You arrive beneath a tree on my Island, a man without a past. You’re a warrior. Had you not been wounded, you might even have made me work for my victory.”

“I could’ve spanked you with one hand tied behind my –”

“Then you slip out of locked manacles,” she continued, giving his boasting short shrift. “You singlehandedly carve up half a Hammer of Sylakia’s elite warriors, throw crossbow quarrels to an impossible height, destroy a couple of Dragonships, defend those who enslaved you, and then put yourself to work afterward without a word of complaint.”

Ardan grinned. “You want complaints? I don’t like shovelling faeces.”

“You hate Sylakians like I’ve never seen anyone hate before. I saw it writ on your face.”

“Aye,” he breathed, reliving that fragment of memory. “I remembered something – a woman, maybe my wife. Kylara, was there anything left of Naphtha Cluster?”

He swore at her headshake.

“You know how Sylakia operates, slave,” she said. “Burn it all. Naphtha was strong enough to hold out for two months. The Sylakians left nothing but charred stone on those Islands.”

To his dismay, Ardan felt tears splash on his cheeks. He turned away, shaking with anger, humiliated at showing any weakness in front of the warrior Chief. He was no warrior. He was already a slave in his heart, behaving like this.

“Burn them in a Cloudlands volcano!” he screamed at the heavens.

“Aye,” said Kylara, apparently unmoved by his vein-popping, fist-shaking explosion. “Finish your work, boy. Tonight you’ll march to our hideout. Behave yourself and my women might not toss you to the windrocs.”

He pointed with the spade. “Tell your warrior hiding beneath the white-currant bush to stop fidgeting. She has terrible woodcraft.”

Kylara muttered a curt, rude word and marched off.

Great Islands, he thought, he had better think twice about any attraction he imagined between himself and the Warlord. As warriors of Naphtha Cluster liked to say, she had the character of a leopard – as graceful as the dawn, and an expert at unexpected ambushes.

There, something remembered at last. Let the man called Ardan be warned.

* * * *

In the glow of twilight’s dying embers, Ardan finished digging out the collapsed culvert which had robbed the village of its water. He stretched his back and regarded the flow of water with a firm nod. Life. Life flowing into the village, bringing wholeness and sweeping away the filth. The chuckling of water had never sounded so agreeable. Setting the shovel to one side, he bent his head beneath the water and let the coolness bathe his aching head. That was good.

As Kylara and her comrades rode uphill to their position near the spring above the village, Ardan pointed with his chin and said to Mardia, his guard, “What’s bitten them? Hornets?”

“Shut up and wash, slave. You reek.” But Mardia was as curious as he was.

Rocia smacked her breastplate to emphasize a point as they moved into hearing range. “One conqueror’s the same as another, Kylara.”

“If those Immadians come here, we’ll show them our scimitars just the same as we showed the Sylakians,” growled the Warlord.

“What’s that, slave?” asked Mardia. “What’re they saying?”

“An Immadian invasion,” Ardan puzzled. “We called him the Immadian Fox – now, what was his name – aye, Beran of Immadia. His was the last Island conquered north of the Rift. What’s he doing in the Western Isles?”

That was exactly the question making Kylara scratch her head. “Sounds nothing like Immadia to me, Rocia,” she said. “Twelve summers they defied Sylakia. I heard his little Princess got locked in the Tower of Sylakia. Now he’s attacking our Western Isles? For what? Besides, the Warlords would never have it. Who wants another Supreme Commander?”

“We’ll ask him together,” grunted Rocia. “Ya girls hold ‘im, I’ll tickle his tummy until he begs to tell us everything.”

Ardan’s grin faded. That was a nasty euphemism for torture by pulling out the intestines and burning them on a fire while the victim watched.

Rocia added, “An’ his little Princess, bet the Sylakians made her grow up fast. Freakin’ Tower. Just a playpen for them War-Hammers. She come here, she’d be scrubbing pots. Smutty white-skinned Northern scum.”

A clamour of coarse laughter rose from the warriors.

“Take water,” said Kylara. “Quick. We’ve a long march ahead. Slave – quit dirtying the stream and hold our ponies while we drink.”

Ardan turned to Kylara, who regarded him with her usual acid-bitten sneer. He said, “We heard the Princess of Immadia was executed for treason, Kylara. What’s this rumour blowing on the wind?”

The dark eyes narrowed. “You remember something, boy? Who’s ‘we’?”

“I don’t remember.”

Kylara’s knuckles turned white on the hilt of her dagger. But she replied evenly, “Last we heard, Sylakia’s Northern Dragonship fleet was bound for Immadia Island to burn it to cinders, like they did Naphtha Cluster. Now King Beran’s in the Western Isles. Either he’s running like a cur kicked in the teeth, or he defeated Sylakia. Which do you believe?”

She was asking him a military opinion? Ardan was so surprised that his mouth fished for flies. Kylara’s handsome face hardened as she waited on a reply.

“Dragons.” The word popped out of his mouth.

“Dragons? What a load of fresh pony-manure,” said Rocia.

Ardan cudgelled his memory. “Some rumour I heard. A Dragon down in Remoy – a new Dragon, not the old rumour.”

Kylara knelt beside the flow of water and drank deeply, before splashing water liberally over her upper body. She rose with a graceful flexion of her thighs, her cheeks gleaming like warm coals in the suns-set’s radiant beams. He wished she would drop the iron-hard exterior to give him a glimpse of the woman within. Was all this tough-talk posturing truly her? She certainly cared for the villagers her troops protected. And she had not killed him or hunted him down like an animal, threats to the contrary.

He should be plotting out her weaknesses so that he could escape, but apparently, his motives were as clear as a mud-pool, even to him.

“Dragons?” she sneered, interrupting his thoughts. Ardan clenched his fists. “You shrivelling little fool. Every one of my warriors is braver than you. You spread any more lies with that snake’s tongue of yours, I’ll have it cut out just to save our ears the trouble of listening to your pitiful whining. Move out!”

* * * *

Ardan peered over the edge of the sinkhole. “We’re going down there?”

Kylara’s forbidding stare scorned the tremor in his voice. “Aye, slave. Scared?”

“That’s Cloudlands –”

“Seen through the bottom of the Island, aye,” said Rocia. “Half of this peninsula hangs over the Cloudlands, boy. Hold on tight.”

Kylara and her troops broke out compact gliders from their travel packs. Ardan measured the cavity yawning before them with his eyes, desperately unhappy. Two thousand feet across and many thousands deep, the bottomless pit made him imagine that a monstrous Dragon had chewed right through the underside of the Island. The hole was so immense that the couple of windrocs circling down below were specks against the turquoise Cloudlands. Ferns and whole trees grew from the sides, compounding his sense of insignificance.

“You’re planning to fly …”

Rocia and a number of the warriors chuckled cruelly. Rocia made a show of pinching her nose. “Dirtied our loincloth at the thought, boy?”

“Only a fool wouldn’t fear this,” said Ardan.

A dozen warriors led the ponies away. They must hide the animals nearby, he realised. Perhaps they also had a secret back entrance to their hideout.

Hanging a rope over the edge would do no good – it would simply dangle in space, because the hole grew conversely wider as it burrowed through the Island’s substrata. What rope could be that long, anyway? Ardan watched silently as Rocia and several of her warriors assembled a larger glider with a wingspan of around twelve feet. The simple wing had a frame attached to it for a person’s body. It was far too flimsy for his liking.

A cloudy dawn crept over the eastern hills as the warriors completed their preparations. The suns tried to pierce the heavy cloudbanks, but failed. The air smelled moist; rain before the morning was out, he predicted. A decent storm.

“We use these to travel between the smaller Island clusters,” said Kylara, breaking his train of thought.

Ardan asked, “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Not that dangerous if you can find a high enough launching place. Less dangerous than keeping Dragonships.”

Ardan thought back to the first village, which Kylara’s force had been unable to reach in time. Crossing that inlet in flight would have been impossible, unless they had found a thermal or a higher launching place. The cliffs on the far side were too sheer. Flying between Islands by glider was a novel idea. He had never seen it done before.

“Buckle up,” said Rocia. “Ya let me do the flying, or you’re a dead man.”

He let Rocia strap him to her body. At her low command, he walked forward in concert with her until they stood right on the edge of the drop. Odd. Now he wasn’t scared any more – either that, or he was so terrified his brain had just shut off.

“Fly the winds!” cried a warrior, running past them. She launched off the edge.

Rocia leaned forward. “Jump, on three.”

His stomach surged violently into his throat, but then an unexpected whoop of joy escaped his lips as the glider sliced through the air. Ardan opened his eyes and whooped again, laughing.

Just above him, Rocia chuckled, “Thought ya were wettin’ yourself, big boy.”

They spiralled downward under Rocia’s expert control. Ardan’s neck swivelled as a flight of warriors, including Kylara, shot past them, hooting and shouting catcalls at each other as they raced neck-and-neck down toward the Cloudlands. The hole continued to open up, undercutting the basal rock until he found it hard to imagine how half the Island did not crack and tumble into the void. He spied a deep horizontal crack tucked beneath the overhang, hundreds of feet wide and deep. The warriors arrowed for the crack, where an excited crowd had gathered. He also noticed several Dragonships hidden beneath camouflage netting.

Rocia aimed their glider and made the landing look easy.

“Caves back there. Don’t ya go wandering,” said Rocia, unsnapping the harness that held them together. She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Caveworms digging all around here, boy. Ya seen a caveworm?”

Ardan nodded. “Aye.”

But he caught the tail end of a possessive frown Kylara directed at Rocia. So – competition between the women? He added this morsel to his ‘required to survive’ list.

He remembered stories about caveworms a hundred feet long. Caveworms were blind but highly aggressive. They ate through anything, even solid rock. How did the Leopards keep them away from this busy community? Again, he observed his own responses, learning about himself. Ardan scanned the wide ledge, noting a perimeter guard to the south which might indicate a cliff-edge trail to the top. A number of men patrolled the edge, not allowing any children to come to harm. His eye picked out defensive war crossbows placed cunningly amongst the rocks. He perceived the respect that Kylara commanded even among the older members of her community. Something about this scene felt familiar to him. Had he been a chief, too?

The porch of Kylara’s underground lair bustled with the sounds of arrival – children laughing and playing, men and women embracing and some weeping as people realised a loved one was not coming home. Ardan received a fair number of suspicious looks. Most of the men resembled slender youths compared to a man of his muscular bulk. No male warriors? Strange. Their women must do all the fighting.

After a period of being ignored, Ardan noticed a bent, elderly man beckoning to him from beside the farthest cave entrance. He jogged over lest the old man feel the need to approach him.

“Garganthan,” said the old man. “You can call me Garg.”

“Ardan,” he said, returning the proffered forearm-clasp. Garg had a grip like a vice.

Garg’s eyes twinkled up at him, startlingly green beneath massively shaggy eyebrows. “Aye?” he said. “From Jeradia Island, I am. Before you ask.”

Ardan masked his surprise. “Jeradia? I thought they grew giants there?”

“More of a hunchbacked tortoise, I am,” said Garg, with a self-deprecating laugh. “You from, let’s see – tattoos and a shaven head? Naphtha Cluster?”

“Aye,” said Ardan, liking the old man at once. His gaze lingered on the Warlord as Kylara issued orders to a troop of a dozen warriors. She had struck him again that morning after one too many smart comments from her slave. For a woman, she had a punch like the snap-release of a war crossbow.

“Liking something you see?” asked Garg.

Ardan flushed. “Just thinking how she punched me earlier. I’m her new slave, Garg.”

“Aye. So I hear. Broke a scimitar on your skull; has you sleeping in a secure store-room off her quarters. Smell Cloudlands stink on the wind, do I, young man? ‘Cause I warn you, that girl’s like my own daughter. Wouldn’t want to see nothing bad happen to her.”

“Tough story?”

Garg nodded. “Not for me to tell. Through here. Main assembly cave, this is. Living quarters back and left in those four tunnels, training caverns to the right, stores directly ahead and further along the caves. Down the third tunnel is my work room.”

“Blacksmith?” guessed Ardan, taking in the size of the place.

“Aye.”

“I know how to work a forge.” Truly? Ardan bit his lip.

But Garg welcomed his offer. Talking steadily, he filled Ardan in on the general layout of Kylara’s lair. Ardan knew there was much left unspoken, but he also knew better than to voice his questions. He offered the few morsels of knowledge he had gleaned in the five days since he woke beneath the prekki-fruit tree, telling the tale of the village battle without denying the truth of what had happened – whatever that truth was.

The bright green eyes gauged every word.

As Garg had noted, Ardan slept in a secure storeroom off of Kylara’s quarters. Each evening, after he had completed all of the distasteful, dirty and unmentionable jobs they could invent for a slave to do, he was locked in behind a triple-bolted metal door. The stone chamber beyond had not been completely cleared, so his rude pallet occupied a space between towering stacks of ready-to-be-fletched arrows and barrels of crossbow quarrels. Anything of real value had been moved. He saw the marks of several large chests left in the dust.

Ardan worked his fingers raw, but without protest, measuring the state of his wounds and waiting for healing. Soon, he stopped limping, and the cut on his skull turned into a knobbed, scarred ridge that spoke mutely of Kylara’s mighty scimitar blow.

He dreamed from the moment his head struck the pillow-roll, until dawn. Every night was the same. Twice, Kylara came to pound on the door with her fist, demanding his silence. Ardan found himself less terrified of her than of his dreams. Black flames burning. Consuming. Hunting ravenously, desperate to sight a buck or a wild ralti sheep to eat. Fighting. Chaotic battles. Had he ever dreamed like this? Dreams that woke him in a cold sweat, his heart thumping so violently in his throat he feared it might burst. Dreams of war and chasing so vivid that he ran into the metal door in his sleep and fell on his back, half stunned, bleeding freely from his forehead. Dreams of a consuming madness, of a shadow that dwelled in the depths of his mind, a slippery, clawed thing that chittered at him out of the darkness, that drove him into screaming ruin …

“Dreams?” said Garg, at the beginning of his second week in Kylara’s lair.

“Aye.” Ardan worked the bellows while Garg heated a metal rod, which he would shape into a scimitar’s pommel. “Kylara told you?”

“Half the caverns heard that episode last night, boy.”

Somehow, when Garg said ‘boy’, it was fine. When Kylara called him ‘boy’, his blood boiled. Ardan said, “Garg, look at me. I’m a grown man, maybe thirty summers. I’m a warrior. I don’t fear death. But these dreams – I’m going mad, Garg. I can’t sleep, I run like a coward, and curse it, I was standing at that door screaming and pounding with my fists and weeping to get away from something I imagined. I’m like a child with the night-terrors. What’s the matter with me?”

“How many offers of the bedroll have you spurned, boy?”

His grin flashed briefly. “A few, Garg.”

“A lot. Rocia’s been whining amongst the women, she has. What’s keeping you?”

Ardan watched his own biceps bulging as he worked the forge bellows, the firelight leaping upon his skin, the sweat running freely down his hard-muscled body as he laboured in the heat, and said, “Secretly, I’m a man of integrity, Garg. I hope Kylara sees that.”

The old man snorted, pausing his pounding of the red-hot rod to plunge it back into the furnace with a long pair of pliers. “You don’t act it.”

“Garg, she’s perfect. I can’t help myself.”

“That’s as certain as the dawn,” said Kylara, right behind him. Ardan and Garg both jumped. “Talking about me? Garg, you should know better. What can’t you help, boy?”

“Being the man who’s going to warm your bedroll,” he shot back.

Ardan blenched. Maybe he should trim his tongue with a scimitar at the first available opportunity.

The Warlord leaned close to him, the light of the open forge setting her dark pupils aflame. “Understand this, slave,” she spat. “No coward who’s afraid of his own shadow is getting anywhere near my bedroll. I should’ve finished you off beneath the tree.”

“What’re you so afraid of, Kylara?” he rapped back, stung by the truth in her words. “Afraid of a man who can fight? Afraid of a real warrior?”

“You know nothing. Nothing!” she roared back. “You’re a preening parrot, not a man – what do you care for except your precious ego? You cower in your pathetic world, all pretty words and no substance, while my people are dying out there. They burned another village today. Herded the people into their grain store, dumped burning oil on top, and you … where’s your mind?”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? You arrogant, self-absorbed, uncaring worm!”

She struck quicker than a cobra. Her knuckles connected him flush in the mouth.

Ardan spat blood. She had loosened a tooth. But he was too maddened to do more than steel his jaw, filled with a black inferno of fury and desire. He said, “Well, you’re not going to get a soft aye-man out of me, Kylara. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can beat your slave all you like, Chief. It seems to please you. Torture me; I don’t care. You’re not going to change one grain of my opinion of you.”

He locked his gaze with hers, matching her heat for heat, glare for glare.

Suddenly, Kylara’s face crumpled. She pushed away from him and fled, stifling her sobs with her fist. Ardan froze over the bellows. What? He had expected another comeback, a furthering of their quarrel – aye, he seemed afraid of his own shadow. She had struck true there. Aye, he had acted the arrogant male rajal, lord of all he surveyed. Surely, mere words could not have wounded the Warlord so sorely?

Garg laid a hand on his arm. “Her mother killed her father, Ardan. Beat him to death.”

Chapter 7: Dragon Hunt

Leaving eight Dragonships behind to guard the south-eastern passage to Jeradia Island, King Beran’s forces swept into the far West, hustling and harrying the Sylakians with surprise attacks at four different fortresses, netting seven Dragonships in good working order, twelve that with repairs could be made airworthy again, and the services of seventeen Warlords who smelled freedom – when they weren’t plotting to slit each other’s throats.

Beran’s fury at another developing turf war between the hot-tempered Warlords was moderated only by the arrival of news from Commander Darron. His forces had overwhelmed the Sylakian garrisons at Gemalka and Helyon Islands, capturing eleven Dragonships and a fine haul of meriatite engine parts which they had sent back to Immadia Island. All was well with Zuziana and Ri’arion.

Aranya released a breath she had been holding ever since her father handed her the message scroll. She felt such a burden of responsibility for Zip. Turning to the night-dark window, she gazed unseeing at a sky occluded by storm clouds. In Dragonish, she said, May you burn the heavens, Dragon and Rider.

Aranya.

She shivered. What? A word half-imagined, falling like cool rain upon her fevered imagination? A word spoken in a warm, enfolding space, a prickle of light against her closed eyelids, accompanied by a memory of a gentle, rocking motion she recognised as Dragon flight.

Mother? Izariela?

A dream of the womb? She rubbed her forehead hard, as though she could embed the memory there forever. She knew so little of her mother. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she wondered if she saw her mother looking out at her – she had the same wealth of multi-coloured tresses, but what colour had her eyes been? She wished she remembered.

But the waking dream surged forward. An awareness of magic suffused her. Aranya saw herself, quaking, bringing a vial of precious potion into her mother’s tomb. There Izariela lay, frozen in crystal, partially transformed into her Dragon form. Fearful expectation clasped her heart. Dragon sight brought her so near to her mother’s lips, she saw the tiny parting between them, a place not misted by breath since her apparent assassination. With a trembling hand she unstoppered the vial and poured several precious drops between her mother’s lips.

She spoke her thought as a single, strange word – was it even Dragonish? Arise to life, she said.

Waiting, interminably.

Watching the magic build in her mother’s body, an infinitesimal trickle of life returning to the pale, frozen limbs, a pinch of rose entering her cheeks. Rose that bloomed into red. Red that spread in bloody streaks over her torso to her limbs. Red? Red talons? The transformation gathered pace, a storm of change racing through her body now, the limbs elongating and thickening, clothed in Dragon scales, but her colour was wrong.

The Black Dragon raged, What have you done?

Aranya stumbled backward with a choked cry. “Mother!”

A blood-dipped muzzle thrust out of her mother’s face. Garthion’s fangs leered at her, snapping …

Strong arms saved her from a fall. “Aranya?”

“Yolathion.” She leaned against his tall, spare frame, struggling to regain her tattered composure. “I had an ill dream. My mother transformed into Garthion.”

“That’s rough,” he murmured into her hair. “You dream with your eyes open, Aranya?”

Islands’ sakes, and the Black Dragon had spoken once more. She resented his intrusion into those precious, intimate memories. More to the point, she feared him – and shame washed through her as she realised how deep and irrational that fear was.

Allowing Yolathion to soothe her, laying her cheek against his chest so that she could hear and feel his strong heartbeat throbbing against her ear, she said, “How did we get the hawk system working so quickly, Dad?”

“Paid the traders to sort out the birds we captured along the way,” said Beran. Aranya knew he had missed neither any detail of her reaction, nor Yolathion’s swift response. “Nothing like the lure of trade free from Sylakian taxes to make them greedy – I mean, to impart the necessary motivation. Isn’t your Dad clever?”

Taking her cue from his jovial tone, she chirped back, “I worship the ground you walk on, Dad.”

“Jolly right, o empress of the air.”

Aranya said, “O faithful subject, her reptilian magnificence demands to know if there was any other news from Princess Zuziana?”

“This curl of scroll-leaf, marked for your eyes only.”

“Ha. I knew it.” She scanned the brief message. It was Zip through and through. “A kiss for the bearded pirate,” she said, wriggling free of Yolathion’s arms to deliver a smacker upon her father’s cheek, “and Yolathion, she dares you to kiss a Dragon.”

“Did that yesterday,” he retorted, stifling a blatantly fake yawn. “King Beran, we’re here, right? Right on the border of Ur-Tagga Cluster? Your proposed night attack surprises me. According to the moon almanac, Iridith will be below the horizon until the early hours – ah, but Jade, White and Blue are all full. Now it makes sense.”

“Your student is making progress, Dad,” said Aranya.

“You need to stoke up your fires, daughter,” said Beran. “How’s best to get you in the mood for battle?”

“Wait, I volunteer for this most perilous duty,” said Yolathion.

Beran averted his face from the Jeradian to make a funny expression for Aranya alone. She almost choked with embarrassed laughter. Not only did her cheeks turn scarlet, but her inner fires roared to life, too. Aranya had to clamp down on her response before their map burst into flame. But when Yolathion wrestled her onto his lap to allegedly stoke her Dragon fires, a small whirlwind of fire did indeed burst into being beneath the table and scorched his trouser-leg before dancing next to the crysglass window for a few seconds.

All too soon, battle called. Aranya left the navigation room to transform into her Dragon form – but she was not smarting. Yolathion’s droll comments had provided the perfect distraction.

The Immadian Dragonship fleet doused all lights and stilled their meriatite furnace engines, drifting on the breeze toward the outermost Island of Ur-Tagga Cluster, which was only a quarter-league across and dominated by a Sylakian fortress set on a steep hill.

“Eighteen Dragonships,” Aranya hissed down to her father from her perch atop the Dragonship. “Possibly more hidden behind the hill.”

A red lantern winked from Beran’s flagship, sending an agreed signal to eight of the Immadian Dragonships. They drifted into the Island’s nearest bay and threw down anchors. Four hundred dark Western Isles warriors swarmed down the anchor ropes and melted into the night. The eight Dragonships, catapults and war crossbows manned and primed for action, slipped away to make a flanking attack from the east. The Amethyst Dragon drifted upward on a warm bed of air, almost a daytime thermal, carrying Yolathion aloft. She searched the night with all her senses alert. Her spine-spikes tingled with anticipation.

There, a signal from near the base of the fortress walls. The ground forces were in place.

Go, my friends. Disable the sleeping Dragonships.

The ice-dragonets flitted across the face of the White moon, almost invisible to the naked eye.

Aranya concentrated deeply, readying and shaping her stomach fires. She waited on King Beran’s signal. His Dragonships floated toward the fortress as if they were great fish swimming in the moonlight, one hundred and fifty feet of volatile hydrogen gas encased in a thin sack. How could the watch not see them? A purple light winked from the foremost Dragonship. Her colour. Aranya surged forward with a powerful wingbeat that brought her wingtips almost to touching beneath her body. She flapped twice more before she came within range of the fortress. Her Dragon vision focussed on the gates. She saw every bolt and nail, the splinters on the weathered surface, the mark of a blast of fire which must once have charred the wood. She saw the faces of three sentries in the guardhouse turning toward the movement they finally saw in the air.

Pfft! Pfft! Two of her tiny fireballs seared the night. The massive wooden gates exploded in a sheet of flame a hundred feet tall. Her neck snaked sideways and her cheeks puffed slightly. Pfft! Fire rocketed into the huge central catapult emplacement, setting something off – perhaps a barrel of oil, because the secondary explosion was even bigger than the first. The Dragoness’ reactions took over, wheeling her away from the pyre instinctively, cutting her turn so close that flame licked across her paws and tail.

Unruly, alluring flames! Aranya yanked her attention back to the battle.

Screaming and bellowing, the Warlords and their warriors sprinted out of the darkness. The left gate, sagging on its hinges, yielded almost immediately to their eager blows. The bare-footed warriors ran straight over the burning wood, fighting each other to be first into the fortress and gain glory and names in the praise-songs they would compose afterward. Aranya caught her breath. There was something awesome and primal in that sight, a kind of collective madness she had never quite appreciated in the same way. The Sylakians had discipline. The Western Isles warriors were a river of passion run wild.

Spinning mid-air, she oriented herself according to Yolathion’s shout. “Hold on, Rider.”

Crossbow quarrels hissed through the night. Aranya dodged twice, grunting as an oblique shot glanced off her scales. Her throat worked. Pfft! A crossbow emplacement roared into flame. Soldiers leaped off the walls to save their skins from a roasting.

A shrill discharge of magic registered on her senses. Where? Her neck twizzled urgently as she scanned the battlefield. Five Sylakian Dragonships sagged toward the ground. Three rose skyward, bravely flying Sylakia’s screaming windroc, but they were under heavy attack by the dragonets. Two men falling from the gantries briefly captured her notice. Then Aranya saw a shadow lift from the ground beneath the Sylakian Dragonships, a giant shadow with leathery wings and flight struts and a tail. Her claws clenched painfully. Dragon!

Good, or evil?

“Yolathion! A Dragon – there, by the Dragonships!”

“Hit it, Aranya.”

She shook her head. “What if it’s the one we’re looking for?”

“You’d better be certain.”

The Dragon rose into the moonlight, a heavy Green Dragon, glistening as though his hide were wet from rain. He lumbered through the air as though flying pained him, but she also realised that his scales were massively armoured, making him a flying fortress.

Who are you? Aranya called.

So, Shapeshifter, we meet at last, he replied. The timbre of his mental voice indicated an old Dragon. I am Harathion, great-uncle of Thoralian. Flee this place before you taste my wrath and fall into the Cloudlands.

I am Aranya of Immadia. I flee no Dragon. Are you friend or foe?

Know you nothing, little one? Dragon-laughter, cruel and cold, rumbled from his mighty chest. She knew the truth before he spoke, but even so, the rich scorn in his voice appalled her. I was old long before your grandfather was born. I have fought more Dragon battles than I have summers of life. Did you not slay Garthion? Did you not declare war upon my family and all that is ours? You naïve hatchling, you should never have left the egg. We destroyed Izariela. Now, the profound pleasure of destroying her daughter shall be mine.

Their exchange took place at the speed of thought. Aranya tensed. He dared to mock her mother’s death?

Behind her, Yolathion cursed quietly as he detected his Dragon’s response. He barked, “Attack him! What’re you waiting for?”

Aranya spat a fireball. Pfft! Harathion did not even bother to dodge. He took her shot full on the chest and through the boiling cloud of fire and smoke, roared a mighty challenge mingled with laughter. His own fireball sizzled upward, but his aim was poor. Aranya began to duck, but aborted the movement.

How did one attack another Dragon? Hit the wings? Those didn’t have scale-armour. Garthion’s wings had been shredded by an explosion right beneath him. No conventional attack would work against a Dragon of his experience. Aranya narrowed her eyes, keeping her distance from the Green as he gained altitude. Was he really that slow? Or was this a tactic to test her patience?

Time for a decision. The Amethyst Dragon trimmed her wings and accelerated, firing her miniature fireballs rapidly, four in a single burst. Harathion furled his wings to remove them from harm’s way, but one fireball struck the edge of his right wing and blasted a hole there. Aranya growled. She needed to hit bone or flight struts, clearly – or strike him with a larger fireball, the kind that had burned her throat to cinders before. She did not want to close with the Green Dragon.

Harathion turned and began to flap ponderously toward her father’s Dragonships.

“Quick, throw him off course,” cried Yolathion.

But the Green Dragon watched them covertly. What on the Islands could she do? Warm up her Storm powers? How did she do that? Well, if he was faking, so could she.

Aranya darted forward, claws outstretched, reaching for his wingtip. The move was meant as a feint. But she had only an instant’s warning before his massive green tail whipped into her line of sight. Quick as she was, the Green Dragon was quicker. Aranya squealed inadvertently as a crushing weight struck her in the lower back region. But she curled beneath his claw-strike by instinct, tearing a decent chunk out of his left wing-membrane in passing. Harathion roared in pain. Aranya tumbled away from the snap of his jaws. Unholy Dragon fire, those fangs! He had to be twice her size and more.

She heard the twang of a bowstring. An arrow lodged in the Dragon’s belly, but did not appear to do any damage. Deliberately, Harathion aimed a fireball at her father’s Dragonship.

You overgrown ape! Aranya shouted. Harathion’s head jerked, making him miss the shot.

With a tail-whiplash of her own, Aranya nipped around Harathion using a backflip manoeuvre Sapphire was fond of. As a forty-foot Dragon, she was not nearly as agile in the air, but it took her outside his field of sight for a vital instant. Aranya’s forepaws smashed into the Green Dragon’s left wing, breaking flight struts and tearing through the membrane in numerous places. Harathion howled fit to split the skies. She was so intent on her attack, so awed at the taste of Dragon blood, that she did not see his lashing tail in time.

Pain burst into her chest. Coughing, choking and wheezing, Aranya saw black. A searing fire bit her shoulder; a sword-like claw embedded there. She ripped herself free by instinct, dropping fifty feet to avoid the disembowelling thrust of his massive hind claws.

“Aranya? Aranya?” cried Yolathion.

“I’m … fine.”

“You’re bleeding masses,” he said, adding a few colourful epithets aimed at the Green Dragon.

“Not as badly as him.”

Aranya had made an impressive mess of the middle of Harathion’s wing. But he still had enough wing surface left to keep aloft. Golden Dragon blood poured out of the major wing arteries. His long neck snaked as he oriented on them now, abandoning any pretence of struggling or age. Harathion drove forward with abundant power.

Chase this, you disgusting slob. The Amethyst Dragon executed a rapid turn, avoiding his rush. But her pursuer cocked his head sideways and sprayed a fine green mist across her flight path. There was so much, she could not avoid it all.

“Poison!” shouted Yolathion.

Aranya writhed in an attempt to protect her Rider. Her hindquarters swished through the fine mist. Smoke rose from her scales as a horrific fizzing sound came to her ears. Acid! She had forgotten this most potent Green Dragon attack. How could she stop it? The scales bubbled as the powerful acid burned through to the sensitive nerves beneath. Aranya’s shriek of anguish drowned out the sounds of the battle.

Dimly, she heard Yolathion shouting, “Water. There, fly to the water!”

Aranya folded her wings and dived for the small lake, just a couple of hundred yards from the fortress walls. She landed hard, dashing water in all directions. The relief was instantaneous. Cool water washed over her burns. For a moment, she enjoyed the respite. Then, she summoned her courage and launched herself upward, sheeting water from her Dragon hide. The Green Dragon’s acid had set every nerve in her back and legs on fire. Aranya remembered what Nak had taught her. Use the pain. Flow with it. Use her hurts to sharpen the Dragon powers.

Strength flooded her muscles. Yolathion gasped as Aranya assaulted the skies. Perhaps he had thought her beaten. That too was fuel to her fires. Her three hearts pounded as a familiar potential gathered in her belly, a certain tightness that spoke of the power coalescing there, a thrumming in her ears that she suddenly realised was her body preparing for an attack – the sphincter muscles in her ear canals tightening to protect the highly sensitive Dragon eardrums.

“Shield your ears,” she threw over her shoulder.

Yolathion just stared at her foolishly.

Now she opened her mouth, careful to conceal the power she hid. You flabby green slug, Aranya called up to Harathion. You fly like a colossal lump of snot!

The massive Green’s eyes bulged. As the smaller Amethyst Dragoness flew straight at him, she saw a secretive smile curve his lips. His cheeks flexed ever so slightly to expel a thin, almost invisible stream of acid.

Aranya’s Storm-generated bellow struck him like a thunderclap, a wall of air that slapped the acid back in his face and shovelled it down his throat. Harathion’s wings quivered helplessly as the high winds thrust him backward. Aranya gathered her magic, drawing it together, concentrating the storm forces within her being. As his mouth gaped open to take his next breath, she fired a brilliant blue fireball straight down his gullet.

Thump. A muffled explosion shuddered Harathion from muzzle to tail. For an unending, awful moment, as the Green Dragon kept flapping his wings, Aranya thought her plan had failed. Then a burst of sapphire fire lit his scales from beneath. An expression of faint amazement crooked his mouth.

Harathion dropped from the sky, dead.

* * * *

King Beran placed a small stool next to Aranya’s bunk and seated himself stiffly. “Getting too old for this battle nonsense,” he grunted.

“Dad, you’re only fifty-three summers –”

“And I feel about eighty after a night spent thumping Sylakians.” Beran eyed his daughter, lying on her stomach beneath a thin sheet. “Alright, Sparky?”

“Sore,” she admitted. “My healing power has eased the worst of the acid burns, but I still needed half a pot of numb-wort for the pain. The medic was decidedly grumpy.”

“By the mountains of Immadia, when that Green Dragon rose –”

“You thought, ‘My daughter’s going to have that flying ralti sheep for breakfast’, right?”

Beran’s eyes twinkled at her enthusiastic interjection. He said, “I discovered that fathers can fear for their Dragon-daughters. How did you defeat him? When you landed in the lake, I swear I had to fish my heart out of the Cloudlands. And then you rose glorious and compelling and I knew – I just knew – that you’d kill him. Foolish, aren’t I?”

Never foolish, she thought, letting her eyes communicate her pride and gratitude. She said, “How did you know, Dad?”

“Your spirit was greater than his.” Aranya shivered. After a long silence, he touched her chin. “You’re catching flies, Sparky. Come, teach me about fighting Dragons.”

“Well, I spoke to him in Dragonish. Harathion was evil, Dad. He said he was Thoralian’s great-uncle. When he laughed … well, he can’t possibly have been the one Fra’anior mentioned. I hope not. Harathion was so thickly armoured I couldn’t get a fireball through his hide, so I tried for the wings, but then he burned me with his acid. Yolathion did well, Dad. He ordered me to jump in the lake.”

“You burst his eardrums,” King Beran put in.

“Oh. I did warn him.” Remembering the look on Yolathion’s face afterward, Aranya bit her lip. “I scared the living pith out of him, Dad. Well – I remembered how the scrolls I read in Remoy said that Green Dragons were immune to their own acid. Did you notice how wet his skin appeared? Green Dragons secrete a highly alkaline mucus to protect themselves. First, I blew his acid back in his face. Of course he closed his eyes to protect his eyeballs. Then I waited for him to take his next breath.”

“And stuffed a fireball down his throat?”

“A Storm or Lightning fireball – a blue one, Dad. They’re more powerful than the yellow fireballs, which are pure Dragon fire.”

King Beran regarded her so gravely for so long that Aranya began to worry about what he was thinking. He said, “Sparky, you were awesome. Yolathion has to respect that.”

Was he also concerned that Yolathion did not respect her enough? This added weight to her worries. Her father might sometimes be as distant as an Island wrapped in clouds, but his insight was dagger-sharp – a little too sharp, she thought wryly. Pressing her lips into a thin line, Aranya ventured the question which had been burning in her heart for days.

“Dad, if Mom ever recovered – I mean, it’s impossible, but if she did, and there were two women living who you loved, what would you do?”

“Asking the easy questions, my daughter?” he chuckled.

“Always.”

“The hard truth is, I don’t love Silha the way I loved Izariela.” Beran heaved a sigh worthy of five men. “With your mother it was a soaring-over-the-Islands love. She was like you, all fire and passion, an artist, as beautiful as the dawn. After she died, I never thought I’d love again. You helped me.”

“I did?”

“You drew me out of the dark places with your tears and smiles, Aranyi, with your zest for life and endless questions and … love. Silha is a still pool. With her I find a place of rest and peace. It’s still a deep connection, but different – I’m older now. Maybe that’s it.”

He shifted on the stool, suddenly restless. “Can I venture an opinion on Yolathion?”

She nodded, robbed of words.

“Firstly, and I say this not just because I’m your Dad and irretrievably biased –” he paused to enjoy her quiet laughter “– but I want you to know, Aranya, and not only to know, but to grasp soul-deep, that Yolathion would be a fool to lose you. Islands’ sakes, it’s complicated. You’re a Princess, a criminal, a Shapeshifter Dragon and a woman on a mission to change the world. You have prodigious power. Your very existence is a web of mysteries we haven’t plumbed the half of.”

The Black Dragon might roar in her dreams, but her father’s words struck her with the force of a falling Island.

“If you were to ask me what I fear, then I would say I fear that Yolathion sees a rare beauty and a talented woman who would grace his arm, bear his children, and little more.” Beran essayed a brittle smile. “Would that he’d prove me wrong. The traditional Jeradian or Sylakian way, you see, is a matter of convenience. But there are Jeradians and Sylakians who have long and meaningful relationships indistinguishable from Immadian marriages. If your old father were allowed to offer any advice, he would say, be certain that Yolathion respects you for who you are and all that you are – Human and Dragon – before you commit to him.”

Aranya stared into space, mulling over his words. She pushed the words into Dragon-Aranya’s brain, too, wondering what that part of her thought. Her stillness deepened. Her Dragon senses stirred, identifying the tiniest hairs stuck to her pillow-roll, the multi-coloured strands of her strange tresses, turquoise and orange, black and blonde, white and pink, and she wondered how anyone could ever learn to love all the strands that went to make up Aranya.

Her sensitised ears caught a soft boot-step moving away from the door. Had someone been eavesdropping? Yolathion? Could he even hear through a closed door?

Beran squeezed her fingers. “You need to rest and recover. One more thing, Sparky.”

“Dad?”

“You’re young. Have fun. The fate of the Island-World does not rest upon your shoulders alone. When you and I are long dead, these Islands will still be standing, and Humans and Dragons will still be arguing and fighting wars. Guard your soul with every power at your command, but if you want to kiss Yolathion, then kiss him with all of your heart.”

A brilliant smile soared from her heart to her lips. “Dad, you’re amazing.”

“Stars are amazing. I’m just a Dragon’s father.”

* * * *

A league above the Dragonships, drifting through an immense stillness to the accompaniment of what she had come to think of as wind-song sighing across her scales, Aranya surveyed the Island-World. Ostensibly, she was looking for Dragons. Many Islands lay scattered beneath her. The further south and west they travelled, the richer and denser the vegetation, and the greener the Islands as a result. She imagined an enormous, world-spanning Dragon’s paw scattering these Islands hither and thither, perhaps a Dragoness, whispering, ‘I scatter these jewels across the crown of the world.’ Jewels? Or elongated crystalline teardrops, piercing the Cloudlands like the icicles that gathered on the eaves of Immadian houses in the winter?

Yolathion could not fly with her. His ears hurt too much.

The solitude sang to her soul. No wonder Izariela had loved to go to the top of her tower to watch dawn breaking over the Cloudlands. Aranya sighed with the heaviness of three laden Dragon-hearts. Those memories were so fragmentary, formed when she was so young, that it was hard to know for certain what was real and what she wanted to imagine was real. Izariela the Star Dragon. Izariela, King Beran’s wife. Izariela, the woman who must have flown in her Dragon form with Aranya in her womb.

How was that even possible? Where did the other form reside meantime, with another life beating within it? Did the baby transform at the same time as the mother? And, for that matter, could a Shapeshifter start life as a Human foetus or as a Dragon egg, or either of the two?

Her eye kept returning to Naphtha Cluster. Black, brooding rock, a blot amongst the otherwise emerald lilies adorning the Cloudlands, were those fatal clouds only a lake and the Islands leaves floating upon opaque waters. Where were the grasses and the fields, the tangled forests and the meadows? Why was that Island-Cluster different?

She could as well watch from a league forward of the Dragonships, or two, or ten. Aranya’s wingbeat quickened. She should spy on the Sylakian fortress beyond Naphtha Cluster. And beyond that? At last, the most westerly of the Western Isles. Yanga Island, west of which lay Cloudlands to the end of the world.

The name drew her eye every time she read the map. King Beran’s forces would not need to travel that far, she knew. After this fortress, they would start the eastward push to secure Jeradia and Fra’anior. Beran planned to skirt the Spits to their north-easterly side, making a strike for Yorbik Island and a reunion with Commander Darron, Zip and Ri’arion.

Oh, Zip. Please be safe, Zip, she breathed to the wind and the Islands.

Yorbik dwarfed all other Islands. That was where the huge shipyards were located, the engineering bays within which they built the great Sylakian Dragonship fleets which dominated the world. If the shipyards fell, then the days of Sylakia’s power were numbered, unless Thoralian had more Dragons.

Then, the eventual prize – Sylakia itself. Bait the rajal in his den.

Fra’anior? Is Yagga Island where I should search for the Dragon?

The whispering of the wind swallowed her plaintive call.

As Aranya approached Naphtha Cluster, realisation struck as if she had swallowed a six-foot crossbow quarrel. The rock was bare because it had been burned. The black was the soot and scorch marks of Island-wide fires. A tiny amount of greenery was growing back, like the first fuzz of hair after a head had been shaved, but the colour struck her as sickly. On her father’s map this Cluster had been marked as a populous one, one of the most populous in the Western Isles. Now there was nothing.

Only wind keening across barren rock.

Sick to her stomach, Aranya understood the reality of what she had heard but not appreciated with such visceral clarity, until now. Rolodia Island had rebelled against the Sylakians. They had razed the Island, slaughtered the people, poisoned the lakes, and burned the fields and forests. That was what had happened here. The destruction was too complete to be anything but man-made. Island after Island, large and small, tens of Islands across the space of several square leagues, had succumbed to the scourge of the Sylakian Empire. She saw the shells of iron cart-wheels, the bleached white of bone piles and the beams of houses or buildings lodged way down the cliffs. The Sylakians had thrown anything that remained after their destruction, off the cliffs.

The sorrow in her Dragon-hearts sobbed across the land, mingling with the moaning of the desolate wind.

Chapter 8: Battle Joined

Ardan thrashed against his pillow-roll.

Fire! Ash billowing into the sky, fires everywhere he looked, running over burning rock, his heart pounding in his throat as he ran to escape the fires … but his legs slowed. The powerful running stopped. Suddenly, he could not move. His eyes would not even close.

He lay like that for an eternity before he heard the bolts scraping at his door.

“Awake, pretty boy?”

Rocia? Ardan wanted to turn toward her, but his body remained immobile.

“Find the snake,” said Rocia. “Get him on a litter.”

Torchlight flickered across his eyes. By the sounds, he knew there were several women in the room with him. His vision lurched as someone pushed his body with their boot. He saw Rocia, Mardia and a number of other warriors – six in all. What were they doing? Why couldn’t he move? Where was Kylara? Now he remembered – she had departed the previous day for the villages.

“Snake did the job?” said a voice.

Rocia said, “Can’t move a muscle.”

Snake? Was that the reason for his paralysis? The roof moved above him. He felt strangely dislocated, as though he were floating through Kylara’s bedchamber. The warriors carried Ardan through an interminable number of tunnels, and then out in the open for what felt to him to be several hours. At some point in the starlit journey, he felt a quiver return to his eyelids. The paralysis was wearing off.

Now they carried him into a cool, dank tunnel. A narrow entryway led to what he sensed was a large open space. The torchlight receded. He heard wooden mallets pounding, great blows coming dully to his desensitised hearing. The warriors dumped him on the sandy floor. His arms and legs moved. A hint of feeling stole back into his muscles, enough to let him know that he was being lashed to stakes in a spread-eagle position.

“What you gonna tell Kylara?” asked Mardia.

Rocia spat on Ardan’s leg. “This boy’s playing our Warlord for a fool. Anyone can see she’s naïve. We make him talk, nice-like, and then we throw him off a cliff. Tell Kylara he ran away. Ran away, got that?”

“Aye,” said Mardia. “Why not leave him for the caveworms?”

“Gotta make sure the job’s done.” Rocia’s face hove into view above Ardan. “Ya got powers, boy? Ya take a stroke as could fell a windroc, and don’t die? Something’s not right. And I don’t buy this ‘I don’t remember’ pony-manure. Ya talk, ya die. That’s today’s work for ya.”

Ardan’s fingers quivered.

“Got to wait for the poison to wear off,” said another warrior. “He won’t feel it otherwise.”

“Aye. Drink, anyone?” Rocia asked. “Besides, I’m getting tired of playing second rajal to Kylara. Maybe she needs to fly, too.”

So, Rocia plotted against Kylara. He should have guessed she had ambitions. The warriors passed around a gourd of potent prekki spirit. Gradually, Ardan began to notice light filtering down from somewhere above. The cavern was huge, disappearing into shadows in every direction. He saw how the warriors had staked him out. No chances. The ropes securing his wrists and ankles were double-lashed to thick stakes driven deep into the cavern floor. Some feeling had crept back into his limbs, but not enough.

This was looking even worse than the day Kylara had tried to spill his brains out beneath the prekki-fruit tree.

Ardan cleared his throat. He felt as though he had been gargling rocks all night. “I don’t suppose you’d skip this if I entertained you with a song and a dance?” he croaked.

Rocia smiled a windroc’s smile at him. “Too late for that, boy. Sudden urge to talk?”

“Can’t we reach an understanding?”

“Had ya opportunity. Lost it,” she said. Rocia pulled a large, tightly-lidded metal container out of her backpack. The lid had holes punched in it. “Don’t know if ya heard of these, slave? Cannibal slugs. A special surprise of these caves.” Twisting open the container, Rocia peered inside. “They’ll eat just about any flesh. We use them to clean animal skins. Don’t like the hide, ya see. But they’ll pick anything else perfectly clean.”

She leaned over him and with her dagger-point, traced several lines on his stomach. Blood welled up instantly. “We’ll give them a taster over here.”

Carefully, Rocia tipped the jar and dropped several slugs on his stomach. Ardan’s eyes widened. Five inches long and a revolting luminous green in colour, the slugs reminded him of the swamp leeches of his native Naphtha Cluster. Cool slime trailed across his skin.

“They have little teeth on the underside. Kind of like a file or a rasp. Whatever they do or secrete, it burns like nothing you ever felt before. So, what’s ya real name?”

“Ardan, best I remember.”

He gazed down his body. The slugs moved slowly but inexorably, aiming for the thin trails of blood on his skin. His skin burned like an acid bath. He tested the lashings with strength born of a growing, burning discomfort. He bit his lip, hard. Rocia tipped several more slugs onto his stomach and chest.

“Tell us about ya powers, Ardan.”

“Put them in his armpits, Rocia,” said Marcia. “He’ll sing like a parakeet.”

Sweat broke out on Ardan’s forehead. He groaned, “I don’t have powers. You have to believe me.”

“Better start talking.”

Now he felt the tiny rasps working on his flesh, abrading his skin, scraping the raw nerve endings to produce an exquisite kind of pain he had never experienced before. He would rather have had a dagger plunged into his gut, or walked across red-hot coals. The pain was excruciating. It excised his courage and unmanned him. Moaning, Ardan threw all of his strength against the ropes. He tasted blood in his mouth as his back arched up off the ground, clenched in an impossible, never-ending muscle spasm. And still the pain piled on, layer upon layer, suffocating in its intensity, driving through his body and mind like a storm ripping across an Island, taking everything with it. His world was anguish. He could think of nothing else.

“I’ve seen a man twist up so good he broke his own back,” Rocia said to Mardia. “Oh look, one fell off. Put it back.”

“Gaaarargh!” screamed Ardan.

“Ya powers, Ardan. How’d ya stop Kylara’s blade? Tell me, and I’ll take the slugs off ya.”

Someone was sobbing, sobbing for relief as the slugs peeled away his skin. Rocia kept nagging with her questions. The torment continued without a second’s respite. They added slugs to his inner thighs and the crook of his left elbow. The women passed around the flask of spirits, clearly settling in to enjoy the spectacle of his suffering. Shrill laughter surrounded him. The warriors unearthed another container and added slug after slug, until his body was covered in caustic slime and the slugs crawled over each other to try to find untouched skin to flay.

The slugs ate very slowly. Each rasped the skin separately, a point of pain somewhere in a universe of agony, while he screamed worse than a woman in the throes of childbirth. Ardan would have done anything, said anything, promised anything, to make it stop.

But the burning continued, tongues of agony lapping at his insides, until through the wall of white pain Ardan began to see impossibilities, to hallucinate, to know that he was lying atop a bonfire and the fires were burning in him and through him, cleansing and reaming, stripping away his humanity until nothing remained but the animal within, the animal squealing in mortal pain beneath the beaks of the predators, the six windrocs around him tearing at his entrails while he lay helpless to stop them, the claws tearing apart his rib-cage to expose his throbbing pink heart to the open air, until he no longer knew his name or his past and he was back beneath the prekki-fruit tree, and still further back, finding his way across the Cloudlands and he was …

Drowning. Shooting comet-like across the Island-World. A volcano of power surged up from his gut, unstoppable.

No-longer-Ardan stood beneath the mountain, feeling the weight of ancient rock pressing down upon his presence, and he became the beast. A roaring shook the cavern as though an earthquake had struck in that small space.

Little creatures screamed and flapped about him. He swatted two of them. Pesky insects. Hunger raged inside his belly, consuming all even as the pain had consumed him in the time before. Meat! He needed meat. He was faint with hunger, starving, weak and trembling with his need. The beast flung itself around the cavern, meeting rock everywhere. No tunnel was large enough to allow him passage. He bellowed and clawed at the rock. Food! Quell the pangs!

There. The sensitive nostrils presented a delicious scent to his brain. He pounced, bit deep, and fed. All was blood. Blood was good.

The insects were gone. Three lay crumpled before him, never to move again. The creature ate of the long meat-worm until it stopped twitching and his belly groaned with fullness.

Then, he slept.

* * * *

In the clouded skies above Naphtha Cluster, the Amethyst Dragon panted to Yolathion, “They’re on high alert.”

“No jokes, eh?”

“Ten Dragonships hiding behind the northern cliff. We need to tell my Dad.”

“And only twenty-two above the fortress.” Because of his ear protection, the giant Jeradian was almost shouting at her. “Even numbers, but you know what that means in a Dragonship battle.”

“Aye.” The Dragoness’ lip curled. “We need to break the line and convince them we’re not here to play Staves with them.”

After briefing King Beran, Aranya and Yolathion headed toward the blocky black fortress. The Sylakian forces were distributed above and around it, protecting each other with overlapping fields of fire for their war crossbows and catapults. Each of the four corner towers boasted a towering war catapult, a structure some thirty feet tall. They would most likely be loaded with metal or rock shrapnel, which worked as effectively for downing Dragonships as it did against Dragons.

Directly above the fortress, one of the hulking four-hundred-foot armoured Dragonships motored against the blustering breeze. Four footings on the gantries above the hydrogen sack housed catapults which could shoot nets designed to snarl a Dragon’s wings – as she well knew.

The brisk wind made it a difficult day for a Dragonship battle. Aranya examined an unfamiliar tension in her belly, as though one of her stomachs had stretched to contain an overload of Dragon fire. She glanced beyond the dark battlements. The south-western horizon struck her as ominous, a deep copper colour with distinctly green overtones, as though the sky were a once-bright metal, corroded and discoloured. Fractious growls of thunder carried to her Dragon hearing. Displeased Land Dragons arguing, she thought, with a sharp, painful clenching of her flight muscles. Now, where had that odd thought popped up from?

Aranya felt curiously unsettled as she returned her gaze to the largest Dragonship. It was only a storm. The Western Isles were said to suffer from huge windstorms. Perhaps that gave them an eroded, maltreated air, with prekki trees that hunched over like old men before the prevailing winds, and rock formations carved by the constant struggle against the elements. Anyways, this battle would be over long before the lightning and hail arrived.

Yolathion eyed the largest Dragonship with equal unhappiness, although for different reasons. “I remember capturing you with one of those.”

“That was quite a battle.”

“But I beat you,” he replied, with a tight smile. “I beat a Dragon, whereupon a Princess of Immadia appeared before my eyes and jumped off my Dragonship.”

“You can just erase that image from your memory.”

His grin widened. “Why?”

“Zip was dying. That’s the only reason you caught us. If my Rider had been well, we would’ve taken you out with the Pygmy bow and kept on flying all the way to Immadia.”

“Besides,” Yolathion retorted, patently irked by her response, “you were covered in so much blood I barely recognised you. Neither the most flattering nor romantic image I have of you, Princess. Why can’t you just admit when you’re beaten? Why does everything need to be a battle with you?”

Stung, Aranya surged forward, closing with the Sylakian Dragonship fleet. Flame filled her body and mind, crackling in her ears and sparking from her nostrils.

“What happened to that sweet girl I danced with in the Tower?”

Aranya roared, “She became a Dragoness! You just don’t get it, do you? I’m still that girl, but I’m also a Dragon. It’s all me, all Aranya.”

“Now’s hardly the best time –”

“No, because everything’s a battle with you!”

The Amethyst Dragon cleaved the air with the force of her passage. Yolathion could not get the spark-stone working to light his oil pot, especially as she side-slipped three crossbow quarrels and then lifted dramatically to dodge a glittering spray of metal shards shot from the Dragonships’ catapults. Human-Aranya always had a temper. Her Dragon form made controlling her anger almost impossible – the overwhelming effect of adrenalin, the responsiveness of her fires and her emotions flaring and falling like sparks soaring from a bonfire, the power of a body and mind primed for hunting, battling and killing – she had to learn control. Otherwise, she’d hurt someone she loved.

“Rolling,” she warned Yolathion.

Aranya spiralled to her port flank, doing her utmost to confuse the catapult engineers as she feinted for one of the smaller Dragonships, before abruptly homing in on the largest. Intense blue fire seared out of her throat, the biggest fireball she had ever produced. It struck the windroc symbol on the side of the Dragonship squarely on the beak.

“Now burn, you beauty,” she whispered, looking on with an ominous smile.

The Dragonship was heavily armoured, a quarter-inch of metal sheeting over solid timbers, she had learned. How it even stayed up in the air was a mystery, given its monstrous bulk. Aranya tilted her wings into a graceful swoop as her Dragon sight detected molten metal dripping down the Dragonship’s flank, like bright blood pouring from an open wound. Yolathion needed no further warning. He raised his arm, highlighted by a brilliant light as if the suns reflected off a mirror. She felt the concussion wallop her entire body at once, while registering the sound as a dull thump against her eardrums. Suddenly, the sounds of battle roared into her ears again. How did her Dragon senses do that? Now she could hear crossbow quarrels; Aranya furled her left wing to take her into a dive.

“The fortress,” Yolathion ordered, unnecessarily.

Aranya ducked through the pall of oily, thick smoke, an amethyst-coloured shadow stalking the fortress. She let her instincts carry her through the field of fire, the massed ground and airborne weaponry desperately trying to track her swift flight.

Pfft! Pfft! Aranya punctuated her attack with a barrage of miniature fireballs. From her saddle, Yolathion took several speculative shots at barrels of oil standing in the courtyard, which were used by Dragonships when fighting ground troops. She remembered Harathion. As she thought about his Green Dragon attack, a strange magical perturbation shook her body. Aranya glanced at her paws in surprise. Her colour had taken a definite slew toward a sickly green. Moreover, she had an unaccustomed feeling in her belly. Perhaps she had learned to use another of her five stomachs?

As she arrowed toward the fortress gates, she expectorated three horrid gobs of rich green phlegm in quick succession. Her throat again acted like a long thin barrel, and the power of her shots made her gasp in surprise. Acid? She could produce an acid attack? Rich, fluorescent green splattered across the gate beams and the tall hinges. Acrid smoke boiled up as it ate both wood and metal. Screams rose from the Sylakian soldiers manning the gate.

“Up and right, there’s a Dragonship,” said Yolathion, drawing the bowstring back to his ear.

Her wings slashed the air, hurling them upward. Aranya hissed as catapult-shot pattered against her tail and tore holes in her inner left wing. Pfft! Her fireball streaked toward the offending emplacement.

KAARAABOOM!

Yolathion was learning to work with her, she thought, with a grateful smile.

The Sylakian Dragonship fleet drifted apart as they came under heavy attack. Once more, King Beran’s orders were to try to capture as many Dragonships as possible, but the Sylakians had no such scruples. Crossbow quarrels criss-crossed the sky like flights of angry windrocs sparring for territory. Two Sylakian vessels sagged, taken down by the dragonets. She saw three tiny white shapes falling to the ground.

Her Rider wiped his brow. “Gate emplacements. Our ground troops are nearly in position.”

“At once, Rider.”

She whirled into the heat of battle, letting a thunderclap of rage roll over the fortress. The madness was there within her, lurking, feasting on the smoke and fire and screams and the clash of metal upon metal. She fed the madness to her fires.

Aranya pursed her lips. Pfft! Her fireball exploded against a war catapult’s frame. Flames engulfed the wood. She saw a man running briefly, wreathed in fire, before falling off the battlement. Sadness reverberated within her Dragon hearts. If only there was another way. Now, melancholy eclipsed her exultation. These were peoples’ lives being spilled, and no amount of talk about the freedom of the Islands could bring them back to the Island-World. But they had chosen to serve Sylakia. Pfft! Another fireball lanced forth.

Turning her head to the sky, Aranya put the fortress’ destruction behind her. The gates, fallen. The raging fires. The soldiers still manning the walls. The screams of men locked in mortal combat, the howling of the Western Isles troops as they stormed the gates.

Why did she sense a Dragon? Wasn’t it just unease related to that storm darkening the horizon?

Aranya rose into the wind, smelling this way and that, extending her senses, her flight path taking her well above the battle.

“What’s the matter?” asked Yolathion.

“I thought I sensed a Dragon. Far away.”

Her Rider made a wordless snarl of frustration before grinding out, “You’re obsessed with this other Dragon. The battle is here! Concentrate!”

He was right. “Yes, Yolathion.” She sounded so meek, she hated herself. “Diving.”

Suddenly the wind buffeted them powerfully. Her acceleration made her Rider howl in surprise. From an almost standing start Aranya threw herself into a dive of over forty leagues per hour, faster than a man’s falling body. Amethyst streaked the sky.

Whomp! Aranya landed atop a Dragonship, using the soft hydrogen sack to break her fall. It ripped apart. The Amethyst Dragon rode the falling vessel for a moment, smiling at her father’s Dragonship directly opposite, before hurling herself at another group of three, where the dragonets were doing their deadly work. Her eyes lit on a soldier who crushed a dragonet with his war hammer. Aranya’s scream of raw fury cut across the battlefield.

Cutting across the path of a passing Dragonship and smacking it with her tail for good measure, ripping huge holes in two of the hydrogen compartments, Aranya aimed for the hapless Sylakian Hammer. He leaped to his death rather than face a Dragoness’ wrath. Aranya’s claws crunched into the dangling cabin. She punched her forepaw through the armour, finding the furnace room and smashing the furnace engine with a single blow.

Amethyst Mama-Dragon! called the dragonets, abandoning their attack to greet her.

My friends, Aranya welcomed them. Work with me.

Leading the dragonets, Aranya worked systematically to down the remaining enemy dirigibles. The Sylakian Hammers gave no quarter and refused to surrender. But they could not stand against the might of King Beran’s forces combined with the awesome power of an Amethyst Dragon.

* * * *

Aranya limped around the map table to place her finger on the map. “Ur-Yagga Cluster, Yanga Island, Dad. Somewhere here, or around here, one of these eleven Islands –”

“My daughter can hardly walk straight and has used up half my store of bandages, but she insists on going to hunt Dragons?”

Beran, patched in a few places himself after helping the ground troops mop up the pockets of Sylakian resistance inside the fortress, regarded her sternly. His tone made Sapphire bare her fangs; Aranya soothed the dragonet with a touch of her mind. As was her habit, Sapphire sat crouched on her left shoulder with her thin, whip-like tail coiled around Aranya’s neck.

But then King Beran shook his head and began to chuckle.

“What? What’s so funny, Dad?”

King Beran said, “When you get that determined look in your eye and jut your chin out just a bit, you look exactly like your mother. And I mean exactly.” Aranya favoured this idea with a disdainful sniff, but secretly, she was pleased. “To make your life easier, I shall therefore order Yolathion and four Dragonships to accompany you on this scouting mission.”

Her eyebrows shot upward. “Dad … Islands’ sakes, you’re just too observant sometimes.”

“Give your Dad a kiss, then.”

“A Dragon kiss?” she said, pertly.

“Right here.” He indicated his bearded cheek.

“With pleasure.” Aranya said, “An order would help. Skip the Dragonships, Dad. Yolathion and I can catch up with you far faster if we don’t have Dragonships slowing us down.”

“I want you to recruit some troops, Sparky.” There, the wily cliff-fox was back, his expression sharp in the cabin’s lamplight. “Our allies tell us that Yanga Island has a warrior force comprised solely of women.”

“Women warriors? In the Western Isles? Did they disparage them?”

“Severely,” said Beran. “What does that tell you?”

“They’re good.” Aranya grinned. “Any corroborating stories from the Sylakian captives?”

“Excellent, you’ve been listening with at least half an ear,” her father complimented her. “Apparently this all-female warrior force downed five Sylakian Dragonships about two weeks ago. Ground troops taking out Crimson Hammer troops and their supporting Dragonships, Sparky – you and I both know what a feat that is. Their leader is a woman called Kylara. She’s said to be tougher than a piece of dried goat sinew, and deadlier than a rajal.”

“You want me to recruit her?”

“That’s my girl.”

Chapter 9: The Fingers of Ferial

ENJOYING a turbulent following breeze, Commander Darron’s Dragonship fleet swept southwest from Gemalka to Helyon Island in just three days, pausing briefly to take on supplies before proceeding to Ferial, which lay only hours north of Yorbik, the largest known Island, which housed the well-fortified Dragonship factory site.

In the lamplight of the forward navigation cabin that evening, Darron’s face was as graven and leathered a map as the worn scroll which his forefinger rested upon. “Ferial Island is a Sylakian stronghold,” he said. “They’d like as welcome us with a crossbow quarrel between the teeth.”

Around the table, his captains nodded. One, with typically Immadian understatement, said, “Then we’ll tickle them with the feathers sticking out of our mouths, Commander.”

At her right side, Princess Zuziana sensed rather than saw Ri’arion smile.

Darron added, “It’s also the northern gateway to Yorbik Island – and I don’t need to tell you what a prize those shipyards are. We must not leave our backs vulnerable when we close the pincers on the Supreme Commander’s Dragonship fleet. Our spies still place them at Sylakia, as best we know, but the intelligence is almost a week old. Thoralian must respond, either to defend against Beran’s advance from the west or to protect Yorbik.”

“Or both, Commander.”

The grizzled Immadian Commander clinked slightly as he turned his gaze to Ri’arion. He always wore his armour. The armour had been polished, but still displayed the dents and dings of many years’ service. A plain sword and a pair of Immadian forked daggers hung at his belt. There was nothing flashy about him, yet the respect his captains accorded him was plain.

“Your sense of danger, Ri’arion?”

“It remains,” said the monk, firmly.

“But not Ferial? Definitely Yorbik Island?”

“Aye. I sense magic. Dimly, as if deeply hidden – yet the sense grows stronger the closer we draw to Yorbik.”

Darron’s lips compressed into a thin line. “You travelled this way once before.”

Ri’arion’s smile was an unapologetic grimace. “Aye, Commander. I cast my mind back, but I do not recall any such inkling then.”

“And what does your inkling indicate?”

Another military man might have poured scorn into that question, but not Darron, Zip thought. His father had been a Dragon Rider – the last Rider of Immadia Island, she had learned.

Ri’arion’s hand tightened on her waist as he replied, “Dragon magic.”

“Aye? Very well,” said the Commander. His finger stabbed the map once more. “First, we must deal with the unique challenges Ferial Island will pose for us. Princess, when your father and I scouted Ferial –”

“Wrong Princess,” said Zip, with a small chuckle. “You keep doing that, Commander. I’m the undersized Remoyan one, remember?”

The Commander guffawed, “Aye, I’ve written your name in bold, bad red ink on the scroll of people who dare to burgle my castle. And, you’ve a decidedly oversized lightning attack. That was impressive.” Zip decided not to alert him that her and Ri’arion’s mind-meld experiment was not progressing quite as impressively. He said, “Now, even a Dragoness needs to be wary around Ferial. The secret to their defence is the coal storks.”

“Coal storks?” Ri’arion frowned. “Aren’t they extinct?”

“Everywhere except Ferial, where they breed and train them in secret,” said the Commander. “Coal storks are carrion eaters. Wingspan around ten feet. Black as the night and the ugliest birds you’ll ever see – hence the name. But they have a two-foot beak that can stab through armour. Twenty or thirty can take down a Dragonship.”

Or a Dragon, Zip told herself, shivering, never more grateful to lean against Ri’arion’s solid frame. But a contrary, aggressive growl forced its way past the constriction in her throat. She snarled, “Just let me loose. I’ll shred those flying slugs!”

Zip clapped a hand over her mouth. What?

“Who unleashed the Dragoness?” chortled Ri’arion, patting her head. He dodged adeptly as she snapped at him. “Down, girl.”

Zuziana swallowed, shuddering, fighting her Dragon as it threatened to overwhelm her. “I’m … sorry, I …”

Ri’arion’s smile wavered. “Zuzi?” His cool fingers touched her forehead. “Here, how’s –”

“Get off me!”

She crashed against the crysglass window behind her. Choking. Weeping. Sweating. Yet with clenched jaw and an inner wrench, she denied her Dragon egress. No! These were her friends, her allies, and her beloved, who hurriedly re-established his inscrutable monk-face. For Ri’arion, the temptation to intervene with his Nameless Man powers must have been almost unbearable. She read his pain and anger with the sensitivity of her Dragon senses, the minute play of muscles along his jaw and the narrowing of his deep blue eyes, those windows to a universe of magic and power.

Zuziana stared at the tall Fra’aniorian. “Sorry, Ri’arion.” She smoothed her simple, turquoise Immadian gown with compulsive strokes of her hands, assuring herself, yes, she was Human-Zip. No, she was not an untameable beast. Dragon-Zip wanted out. She wanted to seize control, and the power she promised was both dangerous and frighteningly addictive. ‘When the time is right,’ she placated her Dragon-self. ‘Battle will come.’

They must think she was off-the-Island crazy.

Was she quite convinced of her own sanity?

Deliberately, Zip pushed herself off the cool crysglass and moved over to tuck her head beneath Ri’arion’s chin. “Hold me,” she whispered. Demanded, in truth, as her invisible but palpable Dragon form stirred her hidden pools of magic. Bathed in them. Drew on their strength. She had assumed the Dragon part of her would simply be her. Why this sudden lurch toward independence? Surely it was impossible for a Shapeshifter to cleave apart what was one, inextricably interwoven being? Yet she sensed an inner warring …

“Almost transformed,” she said into Ri’arion’s loose-weave shirt, holding him as though she could absorb his strength, his humanity, through her skin. After a brief pause, she turned her head. “Carry on, Commander. I’m fine.”

She was not. Zuziana had the distinct impression that her Dragoness was unimpressed at being subordinated to her Human form, and planned an insurrection at the earliest opportunity. Great Islands! Her Shifted form could not be a parasite, surely? What if Aranya had created a monster which planned to gobble her up … she gave herself a mental slap. What was she doing, dreaming up the night terrors of a five year-old? No. She would bring her two forms together, even if it killed her – no! She sighed.

Darron’s voice remained very dry as he said, “The birds are the first problem. We’ll load up with shrapnel and archers to counter them. The second problem is the fingers themselves. Ferial is like an upraised hand, as you know. Eleven fingers. Each rock spire is connected by the famous bridges. But it’s less well known that the bridges can be collapsed at strategic locations. Our goal is simple. Destroy the birds and disable their Dragonships. Thus isolated, they cannot harm us. And we will achieve this by sabotage.”

“Sabotage, Commander?” asked one of the warriors.

“Aye. I’ve a Dragoness up my sleeve.”

On cue, Zip’s Dragoness uttered a vicious growl.

* * * *

Dragon-Zuziana spent the remaining hours of darkness ferrying forty black-clad Immadian ‘specialists’, as Darron politely called them, three at a time, to the spires of Ferial. Eleven spires. Thirteen heavily-loaded trips – four men on the last, which was poor planning on her part – after which Zuziana thought her wings might just fall off. She clung to the Commander’s Dragonship, panting and groaning alternately, while her Rider fulminated beneath his breath at an Azure Dragoness who allowed others to ride on her back.

Zuziana was too puffed out to even crook a claw in protest.

The larger spires required four or five men to carry out Beran and Darron’s devious plans. Stealthily, using long ropes and climbing equipment especially developed for the frozen peaks of Immadia Island, the specialists rappelled down the allegedly unclimbable, sheer cliffs of Ferial, a mile or more before they reached the inhabited levels. In years past, spies had attempted to map out the caverns berthing Ferial’s Dragonship fleet and the coal stork holding pens. Now, that intelligence would be put to the test.

By the time Commander Darron joined her atop his Dragonship, Zip had regained her strength enough to playfully kiss the top of Ri’arion’s head. “My scales itch at the prospect of battle,” she said.

“My pate itches at the proximity of a Dragon’s fangs,” he returned. “What do you see, my keen-eyed reptilian beauty?”

“All is still …” Zuziana scanned the spires again. A light dawn mist wreathed the dark, vine-festooned spires and the bridges between the mystical spires. Then, movement caught her eye. “Wait. Dragonships on the move – three of them. No, five.”

“It was inevitable,” said Darron, raising his fist to signal the fleet.

The Azure Dragoness distinctly heard the furnace doors squeak open inside the Dragonship beneath her feet. The tempo of the engines quickened, pouring power into the six great turbines. However, unlike a Dragon, the Dragonships made headway reluctantly, their great weight and volume rendering them sluggish in the air.

Commander Darron elbowed Zip sharply in the flank. “How do you best like your Dragonships served, Lady Dragon?”

“Lightly toasted,” she grinned, thinking that if she’d been in her Human form, the swing of his armoured elbow would have knocked her right off the Dragonship.

“Good,” said the Commander. “Go warm up your toasting irons.”

Ri’arion sliced his hard-edged hand through the air as though he wished he could crush the fingers of Ferial by force of will alone. “Let’s ride.”

The Nameless Man gathered his power about him as if it were a swirling robe, mounting up with a series of sure leaps. Her Rider’s weight settled in the saddle. Zuziana, twizzling her neck, took in his frown of fierce concentration. Roaring rajals. There would be fire snorting from his nostrils next.

“We’ll test the mind-meld, Zip,” he announced briskly.

Zip nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Remember, we need to disable those Dragonships if possible. No triple lightning-strikes. I could not levitate you out of the Cloudlands.”

Zip swallowed a lump in her throat. An unexpected chink in his mental armour had revealed his true fear. A Dragon-sized chink. And now the serene monk-face was firmly back in place, his hands checking saddle straps and weapons, his mouth shaping words of magic in a language that sounded so similar to Dragonish, but was apparently unique to the warrior-monks of Fra’anior. She disguised a many-fanged grin by launching off the Dragonship’s platform, making the entire vessel lurch.

A Dragon’s wings cleft the gilded beams of a twin-suns dawn.

Impatience and fear quickened her Dragon hearts. But the Azure Dragoness retained the presence of mind to arrow her flight up into a wispy cloudbank. Any element of surprise was a good one. As she rose into the cool, moist clouds, Ri’arion’s mental presence solidified in her mind.

Ready, he said.

I open myself, she responded, following the exercises through which Ri’arion had patiently led his inadequate student. Zip sighed so hard that the air shimmered in front of her muzzle. He was just so – cerebral. Suddenly, his thoughts unfolded before her like a flower. The feedback of his weak Human senses supplanted her far richer, nuanced Dragon senses, while her Dragoness mentally scoffed at Human-Zip’s abilities in that area. See. Who was the superior beast?

Zuziana offered him her sight.

Watch this, Ri’arion.

The monk gasped. His sword was half-withdrawn from its sheath before he gave a low laugh. You see like this, Zip? I’ve a Dragonship right in front of my nose. Incredible! Oh … the colours and sensations flooding his brain were simply too powerful; Zip felt the instant he slammed up a pre-prepared filter. Oh! He fought for control, subsided, opened his own conduits once more.

Alright, Rider?

Ri’arion could not speak, at first. He wheezed, This is the best we’ve ever melded. Well done, dear one.

And they became two parts of one whole. The connection settled under the monk’s guidance. Jealousy mingled with temptation and admiration within him, but he held back his Nameless Man powers, which she perceived as a constellation of variegated jewels within his mind. So much magic! So fundamentally different from a Dragon’s nature. But his integrity remained intact. Human-Zip decided that alone was worth a dozen kisses. Dragon-Zip pictured turning cartwheels with him in the sky.

His mind lit up with a smile. Kisses and cartwheels?

Love and battle, it’s all the same to me.

Experimentally, he thought, Bank left.

Zip responded as smoothly as lava racing down a steep mountainside.

Awesome, her Rider exulted, pumping his fists toward the sky. You’re awesome. Now, we’ve a job to do.

His thoughts filled with a torrent of calculations and vectors and scenarios for destroying and disabling Dragonships, a plethora of spells to repel and destroy … Zip had to shunt his deliberations to one side simply to hear herself think. Mercy, this was harder than she had imagined.

The suns burnished her flank as she angled her flight path, trimming her wings for the deadly, attacking swoop. Ri’arion’s sword rasped free of its scabbard.

Let’s burn the heavens, Dragon.

Would that I had the fire to do so, Rider, she replied.

Then thy very scales shall blind them with thy glory, he said, but with a certain underlying grimness that Zuziana neither enjoyed nor understood. She felt chastened, very much the diminutive Remoyan, indistinguishable amongst her many siblings – and when had she started to think of her family in this way? Disgust soured upon her tongue.

Abruptly, Ferial’s Dragonships loomed in her sight. Alarm gongs crashed and catapults creaked, taking their aim. Ri’arion rose upon her back to prepare for his leap onto the first Dragonship.

Wait. Through the mental link, she helped him choose the instant she had side-slipped between their first shots, when her flight path would help him most.

The Azure Dragoness rocked under the force of his thrust. Zuziana’s long throat choked out the roar she had thought should stun them, but it sounded like a kitten’s meow compared to Aranya’s Storm-powered thundering. However, her speedy pass ripped a jagged, fifty-foot rent in the side of her chosen target.

Simultaneously, she was with Ri’arion, darting along the top of the next Dragonship, slanting his huge blade first downward into the hydrogen sack, then veering as a crossbow crew aimed at him, fleet of foot, spinning his weapon to sever the crossbow’s tensioning arm in conjunction with the hand that operated it, now lifting his eyes to check her position, thinking:

We’ll catch at the edge; swing over to the next vessel –

She pulsed back, Three more Dragonships east half a league, incoming –

– leaping –

– I’m here, beloved –

Landing lightly, perfectly synchronised on her back, Ri’arion said, Where are all the archers?

The Azure Dragon banked rapidly, but the mental forewarning of her action allowed him to adjust as though he were standing on level ground. He did not even attempt to grab a handhold. She slipped beneath the overhanging cabin of a Dragonship, bringing her Rider to his next target. Ri’arion sprang free, flying sixty horizontal feet to a safe, two-footed landing on the side of the Dragonship. Although he flew well, she sensed the output of magic required to levitate was a significant drain on his resources.

A slight change in air pressure was enough to warn her. Suddenly, the air above their heads was thick with dark wings and feathers. Coal storks! Ambush! Zip raced to claw and bite her way free, driven by Commander Darron’s assessment that the storks would immediately attack any Dragon – but that was a mistake. She broke into clear air.

Zuziana! Ri’arion’s shout rang in her mind. Too many …

Hacking, spinning, whirling that great sword about him as though he sought to surround himself with a wall of flashing death, the monk kept the mobbing birds at bay. Ten feet in wingspan, with leathery skins and beaks so tough they were able to deflect his blade, the entire flock of coal storks besieged the Nameless Man. Understanding flashed between them. It was the monk they wanted; he was the font of magical power, and they hated it with a passion that communicated itself in the set of every beak and claw.

Where had they come from? Zip’s frantic glance, as she flipped over in the air with a desperate change of direction, took in the open cargo bays beneath two of the Dragonships. The Ferial Islanders had modified their tactics. Each Dragonship concealed a deadly cargo. Even as she watched, doors swung open beneath the Dragonship just below her. Black feathers boiled free, cawing hungrily.

WHOMP! His magic flared, searing the air around him, burning the Dragonship’s sack. She responded instantly.

Zuziana flung herself at Ri’arion at the utmost speed her wings could produce. No time for a magical attack. He dived over the edge of the Dragonship, surrounded by birds jabbing at him with their beaks, and before she could cross the hundred-foot gap between them, an agonising pain stabbed into her shoulder. The Dragoness jerked as the birds gored her Rider. His mind-meld transmitted the pain of each and every puncture wound with perfect clarity, as if they struck her very soul with fear and pain. She floundered, thrashing as desperately as a hooked fish.

Even mid-air, the monk defended himself grimly.

KAARAABOOM!

Zuziana’s eyes cycled through black. A shockwave punched her body, but that was nothing compared to how it struck Ri’arion. He shot sideways, away from the knot of birds, thankfully colliding with the soft sack of a flanking Dragonship. Smoke billowed around them. Charred birds and Dragonship parts rained from the sky.

She wailed inwardly, No wonder they hid the archers. No need.

Help me, Zip!

Hundreds of coal storks and one frantic Dragon dove for the Nameless Man, who had shielded himself from the hydrogen explosion with his magic. His daggers flashed as he slid downward; Zip forced herself to ignore the flashes of pain in her arms and neck as the birds gouged and clawed the monk, seizing and shaking his boots, goring his thigh to the bone. She tried to sever the connection, but that made white agony flare within her skull.

Tooth and claw! That was what a Dragon did best. Zuziana snapped and clawed and burrowed into the falling mass of bodies, a haze of rage consuming her mind, spitting feathers and bones and crackling now with an electrical energy all of her own. He would die. One beak sliding into the wrong place, between bone and muscle, and her beautiful monk’s eyes would shutter forever. Hearing on the edge of her awareness yet another cargo bay creaking open, she bellowed in despair. Where was he? Why could she not win through to him?

Aaaaah! She arched in agony as a beak speared Ri’arion near the kidneys. He had to stop the meld. She could not fly properly.

The Azure Dragoness vented a primal shriek. Careless of life or limb, she smashed her way into the incoming flock of coal storks. Wing edges, claws, the whiplash of her tail, she did not care. But Ri’arion had fallen free of the Dragonship now, tumbling into the open air above the Cloudlands. The coal storks chasing his magic were so thick that she could barely see the man.

She needed Dragon fire. Ri’arion held that secret.

Give it to me! The Azure Dragon delved into his pain-crazed mind. Despite his resistance, she tore from the soft inner parts the knowledge she needed, from his memories of the time he had forced Aranya to produce Dragon fire. Don’t hide it – finally! Now I have it.

A song of fire exploded in her mind, in her belly. Zuziana gulped as the fires finally ignited within her stomach. Heat rushed through her body, a sensation so exquisite and consuming that it threatened to set her scales ablaze. She bathed in the fires, crooning as if to a long-absent lover.

Zuziana … please! he moaned. I need you. Give me your powers.

No! This was what she had feared. Appalled, Zip’s wingbeat stalled. She had violated the man she loved.

Then, her neck extended. Her tongue rolled into a new shape.

He was shielded by his magic, now. It sucked up all the strength he had left. The coal storks attacked zealously, but could not penetrate his defences – not for the vital second it took her to summon her Dragon fire for the very first time.

Her hearts thudded: boom-boom-boom.

A cone of fire scorched the beautiful dawn. It passed perfectly around the falling body of her monk, igniting everything it touched.

Keening tenderly, the Azure Dragon reached through the drifting ashes to catch him in her paws.

Chapter 10: Thundering Caverns

Dragon and Rider winged toward the setting suns, making over twenty-five leagues per hour. Murky cloud battlements dominated the south and south-western horizons. Aranya’s nostrils identified a metallic yet noticeably humid tang on the air. A big storm, her Dragon senses warned. That strange tension returned, taking up residence behind her breastbone, a dull ache as heavy as a misplaced boulder.

A storm such as those Fra’anior loved to frequent.

Pushing thoughts of the storm aside, Aranya scanned the scenery from half a league above the Islands – all the height that Yolathion’s still-healing ears could tolerate. Her eye gladdened at the wild, unspoiled majesty of Ur-Yagga Cluster’s eleven Islands, the tangled forests, deep ravines and monumental cliffs. Never mind hiding just one Dragon in here! Fra’anior could have hidden an army of Dragons and she’d have little chance of winkling them out.

To think this was the westernmost Cluster in the world, the edge of nothing. Breathtaking!

But Aranya had no time for sightseeing. How did one track down a Dragon? She tried to focus on that tiny tendril of magic she had detected from Naphtha Cluster, but it was either absent or so far away she could not detect it. Ask around the villages? What welcome might a Jeradian and a Northerner find? Could she ask after Kylara and find out if she knew of a Dragon?

Aranya spotted a charred village from the air. There, that was Dragon work, surely?

But when she touched down at the edge of a massive inlet, she recognised her error. Scarred carcasses of Dragonships lay at either end of the deserted village. Much had been burned, but she had seen these patterns before. Sylakian destruction. There were no bodies left. Perhaps the Sylakians had visited a second time to remove their dead. She wondered what had become of the villagers.

Yolathion agreed quietly with her assessment. He said, “This must be the village the Sylakians mentioned. They said a madman attacked them here, a madman who fought alongside Kylara’s troops. I can’t see the Warlord allowing that, can you?”

“No.”

“Let’s keep scouting. Kylara’s hideout can’t be far.”

Aranya asked, “Any tracks?”

The tall Jeradian walked back through the village, examining the signs with the eyes of a trained warrior. “Strange. If Kylara’s force is as strong as they say, I’d expect to see boot prints or pony prints, like these ones here between the huts. I’d say someone’s swept them away. We’ll do better airborne, Aranya.”

Rider and Dragon swept southward along the spectacularly jagged cliff tops, sighting a family of black rajals from the air and tangling briefly with a lone, feral windroc.

“There must be a thousand caves along here,” Yolathion groaned. “This Island is as riddled as yeast-bread.”

“I wonder what’s out there to the west,” Aranya said, gazing to the horizon. “Surely the Islands don’t just end?”

“Mind on the job, Dragon.”

She bared her fangs at the emptiness. Yolathion!

With darkness closing in, Dragon and Rider camped on the cliff-top in the lee of a massive clump of boulders. Curled up, Aranya thought she must look like just another boulder, albeit a decidedly purple one. Yolathion slept where Zip had always preferred to sleep, in the crook of her neck. Surreptitiously, she tried slipping a paw around his body, but that made Yolathion moan and stir. She touched him with her healing power anyway. She poured healing into her Dragon-body, before sleep sucked her irresistibly into its embrace.

She dreamed of fleeing from storms that behaved like female rajals on the hunt, stalking her from all directions.

Come morning, the approaching storm covered half of the sky in a portentous green-black barrier. It engulfed the rays of a clear, burning suns-rise in the east as though a vast Land Dragon’s mouth had risen from the Cloudlands, intent on swallowing the suns. After taking to the air, Aranya spotted King Beran’s Dragonships moored at the eastern periphery of the Cluster, as planned. They must have arrived during the night.

Even at this distance, Aranya’s Dragon sight identified how the freshening breeze caused the Dragonships to strain at their anchor hawsers. She resisted an urge to scowl at the storm, or to think ralti-stupid thoughts about omens and premonitions. She had a job to do. The Black Dragon demanded no less.

Aranya and Yolathion followed the imposing cliffs southward. They were a league above the Cloudlands here, a jaw-dropping vertical plunge worthy of the Last Walk, where Yolathion had once thrown Aranya off a cliff, expecting her to die.

Instead, she had learned to spread her wings.

Aranya squirmed at a strange prickling sensation along her spine-spikes. She probed the terrain with every sense alert, from the rolling, densely tangled hills of the interior to the dagger-slash of a cliff at her right wingtip. They passed over an enormous sinkhole – at least, what she took for a sinkhole, until Yolathion said:

“Slap me over the head with a windroc, Aranya, that’s Cloudlands down there. That hole goes right through the Island.”

Her hearts gambolled fitfully in her chest as she passed over the great hole. Now, there was a place Dragons would love to roost, she thought. But a tiny trickle of awareness drew her onward, just a teasing on the breeze, a thought more unconscious than conscious … and growing stronger? Aranya trimmed her wings, bringing them lower.

“Found something?” asked Yolathion.

“Not sure what, though,” said Aranya. “It’s more of a Dragon-sense.”

“Follow it,” he ordered.

Yolathion was supporting the idea of Dragon senses and magic? That was novel – and encouraging.

Instinctively, the Amethyst Dragon slowed. She drifted away from the cliff, flying over the Cloudlands now. They passed cave after cave. After a while, the trail faded again. They agreed to double back. Aranya drew close to the cliff. She was almost certain something was holed up nearby, perhaps a Dragon in a cave.

“A trail,” said Yolathion, pointing. “Look.”

“Right.” How had she missed that?

Aranya scanned the trail from a hundred feet offshore. “Fresh pony tracks, Yolathion. I sense this is the cave we should check.”

“If there’s a Dragon in there, those ponies would’ve been eaten.”

Aranya flared her wings, bringing them in for a landing on the narrow ledge. “Let’s go sniff around the entrance.”

* * * *

He heard the creatures before he saw them. The beast retreated deeper into the cavern, suddenly still, his senses suddenly prickling with readiness. Invaders, in his domain! Careful. One out there had hunting skills akin to his own. A slight scratching of claws on rock, the way the creature sniffed the air – it put him on edge. The air currents were flowing the wrong way for him to detect any scent, but that creature must surely sense his presence.

He could not escape this cavern. But his belly was full. He had no need to hunt, unless those stupid creatures came to disturb him.

To his amazement, he heard the two creatures slowly approaching along the narrow tunnel which led to the bright place, the place which hurt his eyes. They must be incredibly rash. And blind, because they carried their own light. There was a big one and a smaller one. The big one had a metal stick with him, while the smaller one with the strange multi-coloured pelt on its back, carried nothing. The big one moved as though he intended to protect the little one. That tiny metal stick against his great clawed feet? Silent, murderous laughter flooded his hearts.

The beast held his breath. He willed his hearts to slow, to beat softly, so as not to alarm them even by the smallest sound. The two hairless worms entered the cavern where he hid, holding up the light and peering about them as though they saw only darkness. They exchanged sounds. Perhaps they had some rudimentary intelligence?

The creature paused as he considered this. Odd how this thought resonated within his being. Until now he had thought only of food and sleep, and his frustration at being unable to find any exit from the cavern. But these pathetic creatures with their skin coverings entered with ease.

His muscles trembled in readiness. Which one of them was the hunter? He sniffed the air.

The little one froze.

Without thinking, the beast reached out his paw and swatted the bigger of the two creatures aside. He slammed into the tunnel wall, his limb crooked beneath him at an odd angle. He lay unmoving. The little creature made a sound like the cries of the great birds he had heard outside, but it ran on spindly legs toward his upraised wing. Attacking him? Surprise froze him for a moment.

Right, he’d crush the life out of this one, too.

Colours and light smote his gaze. The beast howled, blinking furiously. The little thing was gone. In its place stood the most glorious beast in all creation, one who smelled familiar yet as different to him as the moons were from the stars. The aroma of it – her, he realised – was a heady perfume, a singing in all his senses. At once, frenzied emotions pooled thickly in his throat. His muzzle lowered instinctively, his prodigious chest puffed out and his wings flared, displaying his full hundred-and-ten foot wingspan. He overshadowed her with his muscular bulk, making her tremble violently as she retreated, amethyst eyes wide-agleam, drinking in the sight of this creature who confronted her.

A low crooning burbled from his throat. She was lithe and slender, a dancing wisp eluding and enticing his understanding. He became acutely aware of the rapid throbbing of her hearts, of the dilation of her nostrils and the sinuous curve of her neck.

With a roar, he mock-pounced at her. The Dragoness slipped aside with ghostly grace.

Then she said, in a voice like a glissade of delight, What’s your name, o delicious Dragon? Ah, I mean …

* * * *

The greyish-black Dragon paused in his ritual to regard Aranya with eyes as depthless as the shadows that he slipped into and out of with such hypnotic ease. The idea of having a name seemed to have seized him by the throat.

He coughed, I … Ardan. My name’s Ardan, I think.

Aranya knew there was something important she was supposed to be telling him, but instead, all she could do was echo, Ardan?

The male Dragon was monstrous. As an Amethyst Dragon she was smooth and sleek, whereas the spines growing from the base of his skull, and his neck-ruff, were up to four feet long. He was built like a Sylakian fortress, four-square and brawny. His lumpen shoulders clustered together behind his neck as though he had invited a brother Dragon to perch upon his back. Even his wing struts bulged with extra muscle, and the striations in his major flight muscles had to be five inches deep. Aranya was certain he would fly like a rock, or be able to bore his way through mountains just by chewing a tunnel with that rugged jaw of his.

The beast called Ardan stalked her with unwavering curiosity. The Amethyst Dragoness found herself wondering what it might be like to be caught by this feral monster. She was faster than him, faster by far. But his sheer presence mesmerised her. All she desired was to shelter against his bulk and have his vast wing curve protectively over her body. His scent was the deep, enigmatic essence of a creature of shadow and dominion, the kind of scent the artist in Aranya imagined might be shared with starlight, incongruously conveying a hint of cinnamon and sulphur.

Her hearts pulsated in her throat, chest and belly. This was not at all the encounter she had imagined with a feral Dragon. It was more perilous by far. He was breathtaking. Neither Garthion nor Harathion had affected her like this.

Fright stoked her belly-fires to an almost unbearable pitch.

Slinking forward upon his thick legs, the great predator asked, And thou, o delight of mine eyes? How shall I sing to thee?

I’m c-called A-Aranya, she stammered, retreating again. P-Princess of Immadia.

What is this Immadia?

An Island far to the north of here, Ardan, she replied, finally remembering her mission. I came to get you out of this cave –

Aranya yelped as he lunged at her. She leaped the wrong way, confused and sluggish, smashing into a solid stone column. In a flash and a flurry of wings, the dark Dragon was upon her. A cunning paw trapped her legs, flipping her onto her back. She growled, writhed, scrabbled at his hide in a frantic attempt to escape, but he slapped her muzzle and seized her with his paws. Then, Aranya gasped at the enormous upper-body strength of a fully-grown male Dragon as he pinned her to the cavern floor. Had an Island perched upon her chest, she could have been no less trapped.

Stillness settled upon the cave, broken only by the thudding of many hearts as the Dragons’ gazes fused together – astonished, heated, turbulent. Was this a tightness in her chest, or had she forgotten how to breathe? Aranya suppressed the blue-hot fireball which had risen into the back of her throat, trying to tame her dread.

If he had been feral, he was no longer.

Did he not want to hurt her? Tear her limb from limb? The Dragon’s claws were unaccountably gentle upon her scales, and his great jaws did not gape open to rip holes in her hide. Could she still speak to him, she wondered? Reason with him? For what she perceived in his eyes was no longer hunger, but a volcano of emotions far more complex and wide-ranging than that.

His gaze searched her soul.

* * * *

Ardan held the young Dragoness defenceless beneath his claws. He expected her to whimper in fear, but her frantic hearts-beat suddenly settled down. Her pupils were dilated and her throat worked against his paw, which could entirely encircle her slender neck, yet she was unafraid. What? She should tremble! Flame licked from his nostrils as he demanded, Why do you not cower before me?

Aranya’s jewelled eyes contracted with amusement. Because I could destroy you before you blink.

His muscles tensed. How dare his captive goad him? Then, the Dragon’s laughter thundered around the cavern, shaking loose sand and rocks from the ceiling, until he realised his convulsive grip was crushing her windpipe. He eased the pressure on her neck but did not uncurl his talons, nor did he relax his grip on her neck, the major wing bone of her left wing and her right hind leg above the knee. As though drawn by hypnosis, his gaze returned to her face.

Oh, her Dragon eyes …

Her magical gaze drew him in and disarmed him, as though her eyes hid a vertiginous drop to places unknown. Her fire whispered Dragonsong to his feverish senses, eliciting a surge of unforeseen tenderness. From a killing rage, to desire, to … this?

Now, Ardan found that an inexplicable pressure in his mind held him captive. Her magic weaved melodies to enthral his soul. He held a star, her purity so dazzling and intense that he wanted to gaze at her forever, to weep in cleansing rivers at her beauty, only his Dragon form had forgotten how. The beast was erased, replaced by a creature who wondered who he truly was.

She said, Do you have any idea what powers an Amethyst Dragon has?

The Dragon released her wing to scratch his chin in a surprisingly Human-like gesture. Let me see … o pulchritudinous Princess of a place which doesn’t exist, you have beguiling eyes –

I don’t exist?

Instead of answering her, Dragon-Ardan cracked open his jaw. He wafted his inmost Dragon fire gently into her face.

* * * *

The world spun on its axis.

As Aranya breathed in the male Dragon’s flame-vapour, she knew at once it was more than just Dragon fire, for it conveyed the quintessence of all that was Ardan – Shapeshifter, Dragon and man – a constellation of impressions, as if the dark Dragon’s personality and past had exploded inside her mind in a single instant, but communicated nuances and complexities a million-fold to her awareness. Aranya saw all things anew. The universe held new colours, dizzying, rapidly-expanding ripples of sensations never before imagined, world-shaking in their intensity, uncontainable.

In that instant, all was lost.

There was only one possible response. Aranya breathed her own fire over Ardan’s questing muzzle, putting all of her soul into it.

The Dragon blinked in surprise. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, and she recognised that for him, the shock was as intense and omnipotent as it had been for her. His dark eyes became liquid, fiery pools of understanding. A low, throbbing song rose unbidden from the depths of his formidable chest, a song of flying together through moonlit nights and rubbing necks and resting side by side in warm, sandy caverns, a song of awe and adoration, almost worship.

Fire swirled from her mouth, fire intermingled with Dragonsong. It rushed together into the form of a blazing jewel, filled with colours and magical essences, a jewel which pulsed with her inner life. He had never imagined a thing more precious.

She said, Thou, Ardan, my soul’s eternal fire.

As if she dwelled within that fiery jewel, Aranya found her spirit rushing into him, igniting all that it touched. She was the shivers running up and down his spine. Visions crowded into his mind, images of birth and battles and loving and running and laughing and weeping in the ashes of his beloved home Island. Was this her power? The power to unbind his past, yet to soothe and heal with an extraordinary, consuming love?

She knew that he desired nothing more than to offer her his greatest treasure.

He said, Thou, Aranya, my soul’s eternal fire.

She breathed again of his secret fire, and crossed the unimaginable divide between two souls, yet suddenly, there was no divide. Ardan’s fire dwelled with her, as though she had grown a fourth heart … no, as though their souls were united, and all she had to do to know his presence, was to search within.

His tongue flicked her neck-scales.

The Dragon-fire spell broke. Human-Aranya remembered someone who had licked her palm, a perverted, loathsome beast of a man, who had been a Red Shapeshifter Dragon. That memory spun her out of Ardan’s ambit of passion into a cold, bleak place.

She had freedom. She transformed.

* * * *

Lost in the depths of his reverent song, eyes heavy-lidded and mind adrift upon the winds of draconic romance, Ardan did not realise at first that the Amethyst Dragon had slipped from his grasp like prekki tree pollen blown away on the breeze. Her scent lingered in his nostrils. His sensitive scales and wing membranes thrilled to the pulse of her incomparable magic coursing through his body as a bone-deep vibration. Her eyes, her wonderful, bewitching eyes …

She was gone? Vanished!

A growl of discontent surged from his throat. He lifted first one forepaw, then the other, searching for what eluded him.

The little creature was back! The strange thing with the glorious mane knelt next to the bigger two-legged creature, touching his neck even as he had just touched her … in his dream? He noticed that the creature had fresh wounds on her back and buttocks, which were beginning to heal.

How dare she misbehave!

With a fiery snarl, the male Dragon pounded across the chamber and snatched the little thing up.

“Ardan,” she gasped. Ardan, please … don’t hurt me.

His forepaw was so huge, it enveloped her body in its entirety. The little creature struggled feebly in his powerful grasp. But – his eyes bulged – her voice! He thundered, What is this?

Please, listen to me. I am Aranya. I am both Dragon and Human. You are like me, Ardan.

Fire roared out of his nostrils. You lie!

Smell me and know me – but please, don’t burn me. I’m already hurt.

The huge nostrils flared, ruffling her hair with a cavernous inhalation. He felt and heard her little heart fluttering like prey panicked at the first inkling of a Dragon’s awesome presence. But before he even breathed in her scent, Dragon-Ardan stared into the small amethyst eyes which had so entranced his soul, and knew the truth.

How was it possible? His fist loosened slightly, but still curled possessively around her frail form.

What have you done with her? He snorted a gust of Dragon fire, slightly aside from the little creature, singeing her hair. How did you become this tiny … thing? Where did you hide my incomparable soul-mate?

Like you, Ardan, I have two forms, she said. I’m a Shapeshifter. You can become like this if you think about it – it is magic, which is easy for you as a Dragon. Remember Human-Ardan? Remember having two arms and legs like me? Remember?

He did. The world rippled. He fell forward into darkness.

Next Ardan knew, he lay sprawled on his back staring up into a pair of amethyst eyes framed by sculpted cheekbones and the most incredible abundance of hair he had ever seen. It fell about him in a many-stranded waterfall, an impossible curtain of colours, enfolding him in a mysterious cocoon of allurement. Great Islands! Nothing else existed. Only … her.

He groaned, “What a dream I had.”

“It was no dream,” said the girl, in mellifluous tones.

Her accent was exotic; a singing in the vowels that suggested fifteen sounds rather than five. It fired his soul with melodies of pure magic. Incongruously, Ardan pictured himself speaking to a songbird.

Reaching up to twine his fingers in her hair, he whispered, “You outshine the stars. Only a dream could be so flawless.”

“Don’t …”

He raised himself to one elbow. Desire seethed within him, unstoppable. “Don’t what?”

Her eyes flickered over the length of his body. The girl whispered, “Please, Ardan. Don’t look at me like that. I can’t …” She swallowed hard, to his perception, held captive by the power of emotions stoked to a volcanic pitch. “Introductions. Yes. I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia, a Shapeshifter, as you saw. A Dragon.”

She thought she was a Dragon? Was she moons-touched? Odd, though, how he had just been dreaming about Dragons. And, how by the Islands, did a tall, slender foreign woman come to be here in the Western Isles? These thoughts were but distant echoes, a faraway, meaningless drum-roll of sanity amidst a scorching madness. What had she done to him?

“And I am Ardan of Naphtha Cluster,” he replied. A heaviness like gravity connected them, belly to belly, soul to soul. He needed only a fingertip touch to draw her closer. “You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

“You’re hurt.”

Ardan cared nothing for the half-healed scabs and scars covering his body, nor could he remember how he had come to be wounded. He said, “Destiny alone has summoned us to this time and place. Come, my soul’s eternal fire, sweet Aranya –”

“Please, no,” she gulped. “I’ve never … no, please. No!”

“Yes. You want this.”

“I … no, Ardan. Oh, stop me … no …”

Her arms twined about his neck with a will of their own, her hair rippling about them as though stirred by an unseen wind. Her body trembled. Aranya nestled her face in the crook of his neck, and he was astounded at the febrile heat radiating from her skin. It set him afire. If she felt half of what he did, he thought, then they were already lost in the Cloudlands, winging away far and free. There was a roaring in his ears and a wild abandon in his heart.

He kissed the girl’s neck and bare shoulder with great tenderness. “My treasure of the Isles, your cheeks burn bright. Your very soul quivers with a longing which cannot be denied.”

A memory of Dragonsong consumed his mind. The flames within her reached up and enticed him in.

* * * *

The storm broke outside the cavern, seeming to charge her body with every lightning strike, her entire being pulsating to the percussive drumbeat of thunder, as violent and uncontrolled as the storm itself. She became the storm’s rising. Winds raged through her mind, sweeping all before their blast, burning with a sweet, enigmatic fire.

All was incandescent, a desire that transcended any mortal reason or barrier, within her and without a tempest beyond imagination.

Thou, my soul’s eternal fire.

* * * *

Aranya came to her senses slowly. Her strength was spent. From the angle of the suns light filtering into the cave, she knew that the day was drawing toward dusk. She was never cold, yet she shivered now. How dark the surrounding shadows. Why had the beautiful flame vanished? She ached for its warmth.

As she stretched, her arm fell across the bare torso of the warrior lying on his side next to her, regarding her with soulful eyes as black as a moonless night sky. Mystery and melancholy inhabited his smile.

Oh, no. Her heart jolted against her ribcage.

He whispered, “I am sorry, Aranya. Your name is … Aranya?”

“It is. What – what have I done?”

Blunt, strong fingers stroked her hair. “Our desire burned out of control,” he said. “Words cannot convey my regret.”

Regret? A sweet lie. But her regret was greater than any terrace lake filled to bursting after a storm, a pain which could know no stanching.

Ardan’s arm was thick with muscle and scars, tattooed from his wrist up to his shoulder, and his fingers calloused from the use of weapons. He lay right alongside her, his legs entwined with hers, her head pillowed on his bicep and her cheek brushing the scarred expanse of his chest. She was skin to skin with a man. Not just any man, him. It felt so warm, so intimate and right – and yet so wrong. She could not bear to flee his embrace.

Was this the Dragon-beast within, expressing its primal needs? A surprising gentleness on his part in the face of her devastating need … a choked-off moan escaped her lips. She wasn’t that kind of woman, was she? She wasn’t the kind of woman who played all day at the pillow-rolls with a complete stranger while her boyfriend lay unconscious nearby, with a broken leg if not a cracked skull?

“Forgive me, Aranya, please.”

“You … you want … curse you! Go toss yourself in a Cloudlands volcano, you freaking black-eyed monster!”

Her scream echoed in the emptiness, swallowed up by cool rocks and dead-end tunnels.

Why? Why had she not withheld? Disgust made her skin creep. She hated herself, while her tongue shrivelled at the taste of her curses. She hated it even more that she could never find it within herself to loathe him or what they had shared – their amazing, Island-shivering, magical day …

“You’re blaming Dragons?” he chuckled, a low rumble that uncannily mirrored the voice of his Dragon form. “Girl, you’re fixated. Dragons don’t exist.”

She hit him, punching blindly, a flurry of blows too weak to truly hurt. “A plague on you and your powers!” she panted, spitting and snarling as he trapped her hands in his powerful grasp. He held her so tenderly, it made her even madder. “You seduced me. I hate you! I hate me …”

“You said you were untouched. You said no – several times.” His jaw muscles clenched. “I feel horrible, Aranya.”

She didn’t remember telling him that. Bitter tears tracked down her cheeks.

The dark-skinned warrior held her kindly as a volley of sobs raged out of her, born in a sure knowledge of what she had done. She had revelled in tossing her innocence into a Cloudlands volcano. Never could she go back from this moment. All the waiting for marriage she had prided herself upon and judged Yolathion for, all her precious, prideful morals, had been thrown away – forever.

Why? How could she ever tell her father?

Suddenly, her fury roared back in full flood. “Let me go. Let me go, I said!”

Ardan drew back at her vehemence, yet he refused to release Aranya from his strong arms. She writhed in his grasp, shouting wordlessly, awash in such a welter of Dragon fire that he had to avert his face from the heat rising dangerously between them. She wanted to burn him! No, she’d burn him with love … oh, what did she want?

Aranya hissed in pain, realising that she was scraping her acid burns against the rough rock beneath her back.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. It’s from a battle.”

Her scabs had been rubbed raw. Aranya pushed the pain to the back of her mind as she concentrated on his face. Words. Words could serve to keep the madness at bay. Briefly, she told him how she had defeated Harathion, while touching her back gingerly with one hand. Plenty of sand and grit lodged in those wounds now. Whose fault was that?

He replied, “You offer a convincing tale, Aranya of –”

“You still don’t believe … what about all this? The hair, the fire … Ardan, listen to me. You’re a Dragon. I’ve come to rescue you. This is no dream!”

His eyes told her that he thought her simple, a bit touched in the head. “Of course I believe you,” he said. “I wake up naked in a cave next to an enchantress who spins a web of seduction so profound, it must be that I dream. Back in my real life, I belong to a woman called Kylara.”

Aranya gasped, “The Warlord Kylara? Oh, heavens above and Islands below, can this day get any worse? I’ve stolen you from Kylara?”

“Not quite,” he soothed. “I was her slave.” And he told her how he had woken beneath the prekki tree, and what had transpired there. By the end Aranya was chuckling, but her laughter had a hysterical undertone.

“I think she’ll sharpen her scimitar on my head after this,” she said.

“If we tell her.”

Aranya ignored the invitation to lie. “And you don’t find it strange she didn’t split your skull open like a rotten prekki fruit?” She reached up to trace the scar with her forefinger.

A quirk of his lips into a smile distracted her. She deposited a kiss on that smile, making it curve wider. The black eyes crinkled at her. ‘Perfect,’ they told her, wordlessly. ‘You’re beautiful.’

“It is odd,” he said aloud, making her blink.

Aranya asked, “How can a dream be this vivid?”

“By a thousand Islands and more, this is the best dream I’ve ever enjoyed!” he enthused, confirming his lack of regret. Aranya’s mouth popped open. “You are the most amazing, talented, responsive and utterly glorious figment of my imagination I have ever had the delight –”

Smack!

Ardan’s entire body shook with laughter at her impotent fury. “Beauty, leave me be. I ache! I could not manage another uncovering of the pillow-roll if you promised me all the meriatite in the Island-World. The answer is simple. I dream. You do not exist.”

“Let me tell you your dream,” she retorted, sinking her teeth into the hand that now cupped her cheek with aching tenderness, two parts affection and one part apology.

“Ouch, you little cobra!”

Aranya snarled, “You wake in a cave. Suddenly, two strange, ape-like creatures appear. You crush one with your paw. The other turns into an Amethyst Dragon, a Dragon with scales the colour of my eyes. You stalk her. Then, you pounce. She crashes into a column. You trap her beneath your claws, grasping her neck here, and her wing –”

The warrior managed to turn commendably pale, given his dark skin. “You inhabit my dreams, enchantress?”

“Maybe I should just hand you over to this Kylara,” Aranya blazed back, “because I am a Dragon and you clearly have the thickest skull in the Island-World!”

Chapter 11: Kylara

Between them, DESPITE Aranya’s wobbly legs and aching back, they managed to shift Yolathion out of the cavern and onto the ledge without jolting his broken leg too badly.

As he beheld her in the suns-light for the first time, the dark Western Isles warrior seemed to grow hopelessly diverted in his task. The black eyes burned her up so hungrily, Aranya knew that the Dragon in him was alive and well. She shivered delicately. Mercy, how he stoked her fires! Poor Yolathion, big as he was, was a slender boy in comparison to this thickset warrior – so unlike the type of man she was usually drawn to, at once masculine and powerful, yet capable of a draconic grace of movement.

Ardan smiled at her as if he discerned her inmost desires. Perhaps he could, if the fire burned true. When she pointedly suggested he find Yolathion’s spare trousers in their saddlebags and a dress for her, Ardan chuckled and attempted a mischievous pinch at her backside.

On second thoughts, she did not need to dress if she was clothed in her Dragon hide.

He turned, and recoiled. Dragon-Aranya glowered at him. Just let him think about seducing the Princess of Immadia now!

“Ah,” he grinned faintly. “Reality bites, I see.”

To his credit, despite his heart thumping so frantically that she could have heard it fifty feet away, Ardan looked the Amethyst Dragoness over from top to toe. Her scales tingled at his awed expression. Magic? Or longing?

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.

A hunchbacked man approached her. Garg.

Ardan introduced them. Aranya swept back her hood and offered her hand. Garg bowed over her fingers and blew upon them in the courtly way, before describing two circles with his forefinger before his deeply wrinkled, fire-scarred face for the peace, and placing three kisses upon her palm that struck her as heartfelt. Bright green eyes twinkled up at her. Aranya resisted the urge to bend down so that he could see her better.

“How is it that you have Fra’aniorian features, my lady of Immadia?” he said, in a gravelly voice.

“My mother’s from Ha’athior,” she explained. “Pointy ears, see? King Beran is my father, who you call the Immadian Fox. He –”

“Kidnapped your mother. Great story,” said Garg. “Please, I’d love to hear it first-hand from the Fox’s daughter while I set this leg. Then I’ll patch you up, I will. Tangled with a few slugs, boy?”

Slugs? Her mouth fished for flies. What kind of slug could do that to a man?

“Rocia and her cronies tried to kill me,” Ardan grumbled.

Garg did not miss a beat. “Clear that workbench and set the little man on top. Fix this yourself? Not a bad job. Bit twisted.” Garg untied the hammer and examined Yolathion’s broken thigh. “Hold him still. Still, boy! You made of cotton fluff?”

Aranya stifled a giggle as she caught Ardan staring at her ears. He had been too distracted, earlier, to take in all the details. Coyly, her eyes slid away from his scorching regard. She should focus on Yolathion. But a sable Dragon danced in her mind, and her magic seethed like the open lava pits of Fra’anior’s caldera. Deliberately, she made herself swallow it down, deep down. She should feel nothing. Do nothing. Admit nothing …

Aranya watched Garg’s supple hands checking the lie of the bones beneath Yolathion’s lean, muscled leg. He dug his fingers in this way and that. “Hold him, boy,” he snarled at Ardan, and twisted sharply. She distinctly heard the bones grate together. “Good,” he grunted. “I’m waiting for a story, Princess.”

“Aye, he’s always this cranky,” said Ardan.

While Garg splinted Yolathion’s leg with three curved wooden shapes and a device that bolted them together, Aranya told him the story of how her father had abducted her mother and whisked her to Immadia Island. Garg raided his cupboards for what he dubbed ‘slug ointment’ and tossed it to Ardan. “Sort yourself out, boy. So, Princess, what’s ailing you?”

“Me?”

“Walking funny, you are. Back trouble?”

Ardan’s eyes gleamed at her over Garg’s shoulder. Aranya blushed to the roots of her hair as she realised what kind of backache he was thinking about, the rascally Cloudlands pirate!

“Burns,” she spluttered. “I got burned.”

“Acid,” said Ardan, helpfully. Aranya wanted to slap him – or better still, kiss him. Repeatedly.

“I’ll need to take a look. With your permission, Princess. And yours, Ardan.”

As Ardan choked out that it was nothing to do with him, Aranya accepted Garg’s helping hand onto a workbench not far from Yolathion. She handed her cloak to Ardan before stretching out on her stomach. She sighed inwardly. It was not as though the Princess of Immadia had much left in the way of modesty, these days.

Cool air touched her lower back. “Hmm,” said Garg. “That’s a mighty fine … mess, Princess. What do you think, boy?” Aranya found it fascinating that a dark man could blush, too. “Lost our tongue, eh? Go get me pads, tweezers and the disinfectant concentrate. We’ll need to clean this before it gets infected. What type of acid made these wounds, lady?”

“Dragon acid,” she replied.

Garg went so still she thought he’d had a fit. She looked over her shoulder to find him regarding her with wary, eloquent attention. “You are … the hair? The Dragon all these Isles have been talking about, who so infuriated the Sylakians, is a Shapeshifter?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“Well, now,” said Garg. “You defeated the Sylakians? You actually defeated the Supreme Commander?”

“I killed Garthion, his son,” Aranya replied, uncertain if she quite enjoyed the tenor of the glance Ardan flashed at her. Respect? A little fear? Well, he might have given that a modicum of thought before he attacked an Amethyst Dragon!

“A service to the entire Island-World, that is,” Garg grunted.

“There was a great battle at Immadia,” Aranya added. “Yolathion, there, is Jeradian, but he used to be a Third War-Hammer in the Sylakian army. He led a rebellion against Sylakia. Yes, we defeated the Northern Dragonship fleet, but the Sylakians still hold great power. Now my father plans to free the Western Isles. That’s why we’re here.”

“A bold strategy,” said Ardan.

The old man, Garg, made a mystical symbol with his right hand. I greet thee, Dragon.

Aranya’s jaw nearly struck the table’s surface. You speak Dragonish?

Garg shook his head. “That’s all the Dragonish my grandfather ever taught me. He was a fledgling trainer. There used to be a secret school for training Dragons and their Riders at Jeradia. My grandfather headed up the fledgling training programme, before the Sylakians defeated us. He was killed in that battle.”

A secret Dragon Rider school? Her interest piqued. What if they could find that old school? What might they learn there? She stored those questions in her mind for later, saying simply, “I’m sorry, Garg.”

“Thank you.” Garg bent over her back and began to pick bits of dirt and rock out with his tweezers. “Bathe her wounds a little, boy, if you dare to touch a live Dragon.”

“Oh, I dare,” Ardan said, very dryly.

Scratch the kisses, he had definitely just earned a slap.

The old man said, “Tell me, have the Dragons returned to our Island-World? What colour are you?”

“Amethyst,” said Aranya.

“Oh, aye?” said Garg. “Never heard of an Amethyst Dragon. This doesn’t hurt too much, lady?”

Aranya wondered why she trusted him so instinctively. Was she too free with her trust? It was like Nak and Oyda. She had trusted them from the first – not that she had much choice in the matter after crash-landing on their doorstep.

“Aye, she’s a rare one,” said Ardan.

Aranya bit her lip. One word from him and a storm roiled in her belly. She had to smother her responses. But her heart was deaf, and bent on another path – well, an entirely different Island. No! Swallow, deny, crush those feelings. Make a promise, keep it. Beran’s watchword was ‘integrity’, and his voice in her head spoke it now.

Despite her healing efforts, her burns still stung as though the acid had been freshly applied. She felt someone’s breath on her skin. From the corner of her eye, she caught Garg’s sharp glance at Ardan. Oh, ralti sheep droppings. The old man knew. That glance said everything.

Garg said, “These are serious wounds, Princess.”

“I’ll live.”

The two men bent over her back, picking at and cleaning her back and buttocks. Aranya pillowed her head on her arms. What a Cloudlands storm of a day. What would she tell her father? His girl had become a woman. Would his eyes spark with fury and disappointment? But how could she ever forget Ardan? How could she entrust him to another woman? Wouldn’t her Dragoness just want to bite Kylara in half?

Exhaustion shuttered her gaze as though her eyelids were sacks of sand.

Next she knew, a soft footfall sounded nearby.

Aranya sensed tension in the air. Glancing up quickly, she saw a dark, striking young woman staring at them from several paces away, her face twisted with emotions Aranya could read as easily as a scroll – curiosity and amazement, which flipped immediately into a towering, jealous rage. Kylara. An old Immadian saying sprang into her mind, ‘Better to bait a windroc than scorn a woman’. The woman’s barely-decent body armour and tight leather trousers filled Aranya with disdain. No wonder Ardan liked her. The Warlord wore four daggers at her belt and a massive scimitar slung crosswise behind her shoulders. She was half a head shorter than Aranya, but much more muscular. Human-Aranya felt a pang of panic at the expression twisting her lips. Dragon-Aranya mocked that response.

“So, slave, you dare to show your face again after running away?”

Kylara had a windroc’s voice. Aranya plastered her best diplomatic expression onto her face. She needed to set everything aside and do the job with which her father had entrusted her – or, more accurately, rescue it from the wreck she had just made of it with Ardan.

“Kylara, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” said Ardan, lifting his fingers from the small of her back as though he had touched acid.

“Oh, no, you seem very … preoccupied,” she sneered. “Do carry on.”

Ardan said, “Kylara, Warlord of Yanga Island, may I present Aranya, Princess of Immadia?”

Kylara drew her scimitar and fingered the blade with her thumb, approaching them between the workbenches. Aranya’s gaze took in several other warriors looming behind her. By Ardan’s gasp, she deduced one of them at least must be from the group who had tried to kill him. Aranya smoothed her dress down and swung herself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain as she rubbed her raw flesh on the rough work surface.

“The guards told me you sneaked in about an hour back with a woman who did not walk like a Western Isles woman,” said Kylara. “Where on your travels did you pick up this white slug? You revealed the location of our hideout to her?”

“Rocia tried to kill him,” said Aranya. “I rescued him.”

“Oh, I can see that!” spat Kylara, her voice rising along with her temper. “I’m no idiot! What kind of Princess wears neither shoes nor underwear? And the slave’s wearing foreign-made trousers. What exactly were you doing with my slave while you were ‘rescuing’ him?”

If she ever found out, she would slay them both.

Aranya, wavering within a hair of transforming, heard the Dragon in her snap, “Wave that blade somewhere else, you fool. You’ve no clue what you’re dealing with.”

Ardan began, “Aranya –”

Kylara said, “I find you in my caves with your dress tucked beneath your armpits, and you expect me to believe a word you say?”

Aranya shook off Garg’s restraining hand. Leaping down from the table, she advanced on the Warlord, clenched of fist and acutely aware of fires springing to life around the cavern. “I am a Dragon. And you are buzzing like an irritating insect I will squash with my paw.”

“Kylara, please –”

The scimitar flashed in Ardan’s direction. “Shut up, slave. I’ll deal with you once I’ve rid the Island-World of this whoring Northerner.”

“Kill her, Kylara,” said one of the women behind the Warlord.

“Shut your face, Rocia,” snarled Ardan.

Aranya’s laughter was rich with scorn, directed into the Warlord’s snarling face. “Just you try.”

Kylara lashed out with her blade.

Chapter 12: Old Fledglings

Workbenches splintered as Aranya’s transformation blasted them out of the way. The scimitar skittered off her scales. She rounded upon Kylara, roaring – but in her rage a touch of storm power slipped free, discharging a thunderclap within the cavern’s confines. Everyone froze. As the echoes faded, the Warlord scrambled backward with a yelp. She slipped and fell.

Rocia stalked up behind Kylara, dagger in hand, murder in her eyes.

“Kylara! Watch out!” Ardan flung himself toward the Warlord.

Dragon scales smashed Aranya in the face as Ardan transformed, too. The two Dragons snapped instinctively at each other, while the Humans around them panicked and fled. Ardan was so huge, he filled more than half of the cavern. He tangled himself up in the chains dangling from the ceiling and a clutch of workbenches as he lunged at Rocia.

Aranya could not pass the roaring, thrashing Dragon, so she sprang instead for the cavern’s ceiling, ran lightly along it with the help of her wings and claws, before slithering sinuously down the wall to the door, blocking the exit as Rocia came to a skidding halt between them. The woman whirled, only to face Ardan’s fangs. Now, there were four or five female warriors trapped between two Dragons. Ardan sucked in a massive breath.

“Ardan! No!” Aranya sidestepped the knot of warriors and flung her body between them and the huge Black Dragon. Dragon fire exploded over her back, narrowly missing her furled wings.

Let me at them! Ardan raged. I’ll kill them all!

No. You’ll hurt someone you love.

Now she was rescuing Kylara from Ardan, so that they could be together? Blind fool. She had not expected to find this response in herself, she realised with despair. Should she not be fighting for Ardan’s love, if love it was?

His restive thrashing ceased. Aranya held his gaze unflinchingly until the fire in his eyes simmered down. His muzzle lowered. Thank you, Aranya. I’ll – shall I transform back? I think I can.

He was not a Black Dragon, Aranya realised. Fra’anior was black. Ardan was something different, somehow less substantial-appearing, as though a shadow had begun to solidify, to grow feet and teeth and wings, but had not quite succeeded. Ri’arion might know what type of Dragon he was. Powers to stop blades, even in his Human form? Nothing in the scrolls she had read, or in her discussions with the monk, had hinted at such an ability.

Mysterious are the ways of Dragons and their magic, Nak would have said.

Aranya said, You should transform.

And you?

I’ve some unfinished business with your friendly little Warlord. Pretend to intervene.

But when Aranya unfurled her wings, she had a further shock. Rocia lay deathly still, one hand clutched to her chest. Heart attack? She sensed Ardan’s transformation. Aranya sucked in a breath. Kylara. She reached out with her paw. The Warlord thrust with her scimitar, piercing the webbing between her claws.

Shocked by the pain, Aranya bellowed, “That does it!”

In a trice, Kylara found herself captive of a highly peeved Dragoness. She struggled, but no amount of kicking or wriggling was about to loosen a Dragon’s grip – the three ‘fingers’ and two opposable ‘thumbs’ locked around her torso.

Lifting Kylara six feet off the ground in her left forepaw, Aranya raised her right paw and deliberately extended a single talon. Ten inches long, sharp as a dagger, the tool seemed fit for the job – if only she could control her seething anger. “You’ve a beastly temper, girl,” Aranya snarled, smoking at the nostrils. “Learn to control it, or I swear, I’ll reach down your throat with this and see if I can’t carve it out of you, piece by piece. Do we understand each other?”

Grey-faced, Kylara bobbed her head.

“And if you dare to hurt one of my friends …” She blew fire past Kylara’s head, so close that the sickly smell of burning hair came to her nostrils.

“Aranya, please.” Ardan tugged at her paw. “Islands’ sakes, be reasonable.”

He sounded very convincing, she thought, pleased. Aranya elbowed him away. “She tried to kill me.”

“I’m sorry!” Kylara shouted. “I’m sorry, so sorry for calling you a slug and –”

“She looks a succulent morsel. Plenty of meat.” A Dragon’s openly cannibalistic laughter echoed around the cavern, shocking Aranya into gulping it away. The silence hurt her ears.

“Don’t eat her!” Ardan grabbed her paw again.

“Go jump off the Island. Can’t you see I’m talking to my supper?”

“Princess, please. You’re supposed to negotiate with her, not eat her. Your father King Beran, said –”

“Let me show you how Dragons negotiate.” She put the edge of her claw to the soft underside of Kylara’s throat. “You’ll do exactly as I say, Warlord, or I will use my bluntest claw to saw your head off – slowly. Those are my terms.”

“Anything you want, anything,” whispered Kylara.

She was telling the truth. The dilation of her pupils, the smell of her sweat and the timbre of her voice, all confirmed it. Aranya hesitated. Suddenly, she felt sickened by her game. How could she best end this? For end it she must, before she did something she truly regretted.

Ardan said, gruffly, “Aranya, that’s enough. Let her go.”

“And I was enjoying the grovelling.” But she set Kylara down on her feet. She almost released her, but muttered, “Ha. You’re an idiot, pleading for her life.” Her claws tightened once more. “Kylara, you owe this man a heartfelt apology. If I detect insincerity, even the slightest hint of it …”

The young Warlord took a deep breath, clearly grateful to be alive. With a fearful glance up at Aranya, she said, “Ardan, I thought of you as nothing more than a slave. I was afraid of you and I let the fear speak through my scimitar. That’s why I left a scar on your head. But I was even more afraid of my feelings for you.”

Aranya’s Dragon hearts sighed within her. She should have known when Ardan hurled himself at the Warlord earlier, to protect her from Rocia’s sneak attack. She had allowed this; now she had to swallow it all. Bitterness stuck like a splintered bone in her craw.

“When I was a child, my mother told me over and over how much she cared for my father,” Kylara said. “And then she killed him in front of my eyes, before she killed herself, too.” The cave was silent, utterly still. “All that I have become since … I’m my mother’s daughter, see? The uncontrollable anger. It horrifies me.” Kylara waved her hands at Aranya, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And now the Dragon wants sincerity? Fine, beast. I love that man. You hear me? I defy fate! I will not be my mother. I love you, Ardan …”

* * * *

Dragon-Ardan squared up his shoulders, which was rather like an Island squaring up its foundations, Aranya thought. He muttered, “Right, breathing fire. I’ve done it before.”

For safety’s sake, Aranya had requested that Kylara clear the entire ledge outside her hideout. But many eyes watched from just within the cave mouths, including Kylara herself. How could she not feel bitter toward the Warlord? But last night’s Rider-less flight to brief Beran’s troops about the success of her mission had given her the space she needed to clear her head – somewhat. Now the ache was only as if her heart had been quarried out by those flesh-eating slugs which had scourged Ardan.

Every time her eyes touched him, they leaped away again. Echoes of ardour! Yet, self-loathing and despair weighed heavily upon her spirit.

She expected the Dragonships to arrive any moment, now that the suns’ light touched the Cloudlands all the way to the horizon, and the Island’s long shadow had begun its retreat toward noon. Kylara’s people were supposed to be readying one hundred and forty warriors to depart the hideout and join King Beran’s forces. Instead, everyone watched the Dragon.

He was beyond awesome. Aranya freely admitted it.

He was also utterly fascinating. Ridiculous! She had no control whatsoever of her feelings any more. She, in her Human form, was ogling – unashamedly ogling – a Dragon’s musculature. The breadth of his chest, the tree-trunk legs, the gleam of his flanks, it all made her feel as giddy as a girl enjoying her first glass of berry wine.

The only saving grace was that most likely, no-one else watching thought the same. They probably also thought a Princess should set the moral standard and not toss her beliefs gaily into the Cloudlands with the first Dragon who – oh, great Islands, what now?

His throat worked. Ardan coughed. A ground-shaking rumble emanated from his stomach, followed by an ominous silence. The mouth clamped shut. Panic clouded his eyes. Her monstrous Dragon friend hiccoughed and belched so hard that he flew backward twenty feet. A bonfire of his own making enveloped his head. Suddenly, the Dragon was on his hind legs bolting for cover – the Human brain having taken over. But he had a long, thick neck and a tail to take care of, now, besides that he stood over sixty feet tall on his hind legs. Ardan smashed his skull on the overhang and flipped onto his back with a thud that shook boulders loose from the mountainside.

Aranya fell over, too, laughing so hard it hurt her stomach.

Ardan squirmed onto his feet with a bellow of rage. Aiming his muzzle at the laughter, he let rip with a fireball wider than a man’s outstretched arms.

When the smoke and flames cleared, an Amethyst Dragon fixed him with a fiercely rolling eye. “Alright, you great big ralti sheep. Do that to the enemy and you’ll be fine. I am not the enemy.”

“Hurt my throat,” said Ardan, managing to look contrite despite his epically massive stance. “Islands’ sakes, Aranya, how do you control yourself as a Dragon?”

Not easily when you’re crouching opposite such a toothsome beast … oh. Aranya inserted her tongue between her fangs and bit it. Of course Ardan, being a Dragon, could understand her telepathic Dragon-speech. His eyes narrowed, unimpressed rather than amused.

“You learn,” she gritted out. “Focus the fire, Ardan.”

“And think with my Dragon brain. Aye. You said. Perhaps I’d look less foolish, then.”

Aranya nodded. “I had a great teacher, Ardan. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” She turned to crook a claw at Kylara. “Warlord, come here. Ardan – keep working at it.”

Kylara approached warily. “I’ll need another dress,” Aranya said. “Could you send someone?” Once this small task was put in process, she added, “Kylara, if you’re going to ride Ardan, you’ll need to – what?”

“Ride him? Like a pony?”

“Ride on his back. Be his Dragon Rider, I mean,” said Aranya. Right. Time to focus on practical matters. “I need to teach you about Dragons. Garg is already working with your leather-workers to make a saddle for him, based on the one I have. But there’s a great deal for the Dragon Rider to know. Most importantly, especially for your Dragon – for Ardan – you need to know that he can go mad or feral in battle, or if he’s simply angered enough.”

“As you just demonstrated.”

“Ably and foolishly,” agreed Aranya. “Have you asked him?”

“I – no.”

“It’s a little beyond your experience as a Warlord?”

Kylara shuffled her feet. “I treated him like an animal, Aranya. Now I find he’s a Dragon. Is a Warlord allowed to admit fear?”

“A wise man called Nak once taught me that only a fool feels no fear.”

“Here comes something for you.”

Once she had transformed and tugged the simple dress over her head, Aranya grasped Kylara by the hand and pulled her impetuously around to Ardan’s towering flank. He had to be eighteen feet tall at the shoulder, she estimated. He was beast, Human, Shapeshifter Dragon – and the mere glint of his scales … stop! She loved Yolathion. Loved? Did she truly mean ‘loved’?

“Aye?” rumbled Ardan. Unlike her, he had mastered Human speech at once.

Aranya shivered. She noticed that Kylara did, too, showing the Dragon-fear the scrolls spoke of. Even Human-Aranya felt it in her gut.

“Go on.” Aranya pressed the shorter girl forward.

Kylara said, “Dragon – er, Ardan, I’d consider it a great honour if you’d have me as your Dragon Rider.”

His lips curved into an intimidating Dragon-smile. “Aranya wants you to fight with me?”

“Aye, pick Sylakian bones from between your fangs, wipe the tears from your eyes, cosset you to sleep,” Kylara retorted.

Aranya chuckled. Despite her raging case of Dragon-jealousy, she was starting to quite like the fiery Warlord. Then she yelled, “Duck!” as Ardan’s shout of laughter came accompanied by a twenty-foot plume of fire.

“Sorry,” said the Dragon, trying a sketchy bow.

He thumped down on his nose.

Aranya remembered that feeling all too well. That great lump of Dragon-flesh had a few things to learn – and here came three Dragonships, flying the purple of Immadia. She remembered that one had already departed the previous evening to convey the news to her father.

Kylara marched over to the Dragon’s muzzle and put her boot on the edge of his lip, which was a fair stretch upward for her. “I have conquered a Dragon!” she yelled, punching the sky. Aranya’s jaw dropped open.

Then Kylara had to leap to save her skin one more time.

* * * *

The following morning, with Yolathion recovered enough to travel and all preparations completed, the Immadian Dragonships negotiated the amazing sinkhole and rose above Ur-Yagga. Most of Kylara’s women had never travelled by Dragonship. They lined the external gantries to watch as their home receded.

Ardan wondered if they realised what King Beran wanted to gift them – freedom from tyranny. Freedom from the empire which had razed his homeland.

They would fly over Naphtha Cluster on their route back east. His heart wept already.

There was Aranya, taking to the forward gantry, wearing just a cloak, her unbound hair swirling in the wind to wreathe her tall, slender figure in kaleidoscopic colours. Ardan chewed his lip as his eyes followed her involuntarily to the corner. She slipped out of sight. She said she was alright. But that perfect-Princess exterior could not disguise the fiery inner turmoil that his developing Dragon senses had picked up. He should know. It matched his feelings in every detail.

He jumped as a pair of arms encircled his waist. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

“Not like this ugly beast, you mean?”

“You … like her?”

“She says I’m an old fledgling. I was just wishing I could jump off a gantry so easily. But my Human brain is having none of it.”

Kylara rested her head against his shoulder. “You heard her story, Ardan. You know the intelligence we received. She and a Remoyan Princess smashed an entire Sylakian Dragonship command. Do you think she just woke up one morning and said, ‘Today I’m going to change the Island-World’?”

“Aye, I like her,” said Ardan, drawing Kylara into his embrace. “She’s brave, loyal and attractive – as far as a white slug goes. But I love a Western Isles warrior.”

Who had not breathed fire with him, nor exchanged words he recognised as vows. Thou, my soul’s eternal fire. Did his choice to pursue Kylara make him an oath-breaker? Or merely the Island-World’s greatest fool? Who was Ardan, Island-less warrior, Shapeshifter Dragon, and a man who dallied with innocent Princesses, if not a fool?

Perhaps a Dragon who had destroyed the Northern Dragonship fleet and killed Garthion was less innocent than he supposed. One thing was for certain, he liked the man he seemed to be around Aranya. Her fire filled his dreams.

“Mine were idiotic, jealous words,” said Kylara. Her eyes followed Aranya’s flight as she powered skyward ahead of the Dragonships, scouting. “I wish I were a Dragon. She’s … magnificent.”

“Would you settle for kissing a Dragon?”

“Sounds like a dangerous job for a Warlord.” After a short interlude, Kylara put her hands on his chest to press them apart. “Ardan, do you truly forgive me for how I mistreated you?”

“I could be persuaded.”

But even as he spoke, from above, Aranya’s Dragon-voice floated down to his awareness. I see Naphtha Cluster. I grieve with you, Ardan.

The playfulness in his spirit evaporated.

* * * *

A one-moon darkness mercifully shrouded Naphtha Cluster as the three Dragonships hurried to catch up with King Beran’s forces, who by agreement, were already taking up position to make the long crossing to Mejia Island, south of Jeradia. Many years before, Mejia had been an ally of Immadia. Beran expected a fond reunion there.

Unable to sleep because of nightmares about the Black Dragon, Aranya padded up to the forward navigation cabin in the early hours. She untied her headscarf and shook out her braids. Dragon-Aranya hated to feel restricted in any way, but Yolathion’s eyebrows crawled toward his hairline every time he saw her ‘naked’ – by which he meant wearing her hair unbound. Fussy, toothless old rajal, Aranya thought uncharitably. He acted so morose and jealous over the time she spent training and briefing Ardan. She wished she had the courage discuss these things with him, rather than acting like the sharp end of a crossbow bolt without rhyme or reason.

She soothed Sapphire with a touch. Don’t mind my moods, little one.

Ar-ar, chirped Sapphire, in the cute baby-dragonet voice she was developing. She curled her tail around Aranya’s neck and nibbled her earlobe, pouring forth a stream of Dragonish nonsense. The dragonet was growing in understanding, Aranya thought. She had clearly been displeased to be left behind when Aranya and Yolathion left to scout Yanga Island. How much could dragonets truly know? Nak had told her a legend about Hualiama and the dragonet Flicker, who had established a famous friendship after the dragonet saved her life. The tale was over five hundred years old and had at least seven distinct and conflicting versions Nak could recite. But those legends often contained more than a grain of truth, the old Dragon Rider had assured her.

The night was black and so still, it lured her toward the concave crysglass panels. Aranya shivered delicately, half-expecting to see Fra’anior’s gigantic, multi-headed form peering back at her from the depthless darkness. She stiffened, hugging herself. Fra’anior had commanded her to seek the Dragon of the Western Isles. Had he orchestrated the whole encounter?

Magic trickled into her awareness. Aranya whirled. “Who’s there … Ardan!”

“It’s me.”

“What’re you – why – you’re far too good at lurking in shadows. Stop it.”

He shifted toward her with draconic poise, saying nothing. The curve of his lips multiplied the tumult in her heart.

Aranya blurted out, “I dreamed of the Black Dragon.”

Inanities! A foil against the storm stirred by his appearance. Storms broke and crashed in her mind, mingled with a faraway roaring of the Black Dragon. In the faint moonlight, Ardan’s eyes were pools of night, with an evasive glint of magic in their depths.

He said, “I wasn’t dreaming of a Black Dragon.”

Aranya clutched at the frayed threads of her composure. Unsteadily, she said, “Maybe you’re a Dragon of Shadow. That’s right – not black, but shadow.”

“A Dragon of the absence of colour?” he frowned, joining her at the forward-facing crysglass window. “What are you trying to say, amethyst eyes? That I have no Dragon powers?”

Were words swords or scimitars, Aranya imagined, they would be sparring, circling, clashing over the truths that hung unspoken between them. She said, “Of course you have powers, Ardan. There’s your Dragon fire, at least, and much magic besides. And tell me, this strap you wear on your wrist – what is it? Because I’ve noticed it stays with you when you transform. That’s impossible.”

“Shadows must be cast by light,” he said.

A delicious warmth flared in her belly. Magic imbued his words with myriad shades of meaning. He was the shadow to her light? Shadow could be good? Aranya had been entirely unprepared for this response. Dreamily, she reached out to touch just the leather upon his wrist, not the skin. She dared not touch his skin. There was far too much magic coursing through her veins to take that risk.

I wear the ur-makka of a Western Isles warrior, he said, switching to Dragonish to answer her previous question. It names me threefold, for family, person and spirit, but symbolises much more. In Western Isles culture, each family name has a guardian spirit – it’s just a chip of wood encased in leather, Aranya, but –

He broke off at her low gasp. Her hair! What now? Aranya stumbled against the cool crysglass.

As he stretched out his hand toward her, automatically, Aranya’s multi-coloured tresses stirred again, yearning toward him, animated by the magic gently gleaming in every strand. Her hair had grown long during her political exile in the Tower of Sylakia, reaching to her waist, and was becoming almost impossible to wrangle into braids fit for hiding beneath a proper headscarf. The tugging sensation was surprisingly forceful. Aranya balked, fighting back as Ardan’s hand froze mid-gesture. Her hair strained sideways as though electrified.

“I’m not terribly intuitive, but I sense you might still desire me,” he smiled, pausing just inches from the waving tendrils.

Aranya tried to slap her errant hair down, but her struggles only served to encourage the magic. The Black Dragon’s roaring battered her mind – he wanted this, not her! She would keep her promise. She was Aranya, Princess of Immadia, not some puppet to an Ancient Dragon bully who wanted to tear her morals asunder. Had she not just shared an agreeable dinner with Yolathion in his cabin? Was he not her chosen one?

Sapphire launched off her shoulder, mewling in fright, her tiny claws pricking sharply through the thin fabric of her nightclothes. The dragonet perched on the back of King Beran’s desk chair.

You breathed the soul-fire! Fra’anior bellowed in her mind.

Aranya pressed her palms against her temples, as if that futile gesture would shut him out. No. You can’t make me.

Obey your destiny!

No!

But her shout of denial came out as an elongated, terrible rasp, a sound much closer to a Dragon’s roar than any Human throat should have been able to produce.

Ardan, clearly concerned for her state of mind, asked, “What’s the matter, Aranya? Who’re you talking to?”

But he could utter no more, because at that moment, Aranya’s hair brushed against his fingertips. A discharge of magic struck like lightning in the navigation cabin. Before she could stop it, her thick tresses wrapped around his hand. Her hair slithered up his arm to the elbow. Aranya stumbled into his ambit, drawn headfirst by an irresistible, painful tugging on her scalp.

“No, no,” she repeated, trying to ward him off with her hands, but her hair seethed and coiled around his shoulders and torso, crushing her against his chest. “No, I won’t … stop me, Ardan. Help me stop.”

Ardan’s fingers clasped the back of her neck. He said, ragged of breath, “Woman, you bring out the Dragon in me.”

There was a savage bent to his lips and a dangerous, fey light in his eyes. Aranya tried to bury her face against his shoulder, but the compulsion was visceral, and the magic flooding her being so sweetly intense, that resistance became a torment past bearing. Her chin tilted upward. Instead of meeting his ready lips, she inhaled the breath of his lungs in greedy gasps, perhaps seeking the soul-fire they had shared before.

Thunder! Storm clouds roiling without or within her being, she no longer knew which. Dragon fire flared about them. Aranya panted, “No, I promised. I will not!”

“To a Cloudlands volcano with those promises,” he hissed. “This is –”

“Ardan?” A sleepy voice echoed up the corridor.

Ardan and Aranya sprang apart as though a catapult mechanism had snapped when fully wound. Her fires around the room quenched instantly, but the pervading inner magic barely subsided, searing her body and spirit, throbbing with a tempo that echoed the vast, faraway storms of the endless Cloudlands.

Quick as lightning, Ardan whipped the ur-makka off his wrist and laid it on the table between them. He began to peel apart the thin layers of leather.

Kylara stood in the doorway, barefoot, yawning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Aranya had a dream of the Black Dragon,” said Ardan, as if all was well. “She asked about the ur-makka – why it comes through transformations with me.”

“Among my people, the elders would tell you that the ur-makka is an extension of the spirit-world,” said Kylara, drawing close to him. Aranya’s fingers clawed at her sides. “They would say that name-runes like yours are given by the Ancient Dragons, Ardan.”

The Warlord’s dark gaze rested on Aranya, standing tongue-tied beside her father’s desk. Nothing was singed, not a paper curled into ash at its edges. Had she imagined it all? Her hair rippled once against her back, and then lay as tranquil as if to assert its innocence. She took a mental snap at Fra’anior. How dare he, Ancient or none, try to force her to submit to his bidding? What perverted power of magic was this, that it should drive her into another’s arms, against her will?

Did he mean her harm?

“It’s a shadow power,” Aranya heard herself say. “A type of Dragon magic unique to you, Ardan. That’s how you slipped through those manacles. Somehow, you manipulate the physical world.”

Kylara slipped her arm into the crook of his. “Why don’t you manipulate me back to my cabin, o mighty Dragon?”

And Ardan departed without a backward glance, leaving Aranya to swallow the bitter sting of the Warlord’s words – Kylara’s tone made their target abundantly clear. Worst of all, she was right, and well within her rights. Aranya wished she had something handy to sink her fangs into.

Her thoughts were embittered. And you, Fra’anior? How can I trust you now?

The night was mute.

Aranya’s gaze fell on Ardan’s wrist-pouch, lying forgotten on the desk. As if reading her thoughts, Sapphire picked it up with her forepaws and leaped deftly over to her shoulder, this time sheathing her claws on landing.

Ippich? chirped the dragonet, presenting it to her.

Ur-makka, said Aranya. Had the Western Isles warrior left it for her? Should she take it? Might it appease Fra’anior? Not that she wanted to appease anybody or any Dragon. In her mood, she would rather have kicked the Black Dragon right in his ridiculously enormous fangs – however futile that act might prove. She pictured herself attacking one head, while another bit her tail off from behind. No. That was not the way.

Pensively, Aranya extracted Ardan’s name-chip from the leather pouch. The chip was mottled with age, almost the size of her thumb. Ardan, she read. And Yoaggaral. She mouthed the unfamiliar word – his family name, perhaps? The last of his clan. Flipping the chip over with the dexterity of one who had spent far too much time playing Staves with Zuziana in the Tower of Sylakia, Aranya puzzled over the rune on the reverse side.

Was that his spirit name?

She could not read runic script, but a word slipped into her mind – Sha’aldior. Scarcely had Aranya registered the deep magic behind that word, when a fresh insight struck her with the force of a Dragon’s cold, steely talons slicing into her gut. This was why the Sylakians had razed Naphtha Cluster. He was why. They knew, somehow, just as Fra’anior had known, about the rise of a Dragon in the Western Isles. A creature of shadow power.

Thoralian’s response had been swift – extermination.

Born deep in the bones of one of her forms, Aranya knew her intuition was right.

Grimly, she strapped the ur-makka about her wrist, and secured Ardan’s name-chip inside as best she was able. Kylara could have the man. Aranya would keep his spirit. On second thoughts, she fastened the strap about her ankle. It fit better there, given the thickness of his wrist, and Yolathion would never notice it beneath the long skirts he so patently preferred for women.

Ha! A Dragoness in skirts? It beggared belief. Now, if she wore Western Isles armour like Kylara, Yolathion would fall over in a gasping, red-faced heap!

Turning again to the forward crysglass window, Aranya gazed out over the rolling, billowing Cloudlands, faintly lit by the Jade and Mystic moons, struck afresh by the incongruity of her existence. She bounced slightly on her toes, wishing to feel faraway breezes ruffling her wings as they sailed ever eastward toward Mejia Island. How was it she could be born to this, the life of a Shapeshifter Dragon? How was it that her life had become the nexus of such overwhelming forces? And why, if he claimed to be her ally, was the Black Dragon driving her into madness?

She would neither be a slave to him, nor lust helplessly for another Human or Dragon, no matter if he came disguised in all the beautiful, magical soul-fire in the world.

Or did Fra’anior and his kin seek to break back into Island-World, through her?

Sapphire’s distressed screech perfectly expressed the chill that this thought introduced to her body. Aranya stroked the dragonet’s neck ruff, crooning softly to her in Dragonish, Hush, little one. He cannot harm us.

If only she could believe that were true.

Chapter 13: Siege Mentality

CoMMANDER DARRon Knocked courteously on the door of Ri’arion’s cabin. Zuziana of Remoy lifted her head from her monk’s shoulder. She had been dozing on the bed alongside him, on top of the covers. “Enter.”

The Commander’s grizzled face cracked into a warm, slightly lopsided smile. Zuziana did not know why, but Commander Darron treated her as his own daughter. She suspected that if she divulged that she knew about his sweet-as-sugar-bamboo spot for her, he’d start growling and spitting feathers like a Dragon fighting a windroc.

Zip pushed her tangled brown locks back from her face. “Do I look like a windroc which has been dragged through a bush backward, Commander?” she greeted him.

“Remoy has never enjoyed a finer hour,” he said. “I’m sorry to have left you this long. Lie down, Princess. That’s an order. Medics patched you up? How fares our Nameless Man?”

“Better,” said Zip.

“I’d also fare better were I treated so well – lie still, I said! If your head dares to leave that pillow-roll, I swear …”

Zip’s tan cheeks flushed. But she riposted, “I suppose you’d also fare better if you were cuddled up to a Princess-Dragon.”

“Nay is what I say to that, lady. Don’t you get too big for your Dragonish paws.”

The Remoyan winced. If he indeed treated her as a daughter, should she be displeased that he chose to discipline her for a thoughtless comment? Aye, it smarted.

The Commander added, “I’ve been married these twenty-nine summers, and never been happier. Caught me a sweet Island girl from the northernmost sliver of Immadia’s Kingdom, I did.” Darron wagged his forefinger at her. “Tell me what went wrong today.”

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Estalia. You know her. She’s the Steersman on this vessel.”

“Oh. Oh! But she’s …”

“Young? Too pretty for an old buzzard like me?” he grinned. Zuziana shook with laughter as their conversation took a dive in an unexpected direction. “I was a late starter. Much too focussed on the military career, you see. Married in my fortieth summer. Now, I’ll have your report before I have to tan that blue hide of yours even bluer. Tell me about the ambush.”

After relating how the Ferial Islanders had filled their cargo holds with coal storks and dropped them on Ri’arion’s head, Zuziana explained how the mind-meld had broken down.

“Pain communicated between you?” said the Commander. “That’s tough. Aye, and what did the medics say?”

“That they’ve put more stitches in him than one of those tapestries you Immadians love,” Zip smiled, but a tear dropped on the pillow-roll beside her head. She placed her hand tenderly on Ri’arion’s still, pallid cheek. “He’ll live to fight again, but not for a few weeks, or … longer. Nothing fatal. As long as there’s no infection, all he’ll have is scars. There might be permanent damage to his left shoulder and bicep.”

“You don’t have Aranya’s healing powers?”

Zip shook her head.

“Right. Need to think about that.” Commander Darron clasped his hands behind his back. “This is a setback for our plans regarding Yorbik.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. Our strategy with the specialists was imperfect. I should’ve expected a surprise. In battle, it’s the unknowns that kill.” Darron’s hand waved that away. “We took all eleven fingers without too much trouble. Ferial is secure; our troops are swarming over it like ants enjoying the castle kitchens. A few hours ago, I despatched twenty-four captured Dragonships to fetch more soldiers from our allies at Helyon, Gemalka, and more easterly, from Pla’arna and Herliss Clusters – although they are small. Every man will count – and woman, and Dragon – when it comes to laying siege to Yorbik.”

“Consolidating the gains so far?”

“Aye.”

“What about scouting Yorbik Island?”

“Since you offer so politely – get back on that pillow-roll!” he barked. “By the five moons, Dragon lady, can you not keep an order in your head for more than a single minute?”

Ri’arion shifted and moaned in his sleep. Zuziana reached up to smooth his brow, but grimaced as the movement stretched her side. All that thrashing about as their link transmitted his pain to her, had strained the muscles along her right flank. Her scars from Garthion’s torture ached. Ri’arion had noticed that the scales of her Dragon chest and flank were knobbed and rough in places, reflecting the injuries to her Human form. She could hardly believe that had happened less than a year before. How her life – and the entire Island-World – had changed since.

She remembered fainting when she first saw Aranya transform into a Dragoness. How inexplicable that her friend’s decision to steal her from the Tower of Sylakia had led to the Sylakians’ first defeat in over a decade, and now here she was, tucked beneath the covers with a magical monk, who stank of herbal medicines and astringent antiseptic paste.

Life was an enigmatic Island.

Darron’s frown mellowed. “Scouting can wait a day or two. You must rest.”

Zuziana said, “But, who would scout with me? My Rider can’t.”

“We’ll find someone.”

Her Dragon senses detected an almost imperceptible catch in his voice as he spoke. Would he be offended if she missed that signal? “You’re sending in spies, of course?”

The Commander had turned toward the door, but now he paused. “Of course. Don’t think we Immadians can’t match you Remoyans in espionage.”

“Good,” she said. “As you know, we Dragons of Remoy are very fussy about who we allow to ride us.”

“And?”

“Go ask your wife for permission, Commander.”

Just the tiniest smile cracked the corner of his mouth. “Is that an order, Princess?”

“For this Azure Dragon, it is a matter of honour.”

* * * *

Three pairs of eyes, two Human and one Dragon, stared down at the shipyards of Yorbik Island. They had flown in low and fast in the early hours before dawn. Now, a dense wood on the brow of a hill sheltered the threesome from enemy eyes. They needed every scrap of cover available.

Darron thumped Zip’s neck with his fist. “Nice mess you made back there, Dragon.”

“Would you prefer an arrow in the gullet, Commander?” she sniped back.

“You tore his heart out with your talons.”

“Can’t fault me for enthusiasm.”

Estalia, telescope pressed to her left eye, hissed, “Islands’ sakes, husband, stop flirting with the Dragon and take a look at this.”

Zuziana’s eyes ranged over the shipyards of Yorbik Island, which occupied a space between four steep, wooded hills in the precise geographical centre of the Island. Some parts of the sprawling works, subsidiary factories and construction gantries were hidden behind the far slopes, but from their vantage-point they could see enough. More than enough.

Darron grunted, “Tubular catapults?”

“Look behind them,” said his wife.

“Pipes? Am I seeing pipes?”

“By the mountains of Immadia, this is why I’m the engineer and you’re a military man. Those are gas lines leading to gas-powered catapults. I’d stake anything you care to name on it.”

Zuziana ground her fangs together. “I assume you mean the cluster of thirty tubes atop that scaffolding?”

“Aye,” said Estalia. She had a no-nonsense way about her, which jarred with her habitual sweet expression. Beneath a fashionable turquoise headscarf, her eyes were a cool blue that reminded Zip of Immadia’s snow-capped mountains, so different from the jungles of her home. “It’s a rapid-firing catapult machine. Shiny and new. The opposite tower has a similar construction, but by the lines coiled on the platform I surmise grappling hooks, which can be fired to take down Dragonships.”

“To what height?” asked the Commander.

Estalia shrugged. “Gas powered, by meriatite engines? A thousand feet plus. Depends on how good the technology is. Two thousand might be safe.”

Zip squirmed as she imagined a grappling hook slamming into her belly. Fired by one those machines, they could doubtless pierce and reel in an unlucky Dragon, too.

The Commander said, “We don’t have enough troops for a ground assault.”

“Or Dragons who can avoid thirty crossbow bolts at once.” And that was just one of three or four dozen such emplacements scattered throughout the shipyard. Although her tone was light, Zip stiffened beside her companions. “Oh, roaring rajals. We’ve a bigger problem.”

“What?” said Darron, scanning the shipyard with efficient sweeps of the telescope.

At least two dozen Dragonships lay in their bays, in various stages of construction. Zuziana noted three of the huge, armoured Dragonships she and Aranya had tangled with before. They were being fitted with the new catapults and crossbows, smaller than the ground emplacements, but just as deadly. Her Dragon sight allowed her to pick out a dozen tubes per bundle, slightly angled to ensure a spread of quarrels or shot in the air. These Sylakians clearly had no love for Dragons. The aerial forces patrolling the shipyards were no less well-equipped. Zuziana counted three dozen Dragonships aloft, and they had passed silently beneath another dozen at least on their route southward across Yorbik’s enormous hardwood forests.

Thoralian was assembling a mighty fleet once more.

The Commander blurted out a few colourful words, drawing a chuckle from Zip, “Seen him now?”

“Report, Darron,” said his wife, as though she were the commander.

“It’s only the fattest ruddy Red Dragon I have ever seen,” said Darron. “That beast is so obese it can’t possibly fly.”

Estalia, with a wink in Zip’s direction, relieved her husband of the telescope. “Your eyesight’s failing, old man.” But after a moment, her knuckles turned white on the instrument. “You’re right. A hundred feet if he’s an inch, nose to tail, and as fat as an overfull wineskin.”

As one, the two Humans turned to regard their draconic companion.

“I’m not afraid of that flabby red ape,” she protested. “Um, I suppose you don’t get apes on Immadia?”

“We understand,” said Darron.

“But you failed to mention his friends,” Estalia noted, peering again through the telescope.

“What?” Darron and Zip gasped in concert.

“I see three Reds, a Brown, a Green … over there, by the sinkhole. Not one of them is less podgy than that fine specimen of a Red.”

Zuziana’s belly-fires announced their discontent at this statement.

Her gleaming Dragon eyes focussed on the scene below. The girth of those beasts beggared belief. For the first time, she realised that she and Aranya could only be described as slender girl-Dragons – but surely, the size of those Dragons had to be unnatural? Just look, they were forced to lift a Red out of the pit by a towering hawser-and-pulley system. Surely adult Dragons did not reach such an overweight state under ordinary conditions? The Brown’s belly was so grossly distended, he had to drag himself across the ground on stumpy-seeming legs, which had to be thicker in the upper thighs than her entire torso.

So, were the Sylakians secretly breeding Dragons?

Her gaze leaped to the sinkhole, that thousand-foot-wide black pit slap in the middle of the shipyards. What was Thoralian hiding down there, she wondered? New inventions? New ways of killing Dragons? And, clearly, he was assembling a whole new Dragonwing of fully-grown adults to supplement his already mighty forces. How many years had the Supreme Commander been planning this? How many of these beasts might be Shapeshifters, like Garthion, who had tortured her so pitilessly?

“Easy, girl,” said Darron, patting her neck.

Zuziana realised she had whimpered, and hung her head.

“Strength to you,” said Estalia, reaching out to touch the Azure Dragon, too. Her tone suggested she knew something of the Remoyan Princess’ history. “That’s in the past.”

“Garthion burned for his deeds,” said Darron. “We’ll spend the day spying on these overgrown slugs, before taking our intelligence back under the cover of darkness, best we can. The Yellow moon’s waxing tonight, more’s the pity. Look. That one’s flapping his wings as hard as he can, but he can’t move an inch off the ground. They’re –”

“Training,” Zip whispered.

The Commander froze in the act of stroking his beard. “Aye. That they are. How has Thoralian hidden this mystery, I wonder? These are no juveniles.”

“Why are they in such poor condition?” asked Estalia. “That Green has patches that look like fungal growth. You’d never let yourself go like that, would you, petal?”

Now Zuziana understood why Aranya had always bristled at being called ‘petal’. It was such a ridiculously off-the-Island descriptor for a Dragon. On cue, a deep growl issued from her throat.

“I thought not.”

Darron said, “Right, wife, I’ll have my quill and –”

“Wife – in that tone of voice? Who am I, the windroc’s mother?”

“Shall I leave you two alone?” Zip griped, after a brief interlude. “Couples of a certain age should not, well –”

“Should not what, petal?” Estalia interrupted, with a wicked grin. “You go marry your monk, then you can complain all you like.” But she wriggled away beneath the undergrowth, claiming that she was ‘off to bury the Dragon’s kill’.

The Azure Dragon flexed her talons. Grr.

“Right, to work, Dragon,” said Commander Darron. “You sing out the numbers; I’ll scribe. I want a detailed map of this place before sundown, right down to the number of fangs in those Dragons’ mouths. You don’t think we can peek inside that hole, do you?”

“Not likely,” said Zip.

“But it’s intriguing, isn’t it?”

“As only a hole in the ground guarded by half of Sylakia could be.”

Perhaps Ri’arion’s magic could have seen within. Perhaps it would only have alerted the Dragons lazing in the suns-shine down there. Darron’s quill pen scratched across the scroll, sounding startlingly loud in the silent forest. A forest in which every animal smelled a Dragon, and would not dare to stir until she departed.

Zip peeked over the Commander’s shoulder. “Right. Time to correct all your mistakes, old man.”

He jabbed at her muzzle with his quill. “Shut the trap, you insolent, overgrown reptile.”

They worked steadily, filling in detail after detail.

An hour later, he said, “My guess is that Thoralian’s a thousand leagues away.”

“How do you know that?” asked Zip, losing count of the number of grappling hook emplacements. She hissed in annoyance.

“The fortifications,” said the Commander. “Dragons, Dragonships, new technology … we can’t attack here. He knows it. Thoralian will be elsewhere. Plotting.”

“Aranya could flatten this place and serve up those overgrown wild pigs for dessert afterward,” Zip declared, stout in defence of her best friend.

Darron raised an eyebrow. “Bravely said, Princess. But you see what I see, don’t you? The air’s secure. The ground’s secure. The only way Immadia could raid this shipyard is if we burrowed beneath the Island, like the mythical Land Dragons of old.”

“Which are not nearly as mythical as you think, Commander.”

“I wish your Nameless Man could be here to see this,” said Darron, ignoring the smoke wafting from her nostrils. “What’s that wife of mine doing back there?”

“Rajal prints,” said Zip.

“Ah, disguising your lizard-mess?”

Zuziana showed him her right foreclaw. “Shall I draw a map on your back with this?”

But they both knew their jokes were only a disguise of a different kind. Immadia could no more attack this place than they could know what mysterious world hid beneath the Cloudlands, or what lay beyond the legendary mountain-wall that surrounded their Island-World, twenty-five leagues tall. Perhaps with the help of Aranya’s storm powers, Zip thought, an attack on the shipyards might be possible, or if they could attack before those Dragons exercised themselves into shape, which might take weeks. But Aranya was also weeks away, hopefully engaged in a conquest of Jeradia Island.

Zip’s sigh flattened the grass in front of her muzzle. If only her friend would send word. What if Aranya encountered this new technology without being pre-warned?

Evidently, Supreme Commander Thoralian intended to reintroduce Dragons to their Island-World – his Dragons. Given enough Dragons he’d have an unstoppable force, especially since the Dragons of old had conveniently disappeared. There was no balance. No counter-force to give him pause. Did that mean he had been keeping Dragons captive? Or were these all members of his family? Clearly, Thoralian had the Islands in the grip of his hand … or paw. When these Dragons were ready for war, he would smash the Immadian forces in a single stroke.

Suddenly, she shifted her head. “Commander, to have a hope of taking this place, we need Aranya. Ri’arion needs Aranya. The place to join Beran’s forces is at Fra’anior Island.”

“But we need to secure the northerly route to Immadia,” said Darron.

Zip curled her lip into a smile.

“Oh, very sneaky, Remoy. Aye, that could work. If our intelligence pinpoints Thoralian’s location, we’d know what he’s up to. You could rush over to Fra’anior and brief King Beran about what we’ve seen here, because he needs to know about these Dragons and the new weapons. Take Ri’arion. Get Aranya to heal him – but how would we do it? Can’t go in a Dragonship equipped for war.”

“A small force sneaks westward around The Spits, just as we planned,” said Zip. “We take the long passage to Remia, skipping Jendor and Horness. Swiftly on to Noxia, then Rolodia, and then Fra’anior lies within striking distance.”

Darron snapped his fingers. “Those long-distance trader Dragonships we captured at Helyon. I knew I’d find a use for them.”

“Exactly.”

“Disguise for an Azure Dragon, plus excellent range and speed,” he said, nodding with increasing enthusiasm. “Meantime, I’ll order my spies and specialists to sabotage these works. A few well-placed attacks will create havoc. We fortify the northern route at Ferial and Helyon, building up our forces, not wasting them in a major but futile attack here. We put Yorbik Island to siege.”

Dragon-Zip’s chuckle was full of ominous rumblings.

But Darron’s eyes rose to the horizon. “First War-Hammer Ignathion will attack at Jeradia Island, because every man is a crazed rajal in defence of his homeland. I hope Beran is prepared for the battle of his life.”

Chapter 14: Battle for Jeradia

ARanya Placed A tray before Yolathion. “Brought you a treat. Surg-gogi.”

“It isn’t every evening my dinner arrives so beautifully dressed,” he said, easing his splinted leg. “Islands’ sakes, I can’t wait to be rid of this thing.”

She smiled, “One more week.”

“Aye, thou art beautiful, Immadia,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But why you are wearing neither Immadian purple, nor amethyst to match your eyes?”

“Flying right off to a new Island,” she said, trying not to wilt at his tone. He hated the dress, evidently. “White for the Immadian snows.”

With a twirl that wafted her expensive dorlis-flower perfume in his direction, Aranya, every inch the Princess, slipped into the chair opposite him.

“Although, I’d love to see you in a traditional Jeradian dress,” he mused. “You have the height.”

Aranya masked her irritation by adjusting the position of the dishes. Dragon-Aranya thought the meal smelled delicious. Her Human part was not nearly as certain. Meat, certainly. But not any type of meat she had ever eaten. It smelled … sharp. Gamey. Probably richly spiced, in the way of most Jeradian dishes Yolathion had introduced her to.

Right. Tonight was about reviving their relationship. She would not let his obsession with all things Jeradian ruin their evening. She was finished with that meddling Ancient Dragon. She harboured no more desire for Ardan. This Dragoness would fly to her own stars above the Island-World; nobody else would choose them for her. But Aranya had to quash a mindfulness of inner storms, embodied by the thunder rumbling behind their Dragonship as it sped on a direct course for Jos, the capital city of Jeradia Island. Deny the magic, she ordered herself. Bite down on the weeping rains, the swelling thunderheads of guilt, and the pregnant hailstorms of betrayal.

She said, “What’s this dish, Yolathion?”

“First, you must taste it,” he said. “The meat goes with these peppered flatbreads. You slice the bread open with your knife – like so – and then spoon in a few curried string-beans. Take it easy on the miniature sweet chilli-pods, they’ll set your mouth afire. Now, a healthy helping of the main attraction – here. Take a bite.”

Aranya almost gagged on her mouthful. The meat was foul. She had to think Dragon-thoughts just to force it past the knot in her throat.

“Good?”

“Distinctive,” she mumbled. Her tongue smarted as she discovered one of the chillies. She gasped, “Oh – water, please. You rotten fiend!”

“A pinch of colour to those pale cheeks,” Yolathion teased.

“While I’m dying over here!”

“See, we Jeradians know about breathing fire,” he claimed, but Aranya’s coughing and teary eyes brought him gallantly out of his seat to help. Patting her back was pointless, but the kisses which followed improved the situation dramatically.

Aranya swatted away an opinion that Ardan’s kisses had been far more enflaming. She had returned his ur-makka before she destroyed it in one of her transformations. How did he do it? The wristlet vanished when he assumed his Dragon form, only to reappear when he turned Human again. That would be a trick. She could keep her clothes on, for a start, which would reduce the opportunity for embarrassment. She felt Ardan’s eyes upon her even when he thought she was not aware. Did he not realise that Kylara must notice? Women were shrewd about these things, and the Warlord of Ur-Yagga was no fool.

“So,” said Yolathion, returned to his seat and shovelling the surg-gogi meat dish into his mouth with great zest, “who will ride the Dragoness into battle tomorrow?”

“Not Ardan, in case you’re wondering.”

“No, not him.”

Aranya could gladly have bitten her own tail for mentioning Ardan. “After all, you’re my Rider,” she added belatedly. Lame, Immadia. “Two of Kylara’s archers have volunteered. We’ll be fighting your father, Yoli. You saw the intelligence. How do you feel about that?”

“My duty is to stand with King Beran.”

Clearly, a taboo subject. Drawing on her years of courtly training, Aranya smiled at him over the rim of her water goblet. “So, what is that meat? Rajal brains?”

“Excellent guess. You’re right.”

“You’re joking.”

Yolathion’s jaw tightened. “I said, you’re right. Brains and heart. There’s an old Jeradian tradition which says that to eat the heart and brain of a rajal is to become as wise and courageous as the great predator itself.”

She slugged down her mouthful with the aid of a swig of water. “I hope people don’t think that of Dragons.”

“Only those who can slay a man’s heart with their beauty,” he said, saluting her with his glass, and then he spoiled an interlude in which Aranya’s heart was sighing over his handsome smile, by adding, “of course, we Jeradians excelled at hunting Dragons – feral ones, or Dragons which chose the paths of evil, raiding our towns and villages. Jeradian warriors used to be hired by our neighbouring Islands in the great Dragon hunts of old.”

Testily, she replied, “But Jeradia had a school for Dragon Riders, didn’t it?”

“Oh, that old fable?”

“Garg – a Jeradian man I met in the Western Isles, told me –”

“Come on, Aranya. You shouldn’t believe every legend floating around the Islands.” He essayed an engaging grin, which she slapped. Hard.

Yolathion touched his flaming cheek, shocked.

Aranya glared at her hand as though it had found a mind of its own. “I’m so sorry, Yoli … I don’t know what came over me.”

“Evidently not!”

She deserved his cold anger. She deserved worse, after what she had done to transform their relationship into a storm-wrecked Island. Was her guilt corroding their relationship from within? Aranya bit her lip, despising the desperate note in her voice as she apologised several more times. Treacherous, wild laughter threatened to overcome her at the expression on his face. She had to fake a coughing fit. Aranya sipped her water, feeling overheated and rather less repentant than she surely should.

“Carry on, Yolathion.”

“The Dragon-Rider Academy was meant to have been built inside an enormous volcano in the north-west corner of Jeradia Island,” he said. “We have many volcanoes, but none which match that particular description. If you check the records, the alleged location is completely absent. Just a sheer drop into the Cloudlands. Trust me, our Jeradian scholars have looked into it – exhaustively. It’s just a rumour that surfaces every few summers around Jeradia, spread by a group of crazies who call themselves the Order of Onyx.”

“Onyx?” echoed Aranya, wondering why that word shivered the Islands of her memory. Why was onyx important?

“Aye, they think they’re keeping the old traditions of the Dragon Riders alive. It’s nonsense. Dragon Riders with no Dragons? A cartload of ralti sheep droppings, if you ask me.”

Aranya nodded, her politeness reduced in her mind to a taut, overstretched string. Too many stressors, Beran had said. She should rest more. But it seemed that she closed her eyelids only to find Fra’anior inscribed on the backs of them, and when she woke, it was to the knowledge of the storm steadily circumscribing her world, a hammer poised to fall.

When he did not offer any more information, she said, “Thank you for making that clear, Yoli. Now, another helping of surg-gogi?”

But she puzzled over his words. Order of Onyx? Where had she heard that before? Had Nak or Oyda mentioned it? By the mountains of Immadia, she knew two real Dragon Riders who were both alive and well, although very old. Was it likely that such an order existed? Might they know some Shapeshifter lore which could lead to a cure for her mother?

Unbidden, a seed of hope lodged in her breast.

* * * *

As a glorious twin-suns dawn blushed over the jagged profile of Jeradia Island, Aranya stood on her tiptoes to kiss Yolathion’s cheek. Mercy, she might have surpassed her tall father, who looked on, but Yolathion practically kept a private patch of clouds to himself.

“Go burn the heavens, Dragon,” he murmured.

Aranya made to leave the navigation cabin of her father’s flagship, but whirled in the doorway. “I’ll try to keep your father alive, Yolathion.”

“Jeradia’s greater than any man,” he said, stiffly. “Win the battle, Aranya. That’s your task.”

Cold, unfeeling … he couldn’t mean that, surely?

But his chin lifted, and beneath the dark flip of his hair, his eyes smouldered at her searching gaze. “If you expect any quarter from Ignathion, Aranya, then you don’t know the man.”

“He was kind to me, once.”

“You saved his life from a windroc so that my father could continue to extend the hegemony of Sylakia across the Island-World, Aranya – that’s all you achieved. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Furious tears sprang to her eyes. “What? Yolathion –”

“He’s the Supreme Commander’s lackey, his foremost bootlicker!” Yolathion shouted, shocking her. “I did the honourable thing, but my father has tossed his honour into the Cloudlands. I’m ashamed to be called Ignathion’s son.”

Standing beside her boyfriend, King Beran’s brow darkened. Aranya knew what he was thinking. Even as his sworn enemy, Beran held Ignathion in greater esteem than his son. The King noted, wisely, “If Ignathion falls, then that is the path of destiny, Aranya. But I, for one, would prefer to accept my old enemy’s surrender in person. It is only fitting.”

A brittle silence enveloped the room.

Aranya turned away. Oh, Yolathion! Poor, tortured Yolathion. The decision he had made to betray his service to Sylakia and join the Immadian rebellion still weighed heavily upon him. Duty and honour were the unbreakable chains binding his soul. Sometimes, she just wanted to grab his shoulders and shout, ‘Forget the past!’

Wrathful, filled to bursting with fire after her clash with Yolathion, Aranya tore off her headscarf as she marched down the corridor to the Dragonship’s stern. She threw that, and her cloak, at a startled Immadian soldier, but felt ashamed at her response.

Clad in just a thin shift, Aranya clambered the ladder to the platform above the hydrogen sack, where her two assigned Western Isles warriors awaited her – Cherya and Ezziya, sisters from Kylara’s command, who had trained with her several times. Aranya would not have wanted to wrestle the muscular sisters in her Human form. She imagined they would have been far happier to take on Sylakian Hammers in a fistfight, than fight Dragonback.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Aye,” they chorused.

“Stand back.” Shucking her garment, Aranya transformed. “Saddle? Extra quivers of arrows, oil pots?” The warriors fell to with a will. No Dragon fear for them. A saddle strap tightened around her chest. “Tighter,” she said. “Double-check your buckles when you’re in.”

Four hundred feet off her starboard flank, a Dragonship groaned beneath the sudden onset of Ardan’s bulk. Aranya felt a wave of magic prickle her scales. Her gaze turned from the neat ranks of Beran’s thirty-one-strong Dragonship fleet to the equally neat ranks of Ignathion’s fleet, easily triple that number, idling a quarter-league or so south of Jos city. This picture struck her as too pastoral. What were they missing? Not that her Dad ever missed the tactical equivalent of a gnat. But Ignathion was not known to be blunt or straightforward in his planning.

Aranya called to the Steersman, standing alertly nearby, “Alert King Beran that it’s too quiet. I don’t like it.”

“Aye, lady Dragon.”

“We’re in,” said Cherya.

“Let’s go take down that fleet,” said Aranya.

Her leap rocked the Dragonship. Almost simultaneously, Ardan flapped ponderously off his perch – eschewing a leap, she realised, lest he send his Dragonship spiralling into the Cloudlands. Enviously, she took in the sweep of his wings. Ha. She could fly rings around anything that moved; he would probably not bother, and just bore straight through his enemies. She almost pitied the warriors of Ignathion’s force. They must be wetting their trousers at the prospect of battling two Dragons.

Ardan angled his flight until his wingtip was just a few feet from touching Aranya’s.

Looking feisty but fabulous, Aranya, he greeted her.

Feisty? With good reason. And, before she could think better of it, she told him what had just passed between her and Yolathion.

The shadowy Dragon’s dark orbs glittered with understanding. You want to take Ignathion alive? I’ll work with that.

And, Ardan – be careful.

His colossal jaw opened in a Dragon’s smile – all fangs and menace. Why? They’re Dragonships.

I’ve a Dragon sense, Ardan. Ignathion’s up to something.

You’re probably just anticipating the smell of burning Sylakian beards, he said. I’ll keep a Dragon’s watch on the horizon, Aranya. You do the same.

I’ll watch your backside – your back, sorry. Your back.

Ardan said, very drolly, My rump does rival an Island’s majesty. I appreciate the thought, Aranya.

Go burn the heavens, you overgrown chunk of soot.

“Light up, ladies,” she said, aloud.

Kylara, occupying the lead position in Ardan’s jury-rigged quadruple saddle, was doing the same. Three more Western Isles warriors lined up behind her, armed with bows and fire-arrows.

Ardan surged upward, climbing to gain the height advantage on Ignathion’s fleet. This provoked an immediate response. A dozen Dragonships immediately began to drift upward to guard against the assault from above. Aranya searched the land, the Cloudlands, the perfectly clear skies. Bar the gaggle of smaller Dragonships left behind to guard Jos, the First War-Hammer of Sylakia had committed his entire force to this battle. Or had he? But the mountains of central Jeradia lay serene, as if never trodden by the foot of man. That dramatic wilderness was the only possible hiding place.

Yolathion was wrong about his father. She did know him somewhat, having spent much of her first journey to Sylakia on board a Dragonship in his company. And if she understood the War-Hammer even in the smallest degree, his charming exterior concealed a shrewd, ever-calculating mind.

Fine. A blast of Dragon fire would soon reveal the devious plan conceived in that many-terraced brain of his.

Altering the angle of her wings, Aranya accelerated to attack speed.

Closer, closer came the upper echelon of Dragonships. Aranya filled her mind with thoughts of the storm spanning the south-western horizon, of grey, billowing cumulonimbus clouds and jagged streaks of lightning, and bared her fangs as a familiar pressure developed in her belly. Storm power.

First target, the uppermost Dragonship. Ardan would take the second, as agreed. Aranya drove herself forward to outpace him by several Dragon-lengths. Ready her fires, and … huh?

The unexpectedly high-pitched whine of the meriatite furnace engines triggered her alarm. Aranya folded her wings to bank so sharply, one of the warriors on her back cried out in pain. Crossbow bolts! Faster than she had ever seen, they sprayed across her previous path. So many! Such fantastic speed. Only a Dragon’s reflexes saved her from being pinned like a trout feeling the sting of a fishing spear. As it was, a clutch of bolts passed through the membrane of her left wing so rapidly that a perfect pentagram of holes popped into being as if by magic.

Aranya swivelled instinctively, eluding the catapult engineers’ efforts as she searched for the source of the danger. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ardan pull off a herculean stalling manoeuvre. A deadly load passed through the space beneath his belly. With a bellow of wild, cruel laughter that shook Ignathion’s fleet, he released a bolt of concentrated flame. Three Dragonships detonated in rapid succession.

KA-KA-KAAABOOOOM!

Her secondary optic membranes cleared. Aranya realised that his firebolt had achieved what she had never imagined. White-hot, spear-shaped, it had passed straight through two Dragonships before expending itself on the third.

That Dragonship. ‘Ware the third on your port flank, Ardan! Aranya called.

How did those tubes fire so many crossbow bolts at once? The engines howled. Aranya’s Dragon sight examined the teams of engineers frantically swivelling the strange new catapults on their bearings. They had improved the mechanism, making the weapons spin more freely. But the real danger lay inside those tubes. She muttered a caustic Remoyan word she had learned during her first fight with Zuziana, before they had become friends.

A blast of steam from the twin bow catapults warned her. Reflexively, Aranya coiled, protecting her Riders. Her forepaws blurred, swatting aside three bolts. A further two sparked off her scales as she sucked in her stomach.

“We’re going in,” she snarled. “Pick a target; destroy it.”

“Aye,” said her Riders.

A coil of smoke from their oil-pots whipped past her nose as the Amethyst Dragon flung herself into an all-out sprint. The change of velocity confused the engineers manning the traditional winch-operated catapults. Nets, six-foot bolts and loads of shrapnel flashed through the morning air, but only to slice through the wake of a furious Dragoness. Aranya pumped her stomach muscles. Eat this, Ignathion!

Pfft! Pfft! Her tiny blue fireballs streaked across the swiftly closing gap between her and the Dragonships. She wheeled smoothly away from the hydrogen blast. One of her warriors cursed unhappily, but the other crowed, “First blood!”

A double thunderclap struck her eardrums as the Shadow Dragon’s attack also found its target. Aranya homed in on the source of her anger. New technology from Sylakia? They were proving all too creative when it came to fighting Dragons. Pfft! She placed a fireball perfectly into the stern catapult emplacement. But it did not explode as she expected. Not gas? Had they been clever enough to employ steam rather than hydrogen gas to power the new crossbows?

The note of the engines warned her again. “Hold on,” said Aranya, and spun her body on its axis. The tip of her tail sliced open the rear compartment of the hydrogen sack.

“One for our fallen!” screamed Cherya, making her shot count.

KAABOOM!

Through the pall of smoke, the Shadow Dragon resembled a vast wraith, blazing arrows speeding from the warriors on his back. Aranya threw herself into a somersault, coming up beneath the cabin of the new-technology Dragonship. She was not finished yet. Chuckling, she sank her claws into the metal and then ran up the side, ambushing the warriors on the side gantry, and their fellows atop the Dragonship seconds later. Ezziya cleaned up the man aiming his catapult tubes at them with a perfectly placed arrow to the throat.

“Nice shot,” said Aranya. “Now to the rear, Cherya.”

As they left the crippled Dragonship behind them, Cherya leaned out of her saddle to slot an arrow into the gaping hole Aranya had left.

“One less to bother King Beran,” she said. Aranya saw a flash of flame reflected in her eyes.

She chuckled. These were warriors after her three Dragon hearts.

If you’ve finished tidying up, Aranya, may I remind you that we’re in a battle? growled Ardan. Follow me. There’s more of those new-fangled Dragonships down there.

Then you’d better be careful, hadn’t you?

Me? Ha!

You’re so fat they can’t possibly miss, said Aranya, archly.

Ardan’s thunder of fury stung every scale on her Dragon hide. What a predator! Ever so appetising. Flinging her treacherous thoughts to the winds, Aranya spiralled after Ardan. What’s the plan, genius?

I’ll tease them. You go in through the smoke.

Fine. Aranya batted her eyelids in his direction. But remember, Ignathion is mine.

If he’s even up here.

Even at the speed of Dragon communication, this rapid-fire conversation was all they had time for. Ahead of her, Ardan flexed his jaw. Chew on this, boys.

Dragon fire hosed out of his mouth. Rotating his neck, Ardan swept down on the Dragonships before jinking aside with a cunning flick of his wings. Still, Aranya saw a couple of crossbow bolts sprout in his right thigh as she whipped past him, through the smoking ruin of imploded Dragonships, and speared on into the heart of Ignathion’s fleet. Ezziya and Cherya released flaming arrows in perfect concert. The Amethyst Dragon beat her wings hard, slinging them over the converging firestorms and into the soft underbelly of a dirigible.

A dirigible without a cabin?

The thought, ‘Ignathion’s second trick’ had not even formed in her mind before Aranya folded her wings to drop away. Four enormous, clawed feet punched through the sack and clutched the air where she had been just a heartbeat before.

Dragon!

A Red Dragon tore the false Dragonship apart as though it were made of aged scrolleaf. He was more massive than Garthion had ever been, a hoary, ancient beast, with a muscled chest that rivalled a Dragonship in its stalwart breadth. His muzzle turned, and a rapacious eye raked the skies in search of his enemies.

There was so much of Garthion in his mien. Aranya skittered behind the nearest Dragonship, panting. She cast about, soul-lost, momentarily disoriented by the impact of memories stampeding through her mind. The battle was her canvas, a stitching together of lives against the iron-grey storm clouds, standing so still in the sky that they reminded her of nothing more than vast sentinels; of Ancient Dragons of tempest and bluster, gathered to pass judgement upon the deeds of an Amethyst Dragon.

The nearby Dragonships did not want to fire at one of their own. A hundred feet away, no less, tens of warriors bared their teeth at her, or gaped in open-mouthed amazement. Aranya ghosted over a Dragonship, keeping it between her and the Red.

“What now, Dragon?” asked Ezziya.

Aranya remembered Garthion, burning. Garthion, speared through the brain. The rage and sorrow of his father, condemning her to execution at the Last Walk. She had to find a way to release the burdens she had carried since.

Readiness quivered in her muscles. “Let’s take them,” she said, softly.

During her approach, she had missed the signs – two, no three fake Dragonships suspended between the others by hawsers. They split open like melons dropped from a height, releasing two more Dragons. Both were Reds, more than twice her size. The trap was sprung.

One sneered at her. I am Baralior. Come lie with me, little one. I’ll show you what a real Dragon can do.

But a half-grown Amethyst Dragon had an advantage over these big, lumbering Reds, as long as Ignathion kept his fleet close together. She flitted between the looming vessels, playing a game of cat-seeks-mouse as she hunted for the War-Hammer. Where was he? His flagship, flying the rajal of Jeradia, hung to the rear of the fleet. A familiar, burly figure loomed on the forward gantry, in front of the crysglass windows. Ignathion.

The twang of a bowstring from her back galvanised her.

BOOM! She rode the shockwave, quicksilver amongst the trio of Red Dragons stalking her. On her back, Cherya screamed obscenities at the Dragons. Many of these Dragonships were armoured, but their armour was not proof against the fireball of an incensed Red Dragon. Two of them spat fire with casual abandon.

Aranya spiralled upward, avoiding a fireball that scorched the scales of her tail. A Dragonship detonated behind her. She used the wild burst of superheated air to impel her between the Dragonships on an interception course with Ignathion’s vessel, but Baralior hove into view, heading her off.

He cried, Come taste my fire, you little – oof!

This is for Naphtha! Ardan roared, striking with all of his power. He sank his fangs into Baralior’s neck and shook the Red Dragon like a hapless rat.

Chapter 15: First War-Hammer

DRagon blood spurted into Ardan’s mouth. Despite Baralior’s thick armour, Ardan knew that his fangs had penetrated one of the treble jugular veins located deep beneath the neck muscles, close to the spinal column – a mortal wound. He tasted magic in that blood. With a low laugh that appalled Human-Ardan, he spat Baralior out of his mouth.

Die, lizard.

The Dragon faltered, staring stupidly about him as his lifeblood gushed out in golden streams.

Deliberately, Ardan turned his back on the stricken Dragon. Thou most pleasing distraction, he called over to Aranya, who shone so bright in the twin-suns’ light. She disappeared behind a Sylakian Dragonship with a pert flip of her wings.

Now, the battle exploded around him. Alarm gongs crashed. Engines howled. Soldiers barked orders, and Ignathion’s fleet began to break apart into pre-planned segments, fleeing the clash of Dragons. The flash-trail of Aranya’s fireballs streaked across his retinae. So beautiful. So deadly. Flame blossomed along his right flank as two Dragonships succumbed to her attack. He barrel-rolled, protecting his Riders from the blast. But a cry from his back almost stopped his hearts. Kylara!

Ardan wrenched his neck to check his Riders. The third-positioned Western Isles warrior dangled from the saddle, impaled through her chest by a six-foot metal quarrel, dead.

He felt ashamed at his relief upon realising that Kylara was unhurt.

“Cut her loose,” he growled. Kylara stared at him. “I’m sorry.”

The horror in her eyes cut him to the marrow.

He said, “I’m a Dragon!”

But Kylara’s hand began to lift in a gesture of warning. Sensing movement, Ardan had just begun to twist about when the bulk of a Red Dragon smashed into his hindquarters. Claws scrabbled against his hide, clutching his wing-bone near the shoulder. Ardan’s hind foot belted his jaw repeatedly, but the Red Dragon only snarled and clenched his talons the tighter, his weight slewing Ardan sideways into the path of his brother Red.

Screaming, Hind talons! Hind talons! Aranya flashed up from beneath the melee. She snarled and ripped at Dragon flesh, tearing huge rents in the flailing wings of the Dragon beneath his belly.

Ardan curled his hind paws, extended his talons, and made a running motion against the underbelly of his attacker. So vicious was his attack, that a shower of Dragon flesh and blood momentarily blinded Aranya and her Riders. But the second Red closed his mouth over the area of Ardan’s saddle. He had no interest in three screaming Riders. His jaw gaped wide, exposing every fang as he champed through scales and hide into the bone beneath, seeking the disabling bite that would damage or sever Ardan’s spinal column.

Groaning in pain, Ardan dug to the roots of his being. There was magic swelling in him, leaching throughout his body in cool, quicksilver tendrils, magic that he welcomed with no small surprise.

His body shimmered.

* * * *

Aranya shook herself. Two Red Dragons ruined within seconds – one bitten and falling like a limp red rag into the Cloudlands, the second disembowelled and trying, somehow, to glide back to Jeradia Island. His survival seemed unlikely.

The Shadow Dragon had a ghastly sheen of near-madness in his eye. Naphtha Cluster, he had cried. Had Immadia been razed, would she have gone feral, too?

But the Red on his back was chewing him up. Aranya hovered over them, trying to find an angle from which a forty-foot Amethyst Dragon could attack a ninety-foot Red. Magic! A strange, capricious magic she had never sensed before – where had that sprung from? On her back, Ezziya crowed as another shot from the sisters struck true, exploding one of the armoured Dragonships. Ardan’s entire body undulated like smoke in the breeze.

The Red Dragon’s jaws champed down on thin air, so hard that he bit his own tongue and a couple of bits of fangs popped out of his mouth. He coughed, You … Shapeshifter?

Lost something? Ardan laughed.

She could see right through him! And he had lost his saddle, his Riders, falling onto a Dragonship two hundred feet below – they would strike the soft part near the bow. The rising wind would take care of that.

The Red snapped at vapours. Who are you, Dragon? What are you?

No time. Her calculations occupied but a fraction of a second. Aranya dove into the Red’s flaring wing and tried her utmost to rip it in half.

Ardan’s power made him resemble a semi-transparent anatomical experiment, Aranya decided, spitting out a mouthful of wing membrane and spiny struts. She could make out his skeletal structure, the striations of his flight muscles, even the remnants of his last meal winding their way through his gut. It all drifted into and out of the physical realm, shifting, coalescing, vanishing again.

Then his claws solidified, buried in the Red’s eyes.

The Red Dragon’s scream soared above the sounds of battle, a wrenching, desolate cry. He tore free and fled across the open Cloudlands, blind.

Ardan’s disembodied grin flashed at Aranya. That was weird.

Don’t overstress the magic.

No. And suddenly, a real, dark Dragon appeared before her goggling eyes.

Go get your Riders … Ardan.

Her voice betrayed too much. The Shadow Dragon’s eyes filled with dusky orange flame. Aye. Here comes your father. We’ve an Island to win.

Aranya flitted between the dark oblongs of Ignathion’s Dragonships. The two fleets, reaching firing range, released clouds of crossbow bolts and grappling hooks and fire-arrows from the archers. Explosions rocked both sides. Smoke and grit lodged in her nostrils; the tang of burning oil and sweet meriatite upon her tongue made her want to gag and spit. Her hearts seemed as shadowed as her Dragon-companion. This was wrong. Beran and Ignathion should be allies, fighting Sylakia’s evil together. Instead, everywhere she looked, good men and women were burning, falling and dying. The new, powerful weapons were not installed on many Dragonships, but those that were, tore holes in Beran’s forces.

Battle was a filthy obscenity, yet the Amethyst Dragon revelled in it.

Pfft! Pfft! Aranya’s fireballs set a Dragonship’s cabin alight.

She was curling, swooping, dodging, focussed entirely on the fray, when Ignathion’s third surprise ambushed her from the sky.

A flare of magic. A thunderous challenge: PERISH, FIEND!

Aranya rolled with an instinct swifter than thought as Dragon fire splashed toward her left flank and hindquarters. But this was not only fire. It was molten rock, which stuck and burned. A three-foot foreclaw streaked her flank as a Dragon hurtled past, missing her killing blow by a rajal’s whisker.

The Amethyst Dragon whirled to track her assailant. She shook herself violently to shed the worst of the lava.

The Yellow Dragoness was so massive, she could not stop herself from plunging into a knot of Immadian and Jeradian Dragonships. She must have attacked from a height; from way, way up high where Aranya had not thought to look for her. Ignathion’s cunning once more. The Yellow snarled up in nets and hawsers, two crossbow quarrels jutting several feet out of her lower right ribs, but her molten rock-fire sprayed forth a second time. Aranya dodged again.

How many Shapeshifters did Thoralian have? All of them huge, adult Dragons …

A flick of her eyes. Kylara running along the top of a Dragonship, slicing up a troop of Sylakian Hammers, while Ardan lumbered along behind, bleating, “Get in the saddle, you stupid woman.”

No chance of that, if she knew Kylara. The other two women hung off his saddle straps, trying to get everything buckled up again.

“Cherya? Ezziya – alright?”

“Burned my elbow,” said Cherya. “I’m fine.”

“The multiple loader,” said Ezziya. “Get me there and that Yellow Dragon is chargrill.”

Aranya did not need to look to see where Ezziya was pointing. A new Dragonship was right in the middle of the snarl, its engineers struggling to orient the twin stern emplacements on Beran’s flagship while the Yellow Dragon’s struggles jerked them about. A man fell shrieking off the gantry, his thin cries trailing off long before he tumbled into the Cloudlands.

“Right. We’re going to sneak.”

“Sneak?”

Ezziya’s astonishment brought a soft, dangerous chuckle to her lips. Aye, an Amethyst Dragon could sneak. “Hit that Dragonship to port.”

Two shots, and, KAARAABOOM!

Using the resulting fireball to mask her intent, Aranya whipped around the vessel shielding them from the Yellow Dragon, and then shrank into the cover it provided. Who was that Yellow – someone’s sweet old grandmother? Aranya gripped the starboard gantry, damping down the pain of her lava burns with a touch of healing magic. “Go, Ezziya. We’ll cover you. Cherya –”

“Got him.” Cherya’s arrow struck a Sylakian cleanly in the chest.

Ezziya leaped over to the gantry, drawing her scimitar. Archers whirled at the sound of her boots on the metal walkway, only to be confronted by a battle-hungry Western Isles warrior and a Dragon lurking behind. Slicing her way through, Ezziya took control of the catapult emplacement. The Yellow eyed her with lethal intent.

Over here, you bilious glob of ralti-sheep fat!

As Ezziya pawed at the controls, Aranya’s insult pricked the Dragoness as surely as if she had hooked a fish. Her neck curved to follow Aranya’s swaggering flight, exposing the underside of her neck. The engines howled. Ezziya’s hand slapped a lever.

From sixty feet out, the shot was almost impossible to miss. But the catapult was designed to spray the bolts slightly. Seven of the six-foot, barbed metal bolts sprouted in the Yellow Dragon’s neck. She choked immediately. Her eyes glazed over. But Aranya’s bugle of triumph was cut short by the faraway tinkling of crysglass. She jerked toward the sound.

“Father!”

Opposite, perfectly lined up for the shot, Beran’s flagship drifted on the fickle breeze. The forward crysglass windows were shattered. Several of the remaining bolts – oh no! Oh, Dad …

Wailing in abject misery, Aranya launched herself across that space. Every wingbeat demanded an impossible length of time. She reached out for a paw-hold, but here came the King, staggering, bleeding freely from his arm and head. Beran waved her off angrily. “Just glass cuts. Wretched Dragon-daughter.”

Aranya laughed with relief. “Dad, I –”

“Go do something useful, Sparky. Fetch Ignathion for me.”

A hundred Dragon fangs gleamed at him. “Sure, Dad. On a platter?”

“Shoo.”

Ignathion saw her coming. Aranya knew she should have concealed her intent, but she was so maddened – or frightened – by her father’s near escape, that she could hold nothing back. Storm powers boiled in her belly, demanding release. Aranya opened fire. White-hot fireballs burst out of her throat in rapid succession, four, five strikes, clearing a path into the heart of his fleet.

Cherya yelled as the series of explosions thumped them back and forth, but patted Aranya’s shoulder. “Something annoyed you, girl? Come on. Beran’s orders.”

She’d make a great Dragon Rider. Those words were pitched just right to refocus the Amethyst Dragon’s mind.

As the Amethyst Dragon swooped, Ignathion vanished inside his vessel. He thought to evade her? A maddened Dragoness? Dodging a hail of catapult-shot, Aranya twirled about to destroy the bow catapult emplacements with her tail. Then she swung down to the crysglass windows. Ignathion stood within, watching her alertly, war-hammer in hand. Aranya punched her forepaws through the crysglass. Reaching for the struts, she tore the windows asunder – just as a windroc had once attacked her and Ignathion, although she was the deadlier creature by far.

Aranya roared, “You’re mine!”

By way of answer, he hurled the war hammer at her. Dragon instincts sped her paw to swat the weapon aside.

Ignathion’s eyes widened. But he was an experienced warrior. Flinging himself through the doorway, he retreated into the interior of his vessel.

The Amethyst Dragon pushed her way within, mindful of Cherya on her back. But the Western Isles warrior had already unbuckled her saddle-straps. Leaping into the cabin, she drew her scimitar.

Aranya said, “Let’s go catch ourselves a War-Hammer.”

She punched the next interior wall. Unfortunately, this one was metal-reinforced and it drew an ugly growl of discontent from her as Aranya wrung her paw. A clutch of Sylakian Hammers raced into the room, but she swept them aside and shovelled them out of the open front of the cabin. They fell howling into space. She poked her head through the door. Ignathion’s hammer pounded her nose.

She could not reach him. But his follow-up blow brought his hammer into her reach. Aranya trapped it with her paw and drew a huge breath.

“No fireballs!” yelled Cherya.

Right. Stupid idea, right beneath the hydrogen sack. Ignathion fled down the corridor. Quicker than thought, Aranya transformed and ran after him.

He darted through a doorway into the common area of the Dragonship, where soldiers often had to manually work the turbines to save on expensive meriatite. Human-Aranya, hot on his tail, stormed into a room stuffed with massive Jeradian warriors. She skidded to a halt, pointed at him and demanded, “Surrender, Ignathion!”

A shocked silence alerted her to the fact that something was wrong. Rather – nakedly – wrong. Despite the situation, or perhaps because of it, Ignathion’s eyes twinkled at her. “Lost our clothes, Princess? Grab her, men.”

Eager hands seized the Princess of Immadia.

For a moment, all Aranya knew was heated embarrassment, being trapped in a cabin with two dozen burly Jeradian warriors, most of whom reacted as if they had never seen a naked woman before. Blood trickled from her nose – the result of Ignathion’s hammer-blow to her Dragon’s muzzle. Someone had a blacksmith’s grip upon her left thigh, but Ignathion’s disturbingly possessive glare made the hand surrender its grasp.

Islands’ sakes, she must have ralti sheep intestines for brains.

“First War-Hammer Ignathion,” she said formally. “This is hardly a fair fight.” His soldiers roared with laughter and called out ribald and creative suggestions as to how the Princess might entertain them. But she pitched her words through the hubbub, “You brought only two dozen men to subdue a Dragon?”

Several of the men swore. “She’s not …” “The Dragon?” “Get off the Island, you crazy wench!”

One of the giant Jeradian warriors, standing nearly seven feet tall, swung his war hammer at her head. “Then eat this, woman!”

Her transformation smashed warriors out of the way. Aranya suffered a heavy hammer-blow to her cheekbone. But she cuffed the Jeradian with her forepaw, hitting five of them in a single swipe. Her roar stunned them; storm power released in an indoor space.

“Hold!” shouted Ignathion. “Hold, Aranya.”

“I’ll rip their guts out!”

“Hold. Please, Aranya – for the sake of your mother.”

Unfair! The Amethyst Dragon roused her belly fires into a decent furnace-roar, glowering all the while at the Jeradians pressed up against the walls. Her burning Dragoness’ gaze dared any of them to make the first move. However, these men were wise – or just plain terrified. Not a boot stirred, no hand raised a weapon.

“For Izariela’s sake,” Ignathion soothed.

Aranya snarled, “Told you it wasn’t a fair fight. Any of you men want to play with me now?”

“We surrender.”

His quick interjection almost earned a sarcastic, ‘Oh, do you now?’ However, Aranya remembered how her father had always advised her to act with dignity, whether in victory or in defeat.

“You can surrender to King Beran, First War-Hammer. Fly with me.”

“Green flags,” Ignathion commanded one of his men.

“Aye, sir.”

It struck her halfway to Beran’s flagship, carrying his oldest enemy Dragonback. The battle had quietened as the forces on both sides recognised the green flags which fluttered above Ignathion’s flagship. Aranya narrowed her eyes at the man on her back.

He said, “I haven’t jumped the Island, Aranya.”

She responded with an ominous growl, formed deep in her chest. “First War-Hammer Ignathion. A question, if I may.”

“I am your captive, Princess.”

Again, that disturbing smile from the man who had loved and lost her mother. Aranya said, “I found your surrender a little … abrupt. Without implying any disrespect, Ignathion – did you fight as hard as you could, today?”

Her Dragon-direct question provoked a chuckle. “A wise commander respects the lives of his men, Aranya, even those foolish enough to handle a Dragoness ungently. By fighting on, what would I have gained? We laid our traps, but you evaded them all. Your victory is well deserved.”

And then he whispered, so softly that only a Dragon could have heard it, “And thus, we shall break the yoke of Sylakia without dishonour.”

Jeradia Island would be freed.

* * * *

It took two further days and five interventions from Aranya or Ardan to break the last of the Sylakian resistance in Jos, Jeradia’s capital city. The evening after they shattered the final pocket of resistance, the two Shapeshifters dined with Ignathion, Yolathion, King Beran and Kylara aboard the Immadian flagship. Aranya squirmed as Ignathion regaled them with the tale of a stark-naked Princess chasing him down, insisting he surrender. Yolathion and his father spent the evening glowering at each other. Kylara would not leave Ardan alone for a second.

When King Beran complimented her on the restraint she had shown during the battle, an insight suddenly crystallised in her mind. Yes, restraint. She had been suppressing every feeling, every thought, the guilt and betrayal, the secrets, the potency of her magic, Fra’anior’s harassment – all had been forced inward for weeks, a toxic brew simmering just beneath the level of conscious thought. Even now, no flame escaped her as it might have done before, when her feelings peaked within her. Aranya feared the storm raging beneath the barrier of her adamantine control. Did she seek to contain the uncontainable? She feared to look at Yolathion, Kylara or her father, because she knew what they would think of her behaviour. Ardan she had to avoid. His dark gaze scorched without stinting. She knew that the soul-fire magic had branded her forever.

Only, she had breathed it for him, too.

Now, she was exhausted from clutching all of the threads together while desperately trying to avoid breaking any. Excusing herself quietly, Aranya found her steps turning toward the outer gantries. She clambered aloft. Yolathion could not follow her here, yet, although he was starting to make good headway on his canes.

A dark, wild night enveloped her. She stood atop the Dragonship, near to where an Immadian soldier stood watch, feeling the wintry wind tugging at her long dress. No need for a robe. Aranya scorned the cold. She burned with everlasting, ever-renewing inner fires, fires that marked her a sorceress and a Shapeshifter. South and west, storm clouds blotted out half of the night sky. The same storm. It had followed her from the Western Isles to here. Always threatening, never breaking – a perfect mirror of the chaos consuming her every hour, waking or sleeping.

A perfect mirror.

Aranya knew she was damaged beyond redemption, a girl cast upon the winds of a consuming, all-pervading destiny. As if cognizant of her thoughts, lightning forked across the clouds in multiple places, too many to count, momentarily gilding the brooding mass of storm clouds. Aranya imagined that storm breaking upon the Island-World, tossing Islands to their doom, speaking with a voice of thunder like Fra’anior, the great Black Dragon.

Aranya!

At first she thought it her imagination, because the faraway lightning flared in concert with the three syllables of her name.

More softly, Aranya.

Fra’anior? Black Dragon?

What of your promise, little one? She shook her head, too afraid to voice her misgivings. He said, You’re reluctant to embrace the purpose for which I called you.

I found your Dragon of the Western Isles, didn’t I?

A weak protest, but true. How she detested his betrayal.

That you did. The absence of his usual roaring made his voice seem like a dry, rushing wind brushing against her mind. You breathed the soul-fire, little one. Deny this, the most ancient of Dragon secrets, at your peril. Consider yourself forewarned.

Forewarned? Aranya failed to suppress her rage.

The storm approaches to embrace the daughter of the storm, said the Black Dragon. There is one, the child of my spirit. Seek her with all of your heart. Seek the onyx.

Riddles! Aranya started, realising the voice of Fra’anior was gone. Had she screamed at him? Riddles, when her mother lay next to death. Hints, admonitions and threats, when the Island-World suffered beneath the Sylakian scourge. The Black Dragon clearly cared nothing for Human suffering.

One of the guards approached her. “Lady? You cried out …”

“I am well, thank you,” Aranya said, automatically. Was she? Holding conversations with Ancient Dragons?

“We’re taking the vessel down for mooring, lady. The storm’s coming.”

Aranya nodded, shivering. She was Fra’anior’s daughter of the storm, clearly. Why the lack of mind-shattering blustering this time, just a calm reprimand? Somehow, it chilled her even more than anything she had dreamed of him before. How could she trust that the voice was Fra’anior at all? Could it be Thoralian, seeking to undermine her sanity?

Abruptly, Aranya reached up to tear her headscarf free, careless of the hairpins tearing at her scalp. She hurled it at the storm-front. But the capricious wind caught the light Helyon silk and tossed it in the opposite direction.

The storm was nothing to do with her. Nothing!

Chapter 16: Dancing with Dragons

Yolathion flung aN emerald-green headscarf at Aranya in a peculiar echo of the storm’s action the night before. “You will wear a covering! It’s indecent.”

“My hair – the natural covering of my head – is indecent?”

“Great Islands, woman, don’t ever let me become a Dragon!”

Such venom. When had he become so bitter toward her? Aranya sighed, “Yoli, you don’t –”

“Never. Not as long as this Island-World stands, Aranya. What you did to Zuziana? Don’t you dare think I should be a Dragon, too.”

If she had ever wondered, his revulsion cast that idea off the Island to its doom.

The tall Jeradian loomed over her. In the corner of the mirror, Aranya saw her serving-girl cringe as though she expected fire to explode from the Dragoness’ mouth. Roaring rajals, why was she in such a surly mood? Tonight was the great banquet, all the glittering ones of Jeradia gathered to celebrate the freedom of their Island. And Yolathion had promised her a lovely surprise. She knew exactly who to blame.

“Yolathion, I’m sorry. It’s the Black Dragon making me cranky.”

“Ardan? What’s he done now?”

“Not Ardan, you silly – Fra’anior, the Dragon of my dreams.” Aranya slipped off her stool and inserted herself into Yolathion’s arms with a smile and a kiss to his neck, just above the dress-collar of his Jeradian officer’s uniform. “Don’t mind my moods, Yoli. Tonight, I am ready to celebrate with you.”

“Aye,” he grinned, throwing her a raffish salute. “The dress is a family heirloom. It’s stunning on you. My grandmother must have been very tall, too.”

The deep emerald dress was indeed beautiful, just more restrictive than Aranya was used to, a mass of long, multi-layered and gold-brocaded skirts. She hoped for a cool ballroom, because the heavy velveteen cloth was already making her feel overheated. High-collared and laced uncomfortably tight beneath the bosom, it forced her to breathe shallowly. To complete the ensemble, Aranya would wear five-inch Jeradian platform heels to bring her closer to Yolathion’s height.

A tremor shook her body. No – he couldn’t be planning to propose, could he? A special dress, both of their fathers being present, and a ballroom full of Jeradians ready to celebrate? Elation mingled with anxiety in her belly. She pressed her hands against her stomach. Did he still love her? Their relationship had been a stormy ride of late, and she had kept her secret with Ardan close to her bosom. Should she tell him first? Could she accept in good conscience?

It took every ounce of her will to smooth her voice into a murmur. “I’m looking forward to my surprise, Yolathion.”

“Excellent. See you in one hour.”

Aranya spent an hour being primped and perfumed, dreaming of a proposal from Yolathion, and so there was a lump in her throat and a spring in her step as she joined Yolathion, Ignathion and his two consorts in their formal pony-carriage. They jounced through the streets of Jos, a city constructed of ruddy volcanic stone with insets of shining black onyx, and wide boulevards lined with prekki-fruit trees.

“I wish this storm would break,” said Ignathion, eyeing the leaves blowing past the carriage. “Strange weather.”

“Aye,” said the consort to his left. “It’s just so humid. Better than Sylakia, though.”

Aranya wondered what it would be like to fly into a storm. She fanned herself with a jewelled hand-fan, probably another family heirloom. “How did you escape from Sylakia, lady?” she asked.

“Ignathion smuggled us out.”

“Oh, and I thought piracy was beneath a First War-Hammer,” said Aranya.

Ignathion grinned genially. “It’s not beneath King Beran, is it? It evidently runs in Immadia’s royal family – pirates, thieves and Dragons, you are.”

“You flatter me.”

Yolathion’s fingers tightened on her knee. Skirting an active volcano? Aye, but the Dragoness in her scorned her scruples.

The ball was to be held in the magnificently appointed great hall of the Jos Governor’s palace. A thousand guests had been invited, and at least as many servants waited upon them. There were formal introductions for King Beran and Princess Aranya of Immadia, ‘heroes and saviours’ according to the official script, and honours for Ignathion and Yolathion, who had apparently served Jeradia with distinction. Nobody mentioned that they had served on opposite sides of the conflict.

When the initial hubbub had settled and the formal Jeradian line-dancing had begun, Aranya found herself momentarily alone with King Beran.

He touched her cheek with a fingertip. “They couldn’t disguise the bruises?”

“One of Ignathion’s big brutes gave me that one,” she said. “Sometimes, it’s better to let the body heal naturally than rush in with magic.”

“Aye. Ardan dances well for such a big man.”

She schooled her face carefully. “He does seem full of surprises.” And ambushes …

Kylara twirled lithely in his arms, a dusky vision in a wine-red dress. Her dark hair sparkled with rubies and diamonds, and her laughter tinkled clearly over the music from the twenty-piece Jeradian brass band. Aranya forced her fingers to relax on her crystal goblet. She must not admire how Ardan’s strapping shoulders filled his dress jacket, nor envision his hulking Dragon form, for how could he be that noble man – and Shapeshifter Dragon – that he desired to be, if she did not help him by first keeping her promises? How much more she now saw in him than that bluff, scarred Western Isles warrior he appeared to be on the outside.

“Dad, why so pensive?” she asked. “This is a great victory.”

Beran sipped his wine, a tangy Jeradian red apparently grown on the slopes of an active volcano. “Would it surprise you, Sparky, if I told you that I miss your mother at times like these? Silha is not enamoured of dancing. And it was at such a ball that I first fell over the Islands in love with Izariela.”

“At Fra’anior, Dad?”

“Aye, Fra’anior. Our next destination.”

Aranya said, “In some Island cultures, I hear it is permitted for fathers to dance with their daughters.”

“Including those daughters who tower over their fathers?” Beran inquired. Six inches separated them in height, given the boost of her heels and his formal, slightly elevated boots. Aranya was about to make a light-hearted riposte, when a change in her father’s expression stopped her cold. He said, “Promise me you won’t hate him, Sparky.”

“Hate?”

Aranya whirled on her heel to see Yolathion approaching with a girl gliding alongside him. A girl who became no less pretty, nor less leeched onto his arm as if she were some revolting form of fungus, the longer Aranya stared at the couple. Beran discreetly placed his hand on Aranya’s waist.

“Yolathion,” he said. “Is this beauty your relative?”

The giant Jeradian had high spots of colour in his tan cheeks. “Soon, I hope,” he rumbled. “May I present the gracious lady Jia-Llonya, my consort-to-be?”

Traitor! Outside the hall, a titanic peal of thunder shook the Island-World.

The King’s fingers pinched Aranya’s skin in warning, before he moved forward smoothly to introduce himself in the Jeradian fashion. “Jia-Llonya, I am King Beran of Immadia.”

The Princess of Immadia shuddered at the roaring in her ears. She barely heard the King say, “May I congratulate you on your engagement? I’ve had the opportunity to fight alongside this fine young man, and I hold him in the highest esteem. Jia-Llonya, may I present my daughter, Aranya, the Princess of Immadia? She’s a Shapeshifter and an Amethyst Dragon.”

Aranya approached the girl as though tugged by strings. Nausea churned her stomach into green soup. She bent to kiss the air beside each of Jia’s cheeks in turn, and then took her hands in her own, following the Jeradian pattern of greeting she had learned just hours before. A bitter, affronted part of her appreciated the introduction as a Dragon – purposeful, from Beran.

“Jia-Llonya, so delighted to meet you,” she said, in a tone invested with more icicles than an Immadian midwinter’s evening. “I do hope we’ll be great friends.”

Jia-Llonya smiled, but there was a quiver of trepidation behind that smile. Her heart-shaped face framed a pair of striking green eyes, and her expression suggested a sweet, shy girl – just Yolathion’s type, Aranya decided, feeling her jealousy flower into a bonfire of indignant wrath. That was not all. She was tall, too, and fuller of figure than Aranya. Her tan Jeradian skin practically glowed with good health. Did she have magic?

She should be happy for Yolathion. Instead, Aranya imagined clawing the girl’s eyes out.

“I’m delighted, too,” said Jia-Llonya. “Please, call me Jia. I’ve never had the honour of meeting a Dragoness.”

“Most people haven’t, unless it’s at the sharp end of my fangs,” said Aranya. She might have betrayed Yolathion, but he had betrayed her long before. How dare he keep Jia secret from her?

Jia-Llonya seemed oblivious to her threat, even though Beran caught his breath audibly. “That’s amazing,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “What’s it like – flying? Fighting against Dragonships? When did you find out you were a Dragon?”

“When Yolathion threw me off a cliff in Sylakia.”

Almost, she transformed. Her Dragoness thrashed against her iron-willed control, roaring, I’ll kill that girl! Rend her limb from limb!

Dimly, she heard Ardan call to her, You must calm down, Aranya. You’re burning up.

Thunder crashed again, closer this time. Aranya was aware of a buzzing in her ears, as though she had swooped rapidly and needed to pop her eardrums. The wind whistled outside the great hall, and the candles within flickered in the shifting airstreams – or was it her magic, breaking free? The air had that tang of incipient rain, a storm about to break. Aranya struggled desperately to stuff it all back inside, but she might as well have tried to cork a volcano. Last time she had felt like this, she had melted Yolathion’s boots, burned Garthion and earned herself an execution.

Smoothing out the crackling of fire in her voice, Aranya said, “Shapeshifters are a great mystery, Jia. Who knows where the Dragon form exists while the person assumes their Human guise? Yet, I feel the Dragoness there. She’s part of me. I feel her feelings and think her thoughts. I am her.”

“Two parts of a greater whole?” asked Jia.

“More like two whole beings, interwoven.”

“Soul-connected.”

This little tramp presumed to know something about Shapeshifters? Draconic rage blinded her, despite the knowledge that Jia-Llonya had touched something deep, and true, about her nature. Yolathion drew Beran aside to talk strategy for their next jump to Fra’anior Island, leaving Aranya alone with the Jeradian girl.

A coil of her magic slipped free, through their clasped hands, to expose Jia’s secrets.

“You’re pregnant,” she whispered.

“Please, don’t tell him,” said Jia, turning ashen. “He doesn’t know. Look, Yolathion’s a bit stern and a slave to his precious duty at times, but I do love him and I believe that you do, too. What he needs is careful management.”

Through the madness howling in her mind, Aranya’s lips formed the words, “He’s well. The babe, I mean.”

“It’s a boy?”

She nodded, struck mute. Oh, Yolathion! This was his wonderful surprise for the ball? Quicker than the strobe-lightning flashing against the great windows of the hall, hatred gripped her soul. Dragon claws of jealousy coalesced in her imagination, curving around the lovely, so very pregnant Jia-Llonya. Aranya knew what it was for a Dragoness to feel spited and forlorn. Jia was talking to her, but she no longer heard through the reverberation of her own storm breaking free. Her scalp crawled.

No, not the hair. Not now!

“Aranya? Are you quite well?” asked Jia, her voice soft and sweet, and utterly detestable.

Aranya gazed unseeing at her feet. So Human. So helpless. She could not even keep her boyfriend. He loved someone else. He had loved this other girl all along.

Without warning, her chin snapped up. Heat flushed her pale skin. Aranya’s Dragon magic reached out physically, emotionally and magically, seizing Jia-Llonya with irresistible power. She wanted nothing more than to obliterate this creature who had stolen Yolathion from her. The Black Dragon was wrong. Yolathion was the one for her, and she was the only one for him.

This girl – unfortunately for her – stood in her way.

Dominant, the magic blazed out, ravaging in its demands. Every candle lighting that vast hall flared incandescent.

Jia’s eyes widened. “Oh, my …”

The headscarf ripped with a sharp report, releasing her hair, the surging, wavy length of it bursting free of its braids, swollen as she was with the unstoppable tide of Dragon magic. Strands of silver, blue and black bridged the space between them – covetous, coiling, chains to bind so much more than mere flesh. She loomed over Jia, beguiling the girl to her doom, wholly transformed into the Immadian enchantress she had always feared to become.

Just beyond the Jeradian girl, Aranya saw King Beran turn. The disapproval writ on his face was a dragger-blow to her heart.

Fighting the magic which insisted she wrap her fingers around the girl’s throat, Aranya faltered, but Jia-Llonya did not. Shuddering under the force of magical coercion, she stepped forward to be twined in Aranya’s deadly embrace, the thick veil of hair screening them from view. Time stopped. All was an inferno of Dragon emotions.

Sobbing in great, wretched gasps, Aranya wrenched herself loose. Indignation mottled Beran’s visage. Sharp inhalations, all around her; a rising babble of voices.

“No!”

A peal of thunder rattled the building.

“NO!”

She tore at her hair, hating the magic, hating herself, hating everything she had become.

“No, please … I can’t stand it anymore!”

The tempest erupted, unleashed at last. Nothing remained whole. Aranya raised her voice in a wild, piteous howl, “Noooooo!”

In her place stood an Amethyst Dragon. The priceless dress, ruined. Her thunder beat the walls from within, cracking candle chandeliers, overturning tables and sweeping servants and guests backward in a blast of wind. The howl of her disgrace made them clap their hands over their ears.

Then, with a snap of her powerful thigh muscles, the daughter of the storm launched herself skyward. A blue fireball blasted though crysglass and stone.

Aranya fled into the night, into the storm.

* * * *

The gale-force winds tossed her higher and higher, bearing her aloft upon tempestuous squalls, driving the Amethyst Dragon away from Jos City. Lightning played between the distended, dark cloud-canyons, a league tall and more. Driving rain splatted against her scales, drowning the Dragon tears spilling down her cheeks. She lost herself in flight.

Dawn was a greyer shade of night. With it, crowding through the breach in her sanity, came visions of the Ancient Dragons. All around her, vast reptilian forms slithered and roared and built and loved and warred. The world was young. Its Islands were the canvas of her memory, painting pictures of lifetimes long vanished, of volcanoes shaping the world and blackening the skies with an endless rain of ash, of chasms at the roots of Islands belching their poisons across thousands of leagues to form the Cloudlands. Land Dragons twined about Islands, crushing them with their coils. Their battles were the earthquakes that cracked the basal rock. Humans clung to a pitiful existence amidst the chaos, ever-fearful of the marauding draconic hordes, until some Dragons took them to be slaves, and taught them language and geography, astronomy and the arts, and the Humans made themselves useful, and industrious, and eventually, indispensable.

Aranya shivered as war enveloped the world, Human against Dragon, and the Dragonkind between themselves.

Many scenes flashed before her eyes, too fast to comprehend. There came a hunter, a being of otherworldly magic, devouring Dragons with an appetite that could never be quenched, but grew the more it fed. The Amethyst Dragon fled from it in a blind, screaming terror. She saw Dragons rise against the beast – Onyx and Silver, Amber and Sapphire, the colours of the legends Nak and Oyda had told. They were consumed in the blink of an eye as the disembodied head of a Land Dragon bellowed its rage across an empty Island, crying, Traitor! Foul traitor!

And it swallowed the Island, and her, in its mouth.

Darkness prevailed upon the Island-World.

Next she knew, Aranya was scudding along just above the Cloudlands on the wings of an everlasting windstorm, surrounded by clouds so thick and black that her mind served them up as Fra’anior’s heads, snapping at her tail. Panicked wingbeats drove her into the teeth of the storm. Hurricane gusts tossed her about like a toy, battering, blustering, howling across her sensitive scales and drilling into her brain until Aranya clapped her paws over her ear canals, desperate to shut out the barrage. Percussive crashes of thunder became hundred-foot Sylakian war hammers endlessly pounding her body. She rode the cleansing lightning, drawing the tang of ozone deep into her lungs. Aranya spread her wings to embrace the blast, shooting through the Ancient Dragons’ storehouses of hail and winter’s ice, the realms of Blue Dragon powers.

Higher and higher she soared, miles and leagues high, until it seemed improbable that the storm should still cover the Island-World. The air grew thin and deadly cold. The stars gleamed in a moonless void unimaginably far away, yet their silvery song washed over her scales with a magic all of its own. Had night fallen already? Where had the daytime fled? Her lungs laboured, while her hearts throbbed so rapidly that the rushing of blood became a waterfall in her ears. The Amethyst Dragon observed the storm’s beauty from above, the thousand-league bands of clouds spiralling shell-like around a central, clear space, and she tried to imagine what might live in its heart.

But the storm drew her as an umbilical cord feeds a baby. The storm approaches to embrace the daughter of the storm. Aranya swooped, obeying a call she barely perceived. Now, she would truly ride the winds. Her velocity became immense, the utmost a Dragon could achieve or endure. The storm raced along with her. She became one with the tempest. When the clouds enveloped her body, they brought a coolness to her fevered state, and a sense of homecoming.

Yet within her darkness was a thread, a tiny beacon of magic that drew her to a place where she had once sojourned. Come to me, darling Aranya, said her mother’s voice.

Mother? A Star Dragon winged alongside her, a shining star misplaced in the world, riding the hurricane winds with impossible serenity.

Follow me, precious daughter. I will lead you home.

Mother, wait for me. Aranya sped up, but the Star Dragon began to pull away. Mother, please!

Desperation caused her to accelerate now to such a velocity, she created her own shockwave before her. Aranya’s Dragon powers sang an enthralling, excruciating song. She seared the night, blasting thunderheads aside to her left and right, diving through the turmoil as though she had always belonged in its chaotic embrace. Yet Izariela led her on, through the blinding curtains of rain and shrieking winds. Splitting the storm with the ease of a thunderbolt flung to earth, Aranya flung herself down upon the Island she sought.

Transform, Aranya. Go home.

Izariela faded. Mother! Mother! She reached out, but touched nothing. Human-Aranya wept, stumbling barefoot through the night, letting the unfamiliar foliage slap her body, unheeding.

“Home,” she moaned. The volcanic rock cut the soft undersides of her feet. “Home.”

Sodden, she tramped along an animal-trail to a village perched upon the rim of a vast cliff of trailing, luxuriant vegetation. She knew this place. Her dull gaze took in the small, neat cottages lashed by the terrible winds, the fallen trees, the shingles blown off rooftops to litter the gardens. She knew … that house. Her footsteps led her home.

A fist, rattling the door.

A bolt squeaked; light fell upon her face. The woman standing within gaped at her. “Lyriela? What are you doing outside, child?”

Lyriela peered past the woman’s shoulder. ‘Aranya’, she mouthed, her face lighting up.

The soundless word released something in her. “Aranya,” she said, as though discovering her name for the first time. She stumbled inside. The young woman’s embrace was shockingly warm against her ice-cold skin.

Aranya threw herself upon Lyriela’s shoulder, and wept.

* * * *

The smell of redbush tea brewing in a kettle roused her. It transported her instantly to a small hut in a dell on the edge of Sylakia Island, the place where she had first learned about her Dragon powers. By the sound of the unique dawn chorus, a combination of myriad bird-calls mingled with the intricate, trilling songs of dragonets, she knew she had come to a familiar place – Fra’anior.

“Tea, petal? And a nibble for breakfast?”

Aranya’s mouth popped open. “Oyda?”

“Aye, I’ll have a nibble of thee, my fireflower petal,” said Nak, from the couch opposite. “Only, would you allow the blanket to slip to the floor? Just for the tiniest second? I imagine you are delightfully naked beneath it.”

“Nak! What are you … what? I mean, what?”

“Ah, my devilish handsomeness can still reduce Princesses to spluttering incoherence,” he declared. “Lyriela is also quite smitten with me, I assure you.”

“Not half as smitten as you are with yourself,” said Oyda, tartly. “Make yourself useful, husband. Stir the fire. Beastly weather, Aranya. Quite the hundred-year storm you appeared in. Petal – that’s you, Lyriela – will you lend Aranya a few items of clothing?”

“No need,” Nak put in.

“Have a bread roll,” said Oyda, tossing one accurately across the room. It bounced off Nak’s head.

Aranya wanted to laugh, but the ache in her soul was too severe. She was so happy to see Nak and Oyda, albeit far from Sylakia and in tumultuous circumstances, that she could not help the tears trickling down her cheeks. Everything would be alright. Oyda’s homespun magic would heal her hurts, and she could tap Nak’s wisdom, too – if she could just wrap her brain around the incongruity of finding them here, on Ha’athior Island.

Nak turned to look past the couch Aranya lay on. “Lyriela says –” he frowned. “Well, she says she must play for you, o precious Immadia. She says … no, Lyriela, that’s impossible. Nonsense, petal.”

“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.”

“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.

Gritting her fangs, Aranya accelerated away across the cracked volcanic landscape. She had a Prince to hunt.

Not long after noon, as the twin suns broke through the clouds to intensify Fra’anior’s already sultry heat, the Amethyst Dragon ghosted in on muffled wings to land behind a small orchard inside the palace grounds. She transformed. Picking up a bag of clothing Oyda had tied to her forepaw, she dressed rapidly and wound a lavender-coloured headscarf around her unruly locks. She disliked lavender, but that was the colour of Lyriela’s spare dress.

Aranya crept between the close-packed flara-fruit trees, having to pick her footing amongst a thick layer of fallen fruit – probably knocked down by her storm. Good. Prince Ta’armion was training at swordplay with a man who moved with a dragonet’s grace and a cobra’s speed. She had better not surprise him, or she’d be wearing his sword Dragon-swift.

Stepping out of the thicket, Aranya called, “Prince Ta’armion, a word.”

A crossbow bolt buzzed past her left ear.

She hit the ground with a thump. Some kidnapping this was. She needed to work on her style – next time, a snatch and grab, or better still, chasing the Prince around his field, firing fireballs to keep him hopping? She grinned, but held very still as a sword-point scratched her ear.

The man said, “What do you want with the Prince, girl?”

“Lyriela?” said the Prince. “Let her up, man.” His smiling advance turned into a confused stumble. “Lyriela, this is unexpected – you aren’t – Aranya! By the Great Dragon himself, am I glad to see you.”

“I’m grateful it is not drugged and clad as a slave-girl, this time,” she returned, letting more than a hint of acid enter her voice.

Unfortunately, this comment produced a misty-eyed look as the Prince summoned up an evidently pleasing mental image of the outfit his agent had chosen to best showcase her attributes on that occasion. Her glower made the Prince adjust his grin hastily.

“The royal hospitality has improved since that unfortunate incident,” said he, sketching a preposterously elaborate Fra’aniorian bow. “Put the sword down, Ga’artior. It’s no use anyway. She’s a Dragoness.”

Ga’artior sniffed, “She’s safe, my Lord Prince?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Ta’armion, cheerfully. “Aranya is the Princess of Immadia, a Shapeshifter Dragon and an ally of Fra’anior. I do hope that you’re planning to invade, Princess? I’ve so been looking forward to an Immadian invasion.”

The Dragoness in her had decided she’d threaten to eat him. Instead, Aranya found a smile creeping about her lips. He was just so adorable and enthusiastic. He’d drive her up the proverbial Island cliff, but he was perfect for Lyriela, her gentle, soon-to-be-Dragoness cousin. Well, she had not flown across the caldera to make Prince Ta’armion’s life any less lively.

“Prince Ta’armion, I have come on account of my cousin,” she said, giving him her sweetest smile. “You will kidnap her today, or I will personally hang you by your bootlaces from the nearest passing cloud. Do we understand each other?”

Ga’artior’s sword swished toward her. Ta’armion parried it with a flick of his blade. Aranya did not flinch. She raised an eyebrow at the Prince.

Abruptly, an enormous grin creased his cheeks. “Aye! By a thousand Islands, Aranya. I’ m so excited. It was the Sylakians, we couldn’t risk … Ga’artior. Operation violet dragonet. On my order, go.”

The swordsman loped off without a backward glance.

“Violet dragonet?” said Aranya.

“I’ve been planning this for far too long.”

Within the hour, a flotilla of three Dragonships was making headway southwest, across to Ha’athior Island. An Amethyst Dragon soared above, chafing at the slow speed of the Dragonships, although they were burning plenty of meriatite on the Prince’s orders. The Prince rode Dragonback, while his father, King Cha’arlla, occupied the royal Dragonship. At the Palace, preparations for a lavish wedding were well underway.

Ta’armion leaned over Aranya’s neck “Have I told you how excited I am?”

“Only fifty-three times,” she said.

The Dragonships were stuffed to the exhaust pipes with Fra’aniorian dignitaries and elders keen to observe that their precious traditions were not flouted in the smallest detail. They sipped expensive wines from fluted crystal glasses and regaled each other with improbable tales of the kidnappings they had attended, or perpetrated. It was all highly dramatic, with much swooning and fanning of faces and strident exclamations of gladness. Aranya wanted to roll her eyes and fall about laughing. Instead, she bore the Prince with what she hoped was suitably regal wingbeats across to Ha’athior.

“And did I say, we’ll be married on the seventh day after the kidnapping? That’s the tradition. It’ll give King Beran plenty of time to arrive.”

“Forty-one times on that one,” said Aranya.

Arriving at Lyriela’s small village, wreathed in the golden suns-beams of late afternoon, the Amethyst Dragon took up her position, idling on the thermals nearby. Soldiers tossed anchors from the Dragonships. Ta’armion’s men rushed down the rope ladders to surround the quiet little village perched on the edge of the cliff.

“Right, Aranya,” said Ta’armion. “Let’s wake up the villagers.”

The Amethyst Dragon said, “Cover your ears, my Prince.”

Grinning, Aranya raised her muzzle to the sky and unleashed a booming challenge. Birds for half a mile about fled in a squawking panic. The dragonets retreated warily, but soon peeked their blue, red and yellow muzzles out of the foliage to goggle at the resplendent Amethyst Dragon. Aranya put down outside Lyriela’s house and discreetly helped the Prince alight from his unaccustomed perch.

Ta’armion, garbed in so much royal finery he was red-faced and sweating rivers, immediately charged up to the front door and flattened it with a violent kick and a fine, ringing yell. Of course, Nak had loosened the hinges beforehand. Nobody would want to humiliate the Prince with a locked and barred door, would they? He barged inside.

There came a scream from within, banging, the clattering of pots, and shouts of, “Desist, thou fiend!” “Take that, and that!” “Unhand the lady, thou scoundrel!”

Aranya disguised her laughter with a fiery snort.

Eventually, Ta’armion was apparently tossed out of a window, breaking one of the shutters on his way to a muddy landing in the vegetable patch. This was also tradition. Brandishing his sword, loudly declaring his love for the lady, he leaped back into the fray – through the same window. When the furore subsided, he emerged dragging a wailing, struggling Lyriela by her chained hands to her not very terrible fate. Nak tottered out of the doorway, dishevelled and shirt torn, begging the wicked Prince to relinquish his precious ‘granddaughter’.

Ta’armion produced a very fine rendition of a piratical laugh – probably playing a part from one of the Fra’aniorian ballads. “Nay, old man,” he declaimed. “I shall despatch my Dragonships to fetch thee to the nuptials.”

Nak begged his friends, his neighbours, even Ta’armion’s men, to come to his aid. But eventually Lyriela was bundled onto a Dragonship and the entire party decamped to Fra’anior, with much backslapping for the Prince and endless rounds of handshakes. There, at the royal palace, he summarily locked Lyriela in a tower room. Guards – a dozen men in formal dress uniform – were posted outside the door. Aranya landed on the flat roof, transformed, and entered Lyriela’s chambers through an unlocked trapdoor.

You were magnificent, laughed Lyriela, taking Aranya’s hands and gaily spinning her around the room.

Aren’t you meant to be weeping?

Don’t be silly. That’s your job, day after tomorrow.

Aranya asked, Is that part of the nuptials?

The second day, Lyriela explained. Tomorrow is day one, for seclusion and spiritual enlightenment. I spend all day praying for deliverance from my dreadful fate – stop giggling, would you? The second day is your part. You interrupt the nuptial promises to beg the Prince upon his honour to release this innocent young maiden from the said dreadful fate.

Oh, perfectly dreadful, said Aranya.

You have lines to learn, said Lyriela, dancing like a dragonet from sheer happiness. And you can spend all day teaching me about Dragons. I just hope I don’t turn into one too soon.

How am I supposed to cry on demand?

Lyriela laughed her soundless laugh. Onions, Princess of Immadia. Onions.

* * * *

Two days later, at the appointed hour, Aranya scurried into the throne room, crying, “Stop! I demand that you desist, o wicked abuser of the royal position and powers!”

Dressed in a traditional Fra’aniorian lace gown with its ten-foot train, hurrying was not an easy option. Aranya just prayed she would not trip or worse, step on the hem of the priceless dress, hand-sewn by twenty women over a period of three months, and rip it to pieces. Discreetly, she raised her left hand to her nose and took a whiff of red onion, the likes of which Immadia had never seen. Her eyes began to water at once.

“Alas, my poor cousin Lyriela,” she wailed, sweeping down the aisle obligingly formed by the Prince’s guests at the nuptials. Oniony tears streaked her cheeks. “How this Cloudlands pirate hath mistreated thee – most sorely, I own. Oh most noble of Princes, I beg thee, spare my gentle, innocent cousin this dreadful fate.”

“I shall not,” said Prince Ta’armion, pitching his trained singer’s voice to carry throughout the hall. “I claim this demure maiden –” he jerked Lyriela’s chains, “– for my future wife!”

“Sir, I beg thee,” said Aranya, casting herself at his feet to clutch his boots. “Lyriela is but a poor village girl, lately turned seventeen summers. She knows not the ways of men.”

“Cease thy weeping and wailing, woman, lest I chain thee, too, and give thee to my aged uncle.”

Aranya had to resort to the onion to keep from howling with glee as a hunchbacked old man shuffled out of the crowd of Fra’aniorian nobility. “I shall claim this young beauty for my own, my Prince,” he croaked.

The crowd roared its approval. “To the uncle with her, Prince!”

These Fra’aniorians. To think that this was her heritage; that the young King of Immadia had snaffled Izariela – also a Dragoness – from these very Islands and whisked her away to Immadia. How remarkable the parallels between their lives.

Thinking about her parents led Aranya to fluff her lines, albeit with great force. She threatened to claw the Prince’s eyes out. He took it perfectly in his stride.

Two of his soldiers drew Aranya aside while Lyriela, chained under such a heap of metal she would surely not have been able to run more than a foot in any direction without falling over, was led though her vows by Prince Ta’armion. She wept and trembled and managed to look convincingly distressed by the whole process. Regular whiffs of the onion, concealed beneath a ridiculously flowery table-cloth of a handkerchief, kept Aranya’s tears flowing.

Her mind wandered as Ta’armion and Lyriela stood for the three hours it took for every guest to file past them, kneel, kiss Lyriela’s right hand seven times, and proclaim Fra’anior’s manifold blessings upon the forthcoming union. Could she help the sickly jealousy clenching her stomach as she considered her cousin, marrying the man she loved? Not even the power of ancient soul-fire magic had turned Ardan to her. The winds of fate continued to sweep her from the volcanic mountain peaks of hope to the fiery calderas of despair – and, Islands’ sakes, what could Kylara possibly offer him that Aranya could not? She had offered her very soul! Not good enough, obviously. Was she too Northern? Too skinny for Ardan’s taste? Too haughty? Did Princess-Dragons not merit love in times of war?

Now, she had no need of red onion to express the state of her heart.

Aranya stared unseeing across the happy throng. Their laughter hurt. She must wrench her mind away from magic and fates, and focus on Sylakia’s destruction. That was the only goal, the worthy goal, which could make all of this meaningful.

She could not picture Thoralian’s grand plan. Her father’s forces were now within striking distance of Sylakia. Thoralian had to be holding something back. What could it be – more Dragons? Better technology? Why was he cowering in his lair and sending First War-Hammer Ignathion, capable as he was, abroad to carry out his plans for war? Beran would have told her to put herself in Thoralian’s boots. If she did, it made no sense, unless his very purpose was to wait. For what? For King Beran to turn up on his doorstep with three Dragons and a hundred Dragonships, and frazzle his beard?

That scenario was about as likely as Nak taking vows of celibacy.

Her father should arrive at Fra’anior within two or three days. She needed to work out how exactly to apologise to him, and to Yolathion …

Aranya, Lyriela called. Help me. I can’t move.

Offering her arm to Lyriela, Aranya helped her cousin walk through to the dining hall for the nuptial feast. Her entire village was already gathered in the hall and having a merry time, from the oldest spinster to the youngest child. They had been airlifted by the Prince’s Dragonships that afternoon. Lyriela’s friends made a huge fuss over her. They made a symbolic petition to Prince Ta’armion to release his wife-to-be. With great ceremony, he removed most but not all of her chains, while Lyriela blushed and glanced coyly at him from beneath her lashes.

Aranya sniggered privately. Just wait until Prince Ta’armion found a Dragoness glancing coyly at him from his pillow-roll.

Ardan! Dark, delectable fire filled her memory. She swayed on her feet. Oh please, no, she must fight the frantic urge to transform and flee from the Island, following the alluring scent of him, the dark, predatory wings, the possessive clasp of his paw!

Watch this, Aranya! Lyriela cried, shooting into the air. Her Ha’athiorian friends threw her on a blanket, holding it ten to a side, snapping the cloth to launch her toward a ceiling engraved with scenes of Island life, which apparently, in times past, had included many close interactions with Dragons. Aranya’s eyes crawled across the panoramic paintings. Dragons holding Human babies, Dragons partaking in councils, a Dragon teaching what could only be a class of students …

Aranya? Aranya? Lyriela called.

Aranya glanced over to her. What is it?

There’s a man waving at you – down at the end of the hall. He’s very tall.

She stared over the heads of the crowd. Yolathion? What – already? Had he flown to Fra’anior on a windroc’s wings?

But Yolathion’s expression was grave. He beckoned her with uncharacteristic agitation, mouthing, ‘Hurry!’

Aranya picked up her skirts and ran.

As she approached, he called, “Aranya, hurry. It’s your father … we were ambushed.”

“How did you arrive so quickly? What happened?”

“Storm winds,” Yolathion said. “I escaped by Dragonship, but Thoralian, he had Dragons, and the Black Dragon fell …”

Terror shredded her heart. “Ardan, no!” And her father! She should never have left him. She had been an idiot, so selfish. Now Thoralian had sprung his trap, the very thing she had feared. Had he been waiting for the moment Beran was unprotected?

“We have to help him. Take me Dragonback, Aranya.” As he spoke, he was urging her out of the hall. “Quickly, please. There’s no time. It’s the only way.”

“I have to unlace this stupid dress,” she gasped. “Yoli, please –”

“I’ll fill you in on the way. And we’ll tell Ta’armion’s men outside. Hurry, Aranya.”

Stepping out of the dress, Aranya took Yolathion’s hand and sprinted down the palace corridors, seeking fresh air, a space where she could spread her wings. They dashed outside into a walled garden just outside the palace. Half a dozen of Prince Ta’armion’s men stood guard there. “Give me space,” she gasped, and transformed, ripping through the material of her under-shift. “Mount up.”

Yolathion strode to her shoulder. He placed his hand flat upon the base of her neck.

“Do you need a paw-up?” asked Aranya. His broken leg might prevent him from climbing well. She scanned the sky above them. The day was clear, good for flying.

A flash of light caught her eye. Movement, quick as a snake. A needle-sharp pain pierced her chest.

Aranya had a moment to gasp, “Yolathion?” before her brain registered what he had done. He had stabbed her? A paralysing chill spread from the place where she had been struck, close to the arteries feeding the second heart. Winter made its abode in her soul. “Yoli?”

He turned an exotic dagger over in his fingers. A glistening liquid dripped from its tip, while a beastly smile curled her boyfriend’s lips.

“Yol – oh.” Her forelegs collapsed. She had no strength. The chill pervaded her muscles, numbing everything it touched, dulling her Dragon magic, stealing it away as it spread into her stomach, along her neck and out into her wings.

As if in a dream, her muzzle struck the cobblestones. She felt nothing. Nothing at all.

Yolathion’s laughter beat against her ears.

Chapter 19: O Treacherous Jeradia

Yolathion of Jeradia leaned over Aranya, smiling contentedly as the contagion seeped into her body. Aranya tried to bite his legs off, but her head refused to move.

He strode up to her muzzle. Gazing into her eyes, he said, “Transform, Aranya, before you end up like your mother. You must transform. You’ve five seconds, no more.”

His threat took forever to process in her mind. Like Izariela? Half-transformed; for all intents and purposes, dead. Preserved like a specimen in a jar. In the face of this thought, Aranya could do nothing else. She tore the magic from her deepest, most secret places. She transformed.

“Take her, men,” ordered Yolathion.

His voice came from a league away, dull words on duller senses. Manacles clamped upon her wrists, the metal warm in comparison to the ice slurry filling her veins. Poisoned, Aranya thought. It had to be poison. This was what must have happened to her mother. Izariela must have known this hoarfrost inside her lungs, her tongue frozen to the top of her mouth, the stark terror of betrayal. And these were not Ta’armion’s men. The beards gave them away. They were Sylakians.

The last word she was able to choke out was, “Why?”

Yolathion ignored her.

Hands bundled her into a cloak. Clouds bobbed above her as the men moved rapidly through a narrow archway at the rear of the garden. The clouds turned into thick flotillas of amethyst-coloured butterflies flitting between trees. She heard a sharp clash of metal upon metal. Her captors paused before breaking into a sharp run. They tossed her bodily into the back of a cart. She sensed her skin tearing, but there was no pain. Rough sackcloth fell over her face. It stank of rotten prekki-fruit.

Aranya realised what she was missing. Her magic.

Hopelessness choked her. Ri’arion had warned her about poisons which acted specially on Shapeshifters and their magic. South of the Rift, in Herimor, they made an art-form out of concocting such poisons, such as the one which had brought even a Star Dragon to her unpleasant end. Clarity began to emerge from her foggy thoughts. This was a calculated attack. Thoralian’s work, undoubtedly, for his Island cast a long shadow. Could Yolathion have been serving the Sylakians all along? Was he traitor twice over? If so, King Beran was probably dead right now.

She searched in quiet despair for her fire, for her healing power, for her inner Dragon. She found nothing. All her vaunted power was lost, as if it had never been. Dormant, she could hope, but the feeling was not one of hollowness. It was absence.

The sackcloth shifted. Yolathion lay down beside her. “So, let’s check these chains,” he said. Aranya wished he did not sound quite so jovial. “Aye, very good. And the ankles? Perfect.”

Islands’ sakes, she’d kill him!

“Plenty of time to annoy you later, Princess,” said the Jeradian. Drawing a crystal vial from his pocket, he removed the cork stopper and dripped something bitter onto her tongue. No exercise of will could move her jaw to prevent him. Next, Yolathion inserted a spout into the corner of her mouth and washed whatever he had administered, down her throat with the help of water from his hip flask. “This is a special gift, courtesy of Thoralian himself. Sleep well.”

What gift could Thoralian possibly desire more than her cold corpse in exchange for the death of his son?

He paused. “Of course, we shouldn’t allow you to bleed to death.”

Something pressed against her unfeeling flesh, just above her left breast. She felt it as pressure, nothing more – the wound caused by his dagger, faithfully replicated in her Human form. Yolathion must have plugged it with a wad of cloth.

The cart lurched.

Soon, a monstrous lassitude washed through her body. She must not sleep, Aranya ordered herself. But the tide of darkness turned against her.

* * * *

King Beran slammed his fist on the desk. “What do you mean, gone?”

Ignathion shrugged massively. “I’m as baffled as you are, Beran. My son’s Dragonship was last seen with our fleet halfway to Yaya Loop. Now, it is missing. Nobody saw anything – not even our Dragon.”

“The Dragon was sleeping,” said Ardan, with a low growl of frustration. Nothing had been going well since Aranya abandoned them in the middle of the celebration. Beran’s decision to depart Jeradia while the winds were still fierce had been a calculated risk. They all knew it.

Kylara nodded. “One of my warriors reported that she saw a Dragonship leaving the group during the storm.”

“Intentionally?” chorused Ignathion and Beran.

“She could not say.”

“I could scout,” Ardan offered.

“It’s too late,” said Beran, scratching at his beard as though he’d rather be tearing it out by the roots. “A day and a half? That Dragonship could be resting at the bottom of the Cloudlands by now. Or we might hope it made landing in Yaya, or the Spine, or Jeradia. Let’s send Dragonships to search. Ardan can scout, but plan to return to us before we reach Fra’anior Island.”

“Agreed,” rumbled Ignathion. “You’d do all that for my prodigal son?”

“Prodigal son, prodigal daughter, what’s the difference?”

Ardan’s shrewd glance took in both fathers. He had expected a rajal’s catfight for the position of Commander, but Ignathion appeared content to concede that role to King Beran. From enemies to friends? It turned the stomach of a Western Isles warrior.

“Our overriding goals are to liberate Fra’anior and to find Aranya,” said Ardan. “I hope I’m right. I’ve never much been one to trust blind instincts, but my Dragon yearns for that Island. It’s her mother’s birthplace. In my culture, the birthplace signifies home, help and healing. Beran, I hope her madness is only temporary.”

“She’s a strong girl,” he replied, but his face was drawn.

“Aye,” said Ignathion. “You raised her to emulate all of your worst attributes, Beran. Good job.”

Ardan chuckled, if only to cover his fear for Aranya. He had dreamed of her again – as he did each and every night – and had woken crying out her name. Kylara had made her displeasure as clear as a shard of crysglass.

Every time he saw so much as a strand of Aranya’s hair, he was transported back to that cave. He stalked her Amethyst Dragon form in his dreams, but often, the dream turned about and it was her chasing him, firebombing him, making him flee for his life. Ardan did not know what it meant. Was he confusing Aranya with Thoralian’s Dragon-kin, who must have razed Naphtha Cluster? Why – because of how her passion had scorched him?

And now, he faced the loss of the girl who had confounded and beguiled his soul.

Shortly, the Shadow Dragon and Kylara were aloft, climbing the winds, describing a widening spiral above Beran’s fleet. The storm had fled northward, the direction they concluded Aranya had taken. Her storm. Ardan’s scales tingled at the thought. Such power! Physically, he was two and a half times her size. But he would not want to enter a straight-up magical fight with her.

She was magnificent.

The huge dirigible balloons soon shrank to resemble floating seed-pods. The Island-World unfolded before his Dragon sight. To the south, the Islands of Yaya Loop made barely a smudge on the horizon. The northern sky was a deep, smoky gold, darkened by volcanic ash and detritus, he imagined. The waning suns buffed the particle-dense gases into a glistening column several leagues wide, as though the Cloudlands had broken open to reveal a glorious sunbeam radiating from the world’s core. Fra’anior. As one, all three Dragon hearts pinched in his chest. Ardan knew he had always been a forthright man, never one to pause in appreciation of a rare flower, or to remark upon a woman’s beauty. His Dragon had a radically different viewpoint. Dragon-Ardan feasted upon what entered his eyes. He breathed it as he breathed magic.

Had he slept all the previous years of his life?

Or was it the intersection of two lives, infused with Dragon fire, which had awakened his senses?

Dragon and Rider searched for the remaining hours of daylight in wide sweeps east and west, but found neither trace of the missing Dragonship, nor sign of an Amethyst Dragon.

At length, beneath the baleful gaze of the Jade and Mystic moons, Ardan winged rapidly northward, raising on the horizon the jaw-dropping spectacle that was Fra’anior. He and Kylara had been chatting and flirting to pass the hours, but now they fell silent. The volcanic behemoth heaved itself from the Cloudlands as though shunning the diabolical realm that lapped against its black flanks. In places, rivers of lava poured from the cracks in the rim like raw, bloody wounds. The caldera dwarfed anything either of them had ever imagined.

“Beran’s Dragonships are just rising from that Island,” said Ardan.

“Ha’athior,” said Kylara. “Can we assume Aranya’s not there?”

Ardan quickened his wingbeat. “Let’s go ask.”

After a short, shouted conversation across to Beran’s flagship, Ardan landed briefly to pick up the King. Beran’s relief was obvious. “She’s been here,” the King repeated, strapping himself into the second position in Ardan’s saddle. “Helped the Prince of Fra’anior kidnap himself a girl, the villagers said. She’s alright. Lucid.”

“Your relative?” asked Kylara.

“Lyriela. Apparently, my niece. The story’s all over Ha’athior, of course.”

Kylara mused, “Why initiate a royal wedding amidst a war, unless Fra’anior has thrown off the Sylakian yoke? This is good news.”

“Aye,” said King Beran. “Now, let us pray that Yolathion has found his way here. That would be a perfect result. Set a course for Fra’anior, Ardan. Northeast, straight across the caldera. Did you know, this is my first flight Dragonback?”

“Aranya never took you flying?” asked Kylara.

“I used to threaten to sit on her if she was naughty,” Beran laughed wryly. “Now I hope she’ll never feel the urge to pay her father back. I can’t wait to see the expression on King Cha’arlla’s face when he sees me arrive on a huge Black Dragon.”

“Shadow,” said Ardan, automatically.

Kylara said, “Can you fly faster than a waddling duck, Ardan? We don’t want to hold up any weddings.”

Gouts of flame burst from his nostrils. His surge of speed thrust his Riders against his spine-spikes.

Unfortunately, King Cha’arlla’s chosen form of greeting was a withering blast of catapult-shot aimed at Ardan’s muzzle. Unable to avoid it all, he took several heavy blows to the chest rather than have his wings turned into large sieves. But once the misunderstanding was worked out and the Fra’aniorian King gave the order to allow them to land, Ardan realised that there were no smiles on the ground, only faces as long as their Island was tall.

“Where’s Aranya? Do you see Aranya?” Beran asked anxiously.

“There, the girl in blue,” said Kylara, pointing.

No, not her.

Ardan could not find words. Where was Aranya? That girl was not tall enough, and she wore chains. He rushed to a hard landing in the open field immediately behind the unmistakable palace building. He almost transformed before remembering he had Riders on his back. He had to help them dismount, especially King Beran, who slipped in his haste and would have taken a bad fall were it not for Ardan’s swift paw. Oh, great Islands, where was she? His hearts pounded in his chest, heart and belly. Dead? Mad? Flown away?

Beran set off at a run, but he slowed when he caught sight of Cha’arlla’s expression, and Prince Ta’armion beside him. The girl in blue began to sob, strangely, without making any sound.

“King Beran of Immadia,” said Cha’arlla, setting ceremony aside to throw his arms around his old friend. “It’s been far too long. You are well, old friend?”

“Too long,” agreed Beran. He scanned the crowd. “Sorry, I’m looking for –”

Cha’arlla gulped. “Aranya was here, but she is gone. Yolathion took her.”

King Beran echoed, “Took her?”

“Kidnapped her.”

Ardan thought the Immadian would faint. There was a distinct wobble, a greying of his cheek. He discreetly extended a forepaw, but withdrew when King Beran recovered himself with an effort that clearly cost him dearly. “Yolathion? He kidnapped Aranya? Nonsense. They love each other.”

“Would you sit down –”

“I will not sit while my daughter is missing! What kind of man do you take me for?”

Beran immediately apologised for roaring at King Cha’arlla.

Prince Ta’armion moved to place his hand on his father’s arm. “King Beran,” he said. “Yolathion appeared suddenly at my first-day nuptials – three days ago, now. He summoned Aranya. One of my men saw them rush to the garden. She transformed into her Dragon form, whereupon he stabbed her, here, in the chest.”

His quiet yet firm statement made Beran’s knees buckle. Ardan caught him as he staggered. The Immadian King gasped, “Where’s my daughter? Where?”

King and Prince, father and son, winced identically. Fra’aniorians hated to deliver bad news, Ardan had learned. Certainly, in their culture, it should be done delicately and privately, not before a large audience. But Ardan had a Western Isles bluntness to his advantage.

The hulking Shadow Dragon growled, “Spit it out, Prince. Where is Aranya, now?”

“They rushed her to the cliffs. A Red Dragon met them there.”

Beran moaned, “No, please …”

Ta’armion said, “I regret to inform you, King Beran, that they flew east. Toward Sylakia.”

The King covered his face.

Ardan could not withhold. His anguish thundered into the night sky, which had never seemed colder, nor emptier. Thou, Aranya. His soul’s fire was gone, and Yolathion was a traitor. He could not begin to grasp the scale of his misjudgement. He should have chased her immediately, into the storm.

Three days, Dragonback? Aranya was already in Sylakia, as good as dead. Although, he still sensed her fire, burning within him.

His talons gouged trenches in the soil. He had to go after Aranya.

* * * *

Aranya awoke from a dream of her mother to harsh reality. She was flying, but not safely in the womb as she had dreamed, surrounded by the pulse of her mother’s life. She was tied to a Dragon’s back, one whose scales were the crimson of fresh Human blood.

“Islands greetings on this fine morn,” said Yolathion. “Feeling well rested?”

Aranya stared fixedly upward. She had no control of her eyeballs. She realised that Yolathion had rolled her into a cloak and tied her on board as though she were another of his saddlebags. “W –” she moaned. “W …”

“Where are we? Flying southeast from Talda Island. With this following breeze, we should reach your old haunt of Sylakia by nightfall. We’re going to the Tower.”

A hint of sensitivity had returned to her limbs. Aranya knew she must fight for her life. But the potent poison had disabled her. Her limbs and lower back had that dull ache of incipient illness. She could not even swallow; drool leaked down her neck from her flaccid mouth.

Yolathion reached out to slap his mount’s neck. When had he become so familiar with Dragons, Aranya wondered? “Serthion, we must hurry. Time is against us.”

“She resists?”

“This one is strong, despite her appearance.”

The Red chuckled horribly. “Thoralian will eat her alive. Tell the little one, my brethren approach. Beran’s days are numbered.”

Beran’s days had been numbered for ten years, and the Sylakians had only succeeded in defeating him through treachery – their favourite Island of all. Aranya snorted mentally at the Red, You’re an idiot if you think that.

Serthion’s wings missed a beat. “She speaks!” His massive, age-rimed muzzle rounded upon her. Hold your tongue before I tear it from your mouth.

“Peace, Serthion,” said Yolathion. “Thoralian will soon put a stop to that.”

“I told you we should have collared her immediately.”

“The poison is enough. Trust me, it was enough for her mother all those years ago, and she had Star Dragon powers. We marked her, we hunted her, and now we will destroy her. End of Island.”

Aranya had never heard Yolathion speak like this – grim, callous and altogether hateful. How had her sweet and dutiful boyfriend turned into this monster? It had to be a double betrayal, his apparent defection to Immadia having been a calculated move on Thoralian’s part, a ploy to worm his agent into the heart of the resistance. She had kissed this man. Shared her deepest secrets and fears with him. Loved him, even. Now, all was ashes scattered upon the Cloudlands.

O treacherous Jeradia!

She held her tongue, but only to save her strength for the fight.

Three hours later, as the Yellow moon rose to dominate the sky and eclipse the twin suns for a time, the rhythm of Serthion’s wingbeats changed.

“Karathion,” he called. May the rising suns warm your wings, old one.

The winds speed your flight, Serthion. Go on, brothers. I will catch up. “Is she the one?”

“She’s the one,” said Yolathion.

Aranya’s head lolled sideways. Karathion, a burgundy-coloured Dragon who rivalled Ardan for size, with a black underbelly and a dark mottling of age upon his wings, fell into formation with Serthion. Rheumy eyes regarded her across the gap between the flying Dragons. Aranya heard other Dragons’ voices now. Four, five Red Dragons swished past beneath them – she could just glimpse them from the corner of her eye, an awesome Dragonwing. Oh, Dad! Her ears conveyed the sounds of more Dragons passing, the leathery creak of wings and the swishing of air across Dragon scales. How many? A dozen? They’d tear her friends apart, and the Island after that.

But – if Beran’s days were numbered, then her father was still alive! A nugget of hope in a dark mineshaft of despair.

“She’s the Star Dragon’s daughter? You’re certain?” asked Karathion.

Yolathion said, “She has the mark.”

The mark? Aranya’s brow failed to move into a frown. She had no birthmark she knew of. Freaky hair, aye. Gemstone eyes courtesy of her Fra’aniorian heritage, certainly. But no distinguishing marks.

“Aye,” Serthion agreed. “Thoralian will be pleased.”

Yolathion said, “What does he want her for?”

Karathion’s laughter was a low, indulgent gurgle deep in his massive chest. Fire blossomed around his muzzle. “Thoralian has his ambitions, and they will not be shared with the likes of you. Trust me, there are worse fates than being eaten by a Dragon.”

Serthion said, Fly strong and true, Karathion.

May your fires burn like a volcano’s heart, came the reply. In seconds, Karathion peeled away, and was gone.

She wanted to wish that the Shadow Dragon would descend from the skies to end this nightmare, but she knew that to keep up with her Storm-augmented speed would have been nigh impossible for any other Dragon. He had to be several days behind Serthion and her double-crossing boyfriend.

Whatever she faced now, it would be alone.

Aranya wanted to weep, but the poison denied her even that. Her tear ducts had dried up. No, she would not weep for Beran, or Lyriela and Ta’armion, or Zip, wherever she was. She must bide her time and grow stronger. Thoralian would make a mistake. Then, her mother would be avenged.

That was her vow.

Chapter 20: The Dragon’s Lair

ALways treasure a faithful reflection, King Beran used to say. Aranya wished this reflection were perfectly unfaithful. The amethyst eyes staring back at her from the doctor’s mirror were bloodshot and distraught. She touched a lesion on her left cheek – one of ten on her face. It was tight, hot and purple, raised half an inch from the skin’s surface.

“Shifter pox,” said the doctor. “But I’ve never seen this strain, nor one that acted so fast. This is bad, lady. Very bad.”

The doctor was a strange little man of an olivine complexion and a nervous manner, clad in a doctor’s black smock and gloves. Long, jet-black hair swept down to his collar, and his almond-coloured eyes were slit like a rajal’s. Even the timbre of his voice suggested a cat’s purr, with breathy vowels and rolled r’s as he spoke. She wondered which Island he hailed from – perhaps the deep South?

“Pox?” she whispered. Once, fifty years ago, a pox had swept through Immadia, killing almost half of the population.

“It’s also on the rest of your body?” Aranya, lying abed, rolled up the sleeve of her simple dress. Her arm was a maze of lumps and bumps, far more pox than clear skin. “Aye, purpling already. Lady, I must warn you. You’d rather wade through a pool of lava than have the pox. I’ll speak to Thoralian’s people. Maybe there’s a treatment they use here. Fever? Chills?”

She nodded. Her throat was swelling. Aranya had checked as far back as she dared. Several nodules were growing inside her mouth, one on her tongue, and more down her windpipe. Each nodule was the size of the top joint of her thumb. Would she be able to eat, soon? Would she suffocate?

“Food?”

“I can’t keep a bite down.”

The doctor gasped.

Aranya felt so unwell she feared she would never rise from the bed again, but she still noticed his reaction – far more clearly than during her arrival at Sylakia’s Tower. She had been semiconscious, then, and could not remember more than snatches of her journey down into the dungeons. This was her third visit to Sylakia’s infamous Tower, home of its political hostages from around the Island-World. Once, for her exile from Immadia. A second time, to rescue Zuziana – a madcap idea, but it had worked. And a third time? That was the number that stretched luck too far, the number Immadians believed signified evil, or death. She needed no such portents to magnify her misery.

He checked her collar, riveted in place around her neck. “Secure,” he mumbled. Twenty feet of chain linked the collar to a ring embedded in the wall of her cell. The metal was curious. It never felt warm, not even from her body heat. And it was beginning to chafe her skin.

She remembered that Yolathion had attended her at some point during that first day.

“Welcome to the Shifter holding cells, Princess of Immadia,” he had said, clasping his hands behind his back in a gesture that later, struck her as very unlike Yolathion. “You will note that this fine accommodation is sized too small for a Shapeshifter to assume their Dragon form. I would not advise any attempt to transform. A partial materialisation into solid rock may prove … uncomfortable.”

Fine accommodation? Four bare walls, a barred doorway, and a rough bed with one solitary blanket – oh, and a lidded waste-bucket in the corner, regularly emptied by a mute female servant. Her chamber was a rough rectangle carved out of solid bedrock, perhaps eight feet wide and fifteen long. A cell designed to contain a Shapeshifter Dragon.

Leaning over her, the doctor whispered, “What colour Dragon are you, Lady?”

“Amethyst,” she said.

What did that flicker in the cat-eyes mean? “Drink this,” he ordered.

Aranya struggled to rise onto her elbow. So weak! She sipped whatever bitter herbal brew the doctor had concocted this time. This one, a change from his usual sewage, was sweetened with honey.

Footsteps in the narrow tunnel outside her cell presaged Yolathion’s arrival. “Thoralian will see the prisoner,” he announced, swinging a set of manacles in his hand as though he meant to enjoy putting them on her.

The doctor said, “She’s too unwell. It’s the pox.”

“Thoralian’s not one to be kept waiting,” smirked her former boyfriend. Aranya wished her Dragon could whisk him away to the swift and nasty end he deserved. “He’s just flown in from Yorbik Island, and he’s in a good mood, luckily for you.”

A good mood? She’d have to see if she could spoil it.

With deft movements, Yolathion affixed the chains to her wrists and ankles. The doctor helped her rise. She stood gingerly. Had the lesions spread even to her soles?

“I’ll walk,” she said, raising her chin in an imperious gesture. She took one step, and collapsed.

Yolathion’s escort, two beefy Sylakian soldiers, gripped her beneath the armpits and marched her out of the cell, ignoring the doctor’s protests. They ascended an endless spiral staircase, holding up torches and lamps to light the way. Through the pain in her arms caused by the soldiers’ manhandling, she wondered how deep into the vast spit of rock cleft off the main body of Sylakia Island, these caves descended. And who could have carved such a perfect, regular staircase out of solid rock? The labour involved must have been unimaginable – or magical.

They passed galleries and tunnels that had a lived-in look about them, at least, in the past, for she saw solid ironbound doors and murals painted on the walls, and the rotting remains of carts and storage barrels. Aranya looked because she felt she should observe her surroundings. But little penetrated her awareness. Her world had reduced from the airy spaces, to the dungeon, to the prison of her own flesh.

At length the dead air within the caverns stirred, and a hint of coolness brushed her feverish brow. They entered a cavern in which the breezes sighed with eerie, disharmonic notes. Aranya’s escort halted.

“Lord Thoralian,” called Yolathion. “We’ve brought the prisoner.”

The shadows shifted. A hollow clattering ensued as bleached bones cascaded across rock. She first saw a pair of sallow Dragon eyes flick open, and then the creature slithered forward, disturbing the sprawling pile of bones which constituted his nest. She caught her breath. Although his form reminded her of a cave-salamander, this creature was definitely all Dragon – just longer and more snakelike than she had ever seen. The thickness of his torso made his belly scrape the ground as he moved. Thoralian was a monster, easily half again the size of Ardan, with pallid yellow-white scales, and bulbous, unnervingly hypnotic eyes which fixed upon her with brutish hunger.

The soldiers flung her toward the beast’s paws. Aranya landed hard, scraping open many of the pustules on her arms and torso. A scream of pain rose from her bloodied lips.

“I am Thoralian,” growled the Shapeshifter Dragon, trapping her body with his forepaw. His breath was redolent of rancid meat and sulphur, yet as cold as ice. Saliva dripped from his hoary muzzle, thirty feet above her, and froze where it struck the stones. “You’re looking unwell, Princess of Immadia. Are you not enjoying the gift I prepared for your arrival?”

The pox? He had planned to infect her with this pox? Her hatred was matched only by the animosity blazing in those saucer-sized yellow eyes.

He said, “Revenge is sweet, o murderer of my son.”

“He was the murderer,” she retorted, seeing her breath steam in front of her eyes. “Aah!”

Thoralian rolled her body slowly beneath his icy paw, abrading more of her skin on the rocky cavern floor. “How the mighty Amethyst Dragon has fallen,” he mocked. “The pox has just begun. Soon the lesions will burst open, weeping thick pus and blood, and then they’ll crust over and crack repeatedly. I’m told the agony is exquisite, that the sufferer is able to find neither rest nor sleep. Sometimes, it drives them insane.”

She tasted blood; but her pain was as nothing before the fear of a Dragon’s premeditated revenge. There was a quality in the way he observed and entered into her suffering, a bestial fascination, which reminded her of a cat playing with a half-dead mouse. He licked his lips at every detail. Unhurried. Deliberate. The strong taking vicious pleasure in crushing the weak. He wanted her to twitch, to struggle, to fight back, but in the end all that would be left was the chewed-over body of the mouse. Never had she been more aware of the lack of compassion in another creature. In his burning reptilian scrutiny, it was wholly absent.

“You can torture my body,” she began to gasp, already chilled through by his touch, but Thoralian’s booming laughter brought her up short.

“You call this torture, Princess? A few chains? The touch of my paw?” Almost tenderly – and hatefully – his razor-sharp talon tipped up her chin until she was forced to meet his gaze. The voice deepened, like boulders grinding within his massive chest. “You don’t grasp the first iota of my plans for you, Aranya of Immadia. First, I will break your body. I’ll tear your beauty from you, leaving you scarred and ghastly. People will gasp and cringe at the sight of your pockmarked face. Children will run screaming to their mothers. Then, I will break your spirit. I will steal all of your secrets, o daughter of the Star Dragon.”

His words pierced her body and soul. She knew that the Princess of Immadia could be arrogant – when she first met Zuziana in the Tower, that had been the sum of their relationship. She was proud of her beauty. Aranya knew she had lorded it over others, used her looks to smooth her way, even seduced Jia-Llonya into her web. The prospect of being scarred forever was a bitterer wound than she could have imagined, a mirror in which she beheld a new, dismaying aspect of her personality. This ugliness was truly Aranya? Despicable!

The Yellow-White Dragon’s hundred-fang smile told her he understood exactly what she was thinking. “Beran hid your power well,” he said. “When you came to my Tower, nobody guessed that you were a Shapeshifter.”

“Why not just kill me, Thoralian?”

“My Dragonwing shall reach Fra’anior by tomorrow,” he replied. “They’ll crush Beran’s little rebellion.”

Between chattering teeth, Aranya managed, “They’ll try. But your Dragons are old and fat.”

“Old and large, and ten in number. No Immadian fleet can stand against their combined power. And we know exactly where your precious father is. We’ve known all along.”

Her thoughts were moths fluttering aimlessly around the candle of Thoralian’s words. She had never known cold to literally burn, but that was how she felt beneath the wintry blast of his laughter. The Yellow-White Dragon must have powers of ice, frost and hail – powers the scrolls spoke of with awe and dread.

“You tracked me?”

“He did.” The Dragon indicated Yolathion with his foreclaw.

“Yolathion?”

Thoralian’s lip curled. “You still don’t understand, do you? I’ll show you your precious boyfriend.” He growled at the man standing alongside Aranya. “Bring her.”

Not-Yolathion grinned derisively at her confusion, causing doubt to mingle with the sickness in her stomach. He didn’t have a twin brother, did he? One whose smile was not quite true, whose mannerisms increasingly struck her as unlike the man she thought she had known – by the mountains of Immadia, had Yolathion shrunk?

The soldiers picked her up once more, a limp rag of a body which had been the proud Princess of Immadia just days before, and followed the Yellow-White Dragon’s thumping, belly-scraping passage deeper into the cavern. She began to hear sounds above the wind’s keening – muffled shrieks, perhaps. At length they passed through a doorway wide and tall enough to accommodate Thoralian’s bulk, and the sounds suddenly took on a dreadful clarity. Torture. The awful, burbling screams of a man in mortal agony.

They entered a gallery above a deep cave. At Thoralian’s gesture, the soldiers forced her to the edge and bade her look down.

“I don’t like traitors,” said Thoralian. “I had no more use for him, but a quick death was hardly justified.”

Not-Yolathion said, “The brutality lies in the design, lady. Each and every joint in the body can be separately crushed, twisted, dislocated or broken. The machine creates these unnatural angles under a very slow, irresistible pressure. I doubt many of his bones are left whole.”

“A joint-breaker,” growled the Dragon, with a low, flame-filled chuckle.

It took Aranya a number of seconds to understand what she was seeing. There was a machine down below, a great mess of levers and pulleys, gears and chains, and dangling in the middle of it like a fly in a spider’s web, was a man. Yolathion. She barely recognised the broken, bleeding thing he had become. Only his size gave him away.

Aranya’s chained hands flew to her mouth, stifling her horror. His screams flayed her too, as though she were the one being tortured. Oh, Yolathion! Ruined, crushed …was this the result of her dalliance with Ardan? Was this the Black Dragon’s handiwork?

I loathe you! Her mental scream was meant for Fra’anior.

Thoralian’s bulbous eyes measured her. You speak Dragonish despite the Lavanias collar? How unexpected.

She made no reply, unhearing, mourning for Yolathion. His injuries were too grave. His knees and ankles had been crushed. Naked skewers of bone stuck out of his flesh in multiple places. His left wrist and elbow hung at inhuman angles. Blood and body fluids striped his body and pooled on the floor. This meant Yolathion’s death – how could he even live, having suffered thus?

And the other man? He who was not Yolathion? Her anguished eyes shifted to him.

Inclining his head, he said, “Kerliss, Chameleon Shapeshifter, at your service.”

A chameleon-person? She had once seen a chameleon in the Crescent Island jungles. Zip had pointed it out, playing with it for a short time, showing Aranya how it could take on the colour of her clothing. It made a repellent kind of sense. He could transform into other people. Mimic them. Steal their identity, their very life. Had she kissed this man? Held him in her arms? Loved an impostor?

Since when had the Chameleon Shapeshifter stolen Yolathion’s life?

They sneered at her in concert, Human and Dragon, enjoying her low sob of realisation. Blow after blow. Aranya reeled, unable to grasp it all at once.

“So much to learn about being a Shapeshifter, isn’t there, Princess?” said Thoralian. “Kerliss hails from Herimor. His family has a very rare Shifter talent. I can’t tell you how useful it is.”

“We imitate. We track magic,” said Kerliss, pointing at Aranya’s upper arm – the very place where the would-be assassin’s magical dragonet had marked her, back in Immadia. “All the way to Yar’ola Island, down to Ur-Yagga, north to Fra’anior. We mapped your every move. Poor Beran and his ridiculous two-front strategy. It was doomed from its inception.”

Aranya wished she had some clever words, any words, to beat away the slowly-strangling despair. She knew that this was what Thoralian had planned for her. He meant to break her. His torture would not be quick. It would be mental, physical and emotional. Had he wished, he could have tossed her to his troops for entertainment, or killed her with a paw-stroke. His plans were more devious and far-reaching. Was he arrogant enough to wait for Beran to come to him? If he knew all, why had he not crushed the Immadian advance long before?

The Yellow-White Dragon hissed between his fangs. “I toyed with the idea of having Kerliss return to Beran as you, Princess. His face as his own daughter murdered him would have been priceless.”

The Chameleon Shapeshifter laughed. “Oh, my Lord! What a delightfully wicked notion.”

Aranya’s voice trembled as she said, “I beg you, let Yolathion go.”

“That traitor? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Thoralian.

Her abrasions were a new voice in the litany of her pain as the soldiers dragged her along behind Thoralian. Her skin felt as though it had been stuffed with rough pebbles. She had to force herself to lift her feet, lest they stub one of the purple nodules against a stone. Aranya deliberately pictured Zip’s torture at Garthion’s hand, and forced herself to continue. Nurse the anger. Be stronger than this all-powerful beast of ice. Yet all she heard was the whimpering and incoherent pleading of the once-handsome young man who had courted her.

They moved along the high gallery and through a short tunnel to another cave, lit by lanterns strung high overhead. Aranya saw two Red Dragons below. They crouched unmoving, as if asleep on their paws.

Here, Thoralian paused. “We lived twenty years in these caves after the Shadow Dragon came,” he said. “We survived. Here we bred and grew strong. When the creature vanished, we emerged to claim the Island-World for our own. Of course, other Shapeshifters appeared on a regular basis. We captured them and stored them here, against a future day. There are hundreds of caves just like this one. Every so often, I get the hunger. Then I feast.”

Aranya cried out as he moved. In a flash of wings, Thoralian dropped to the cavern floor, thudding down four-pawed with an impact that she felt through her feet. He extended his claws, and sliced the first Red Dragon’s chest open with deliberate, practised strokes of his talons, peeling back the Dragon hide with horrifying finesse. Clutching the still-beating heart in his fist, he looked up at Aranya.

“I eat the heart for courage, and the brain for wisdom,” he said. “Isn’t that the Jeradian custom you shared with that fool at dinner?” Sinking his fangs into the throbbing flesh, he ate with relish.

“You’re a cannibal,” Aranya breathed, aghast.

Oh, heavens above and Islands below, had the Chameleon been with them since before Jeradia? Or a spy, at least?

Thoralian paused to slurp at the golden Dragon blood running between his fangs. “I know. I’m a freak. There are those in my family who plot against me. But I am strong. I’m the strongest Dragon in the world. You see, I have power over the minds of Dragons around me. I control their thoughts. That’s why they don’t trust me.” Suddenly he coiled, predatory, a feral gleam springing into his eye. “I trust nothing and nobody. Not even Kerliss. And I was the first. It was I who shielded my family from that ravening Shadow Dragon. I, who led them to hide in these caverns.”

Aranya could not tear her eyes away from the spectacle of Thoralian chewing a Dragon’s heart.

“And now you would bring another Shadow Dragon down upon us?” His sudden thundering stunned her. Thoralian leaped from the floor of the cavern to the gallery in one colossal bound. His paw struck her spinning, while his outstretched talons sliced the head off the soldier who had been stationed just behind her. Thoralian’s fangs snapped inches from Aranya’s face. “You dare to rescue a creature of Shadow powers, a devourer of Dragons? You shrivelling little fool. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

She heard a whimper begin in her throat; bit her weakness to oblivion.

Ardan was not like that, was he? He was good, even noble. But as she watched Thoralian with the air of a wounded animal, a bitter seed of doubt lodged in her craw. The legend of the Dragons’ disappearance majored on a creature called the Shadow Dragon. It boasted a strange and irresistible power to mesmerise Dragons, and a monstrous appetite for their magic – just as she herself had been entranced by Ardan’s depthless, devouring black eyes …

She said, “Ardan isn’t that creature.”

“Oh, his name’s Ardan? Is that his Dragon name, too?”

Aranya disguised her shock with a fake sob. Had she unwittingly granted Thoralian some kind of hold over him? The runic name on his ur-makka had been Sha’aldior. Was that his Dragon name? Was it as Ri’arion believed, that Dragons had secret names by which their power could be evoked, or controlled by others? In which case, she should guard that information with her life. Instinctively, she buried the knowledge lest Thoralian wrest it from her mind.

The Yellow-White Dragon shook his head, his breath so cold, her eyelids threatened to freeze together and her bones ached. “You misjudge me, Aranya of Immadia. You’re on the wrong side in this war.”

“You’re evil,” she said, but her heart was not in it.

“I need power,” he said. “The only power in this Island-World which can stand against the Shadow Dragon, is the power of the First Egg. And you’re going to help me secure it.” His talon stabbed her chest, slicing the skin. “You’re the whelp of a Star Dragon.”

Aranya knew that a Marshal of Herimor had used the power of a First Egg to levitate an entire Island across the Rift. According to legend, that same power had corrupted thousands of Dragons, turning them into his invincible legions. Power, surely, which should never fall into the paws of a creature like Thoralian. There was a lie hid within his words. She just could not identify it, not in her state.

Or was Thoralian already using his mind powers to bend her to his will?

“Why should I join you?” she asked. “All you want is the clout to subjugate your own family. Then you’ll rule unchallenged.”

“The Shadow Creature escaped at Naphtha Cluster,” Thoralian mused. “Will it feed on the Dragons I have sent, and only grow stronger? I must accelerate my plans. The Egg lies across the Rift in Herimor. You will help me retrieve it, Aranya.”

She said, “I’ll never help you.”

His evil laughter boomed over the body of the Dragon he had slain, and all around the cavern.

He thought he could force her? “Never!”

“Oh, you will, Princess,” he said. “You see, I’m party to a secret which’ll ensure you do exactly as I command.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Aranya scoffed. Islands’ sakes, she would not be sick, not in front of him. But her pride was the first thing he had destroyed. And her body was not far behind.

Thoralian’s mighty talons clasped her body like a cage of the coldest steel, and his breath was colder still. “You see, I know the precise blend of poisons we used to bring down Izariela,” he said. “I also know the antidote. That’s why, if you ever want to see your mother alive again, you’ll do exactly as I wish, and all that I wish.”

With that, the full horror of her situation crashed in on her. Aranya’s screams faded into darkness.

* * * *

After her gruesome interview with Thoralian, the pox struck with a vengeance. Languishing in her cell, Aranya did not know one day from another, or one hour from the next. She dreamed repeatedly of Ardan cupping her in his paw, only for a chill to start seeping into her body, then the claws turned white with frost, and Thoralian’s pale, baleful gaze froze her solid … but even the dreams gave way to the galloping spread of the pox. The pustules swelled like caustic blister-worms growing beneath her skin, running into each other. The pain multiplied. Every movement brought a fresh burning, a chafing of over-sensitised skin, or cloth tearing away from the crusted, open wounds. She lay abed, only to find that the sheets stuck to her wounds, red with fresh blood, brown with the old, and stained yellow with pus and fluids seeping from every inch of her skin.

The doctor came and left many times, but his treatments afforded her little relief. A glimpse she caught of herself in his mirror made her shriek. She was a monster! A disfigured, unrecognisable monster.

Aranya sobbed into her pillow, wailing in endless agony. Sha’aldior! she cried, casting her voice across hundreds of leagues. Sha’aldior! Come for me, please … no, don’t, you mustn’t see me like this …

In the darkest nadir of her despair, Aranya considered killing herself. Death alone would bring a surcease from this nightmare. Thoralian’s proposed abuse of her powers would be stayed.

Pip, oh Pip, she raved. It’s you he wants. You have the power. Why did you make Nak and Oyda forget?

Her last rational thought was of how ironic it was that Thoralian wanted her, when what he needed was a Dragoness who had been dead for one hundred and fifty years.

Nightmares crept into her dungeon, oozing along the walls, slithering beneath her bed. Aranya scraped her arms bloody against the bed-frame. She could scrape the pox right off her skin, this way. She had to. Her powers rose within her, scalding her skin with their everlasting flame. She lived and re-lived the moment when Garthion had first attacked her, when her flame burst forth to burn away his sight, to disfigure him as she was now disfigured. She was trying to knock herself unconscious against the wall when a pair of arms slipped around her shoulders and lowered her onto the bed.

“Easy, Aranya. It is Aranya?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Jia-Llonya? Oh, Islands’ sakes, not you …”

Next she knew, a cooling ointment soothed her skin. She heard the doctor say, “Cream of taraloya, lady? I would never have considered it effective against the pox.”

Jia said, “How are we going to get this cloth off without skinning her alive?”

“Thoralian wants her alive, so we’d better find a way. I’ve never seen the haemorrhagic form of the Shifter pox. Look at how black her skin is. She’s bleeding internally, too.”

The doctor made her sound like a specimen he wanted to pin down and dissect.

“Help me get this infusion down her throat.” The Jeradian girl seemed perfectly capable of issuing orders, even to a doctor.

A blessed coolness slid down her gullet and radiated from her stomach, allowing sleep to ensnare her at last. With a return to awareness, Aranya realised that an interminable time had passed. Jia-Llonya lay beside her, sound asleep, her gorgeous chestnut locks framing her soft face. An echo of jealousy possessed her; she touched a clawed finger to the pulse at Jia’s neck, imagining a talon … Aranya withheld with difficulty. No. This girl had cared for her. She was chained to the same ring, evidently as much a prisoner as Aranya was. She had to reject the cycle of jealousy before it spiralled out of control again.

Jia’s clear green eyes unshuttered. “Awake, o dreamer?”

“Jia, I … I … thank you.” Squeezing her swollen eyes shut, Aranya added, “I must be the last person in the Island-World you want to be locked in with.”

“Softly, girl,” said Jia-Llonya. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible. How do I look?”

“Bordering on terrible.”

“Will I scar? Will I be ugly forever after?”

To her chagrin, Aranya began to sob. One kind word from this hateful girl and she fell to pieces? But she recognised her old arrogance in that thought, and chastised herself immediately.

“Truth be told?” said Jia. “You’re likely to scar badly, Aranya. I hope your healing magic might help, but it doesn’t look good. Do you hate me? You certainly took off in a huff.”

“When I blasted out of the hall? In a huff? Roaring rajals! Some perfect, very pregnant Jeradian man-stealer was glued to my boyfriend’s arm –”

“Not pregnant anymore.”

“What?” Aranya’s wrath plunged into the Cloudlands. “No … no! Don’t say that. What happened?”

“The Sylakians is what happened.” Aranya tried to slip an arm around Jia-Llonya. The girl threw her off, hissing, “They beat us, Aranya. They kicked me in the stomach, and … are you happy, you self-important lump of ralti turd? Are you happy now I’m not going to have Yolathion’s baby?”

The dungeons themselves should split open and bleed from such a wound.

The groan that emerged from her mouth was inhuman, a cry of incoherent rage, sorrow and pain. Aranya curled in on herself, weeping so hard that she felt several blisters burst on her face. Her stomach knotted up. Now Jia was holding her, apologising, smoothing back her hair so that it did not catch on the broken skin of her cheeks. They wept together for their loss.

Aranya learned that the Sylakians had captured Yolathion and Jia-Llonya just hours after she had fled the celebration. She and Yolathion had been brutally beaten with cudgels and boots. After that, two Dragons, hidden in Jos City, had borne them directly to Sylakia. Jia had bled and lost the baby. She began to tell Jia about Yolathion’s condition, but the Jeradian girl declared that she had already been given the ‘two-brass-dral’ tour before being shut in with Aranya, under orders to keep her alive.

“You think I’m soft, don’t you?” Jia-Llonya said bitterly, at one point. “You think I’m just after Yolathion because he’s a handsome War-Hammer.”

“I thought that, certainly.”

“Well, thanks for the past tense. I’m more than you think I am, Aranya.”

“I misjudged you.” Aranya suppressed a sad smile, because to move her mouth was to further crack open her ravaged cheeks. What had Yolathion found himself this time? First a Dragoness, now a Jeradian who suddenly struck her as resourceful and unafraid, even defiant; who knew how to treat the pox? Through the gap left between the pustules squeezing her eyes shut, she levelled her most draconic scrutiny at Jia-Llonya. The girl did not flinch.

“Tell me about yourself, Jia,” she offered. Borrowing an impish leaf from Zuziana’s scroll, Aranya added, “You use kisses for weapons, and …”

“Aranya!” The other girl turned a rich shade of rose. “Here I had you Immadians pegged as the conservative ones. Your magic forced me to – oh, Islands’ sakes! I love Yolathion and no Shapeshifter seductress is about to steal him from me. Or, me from him.”

“I prefer my men –” Aranya sighed. “I was trying to strangle you and I’m grateful – however it happened – that I did not! Can you not accept my apology, for the tenth flaming time?”

“Down, Dragon.”

That was the wrong tone to take with her. “How come you presume to know so much about Dragons?” Aranya snarled. “Ah, that came out badly. Look, I’m on a weird, unfamiliar Island … my Dragoness is gone, possibly forever. This collar –”

“It’s called a Lavanias collar,” Jia-Llonya explained. “It’s used to suppress a Shapeshifter’s magical powers, not to destroy them. Along with the Herimor drugs they’re probably slipping into your food or administering in the guise of drugs for this Shifter pox, you’re unable to transform. Your Dragoness sleeps – similarly to Thoralian’s other captives in this forsaken place. There are few left.”

“Few? He’s probably eaten all the others.” Suddenly, the import of Jia’s words struck her forcibly. Aranya shrank back on the pillow-roll, her momentary strength already spent. “How do you know these things, all this Dragon lore? Jia, who are you?”

The Jeradian girl drew herself up, no more the shy mouse Aranya had taken her for, her green eyes clear and steady. Cautiously, she said, “I’m a member of a secret group – mostly Jeradians and Fra’aniorians – who seek to preserve Dragon lore and knowledge.”

“The Order of Onyx?” said Aranya, a flash of blind intuition.

Jia-Llonya wheezed, “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’m more than you think I am.”

“Very funny. I guess I deserved that,” said the Jeradian, chuckling, but she sounded perfectly breathless as she added, “Aranya, listen. I’ve a head so stuffed full of Dragon lore and legends you wouldn’t believe it and I’ve dreamed of them since I was a child, but I never imagined I’d actually meet a Dragon … please, don’t turn me away. This is my life’s dream taken wings!”

“To this dungeon? You couldn’t dream a little bigger?”

Jia squeezed Aranya’s fingers so hard it hurt. “No, you silly ralti sheep. You’re a real Dragon. This is perfect.”

Aranya did not have the heart to tell Jia-Llonya that the Amethyst Dragon was gone forever. Instead, she said, “Let me tell you about my friends, Jia. There’s an Azure Dragoness called Zip, and Ardan, he has Shadow powers …”

Chapter 21: Red Dragons Rising

KING BERAN PINNED Ardan with a glare fit to stop a Dragonship in its tracks. “Kylara’s right. Are you quite hale in the head, man?”

Fitfully twisting the ur-makka around his wrist, Ardan glanced to the door which Kylara had just slammed in his face. Another dream of Aranya calling to him in great distress, the uncanny knowledge that he knew where Thoralian had imprisoned her, that she was alive … Kylara’s volcano had just erupted. Now Beran. His day had barely started, and he was walking on lava.

Sha’aldior! His Dragon name had echoed across the leagues, heard at a level different to anything he had experienced before – save the soul-fire. Ardan grasped that he and Aranya were linked. Did she have a secret Dragon name, too? Or was it only Aranya who had the power to call him from afar, as she claimed the Black Dragon called to her? Sha’aldior. He shivered, rubbing his arms.

Should he be concerned that Kylara would add a second dent to his thick skull, deeper than the first? Aye.

The truth was, only a colossal fool gave up a girl like Aranya. He was that fool.

Beran said, “I don’t want to patronise you, Ardan. But let me make this clear. I’ve lived a few summers upon this Island-World, and I’ve seen the way you look at my daughter, and aye, her eyes lingering upon you. What’s going on? As her father, I’ve a right to know.”

“Nothing.”

After an awkward silence, the King of Immadia said, “Isn’t it beneath the honour of a Western Isles warrior to lie to a man’s face?”

Stiffly, Ardan replied, “It’s for Aranya to –”

“Man to man. I too have my honour, stupid and useless as it is at times, and I am going off-the-Islands crazy … please, Ardan. Don’t make me beg.”

They took each other’s measure.

“You are the Immadian Fox,” said Ardan, returning to his seat beside the Immadian King’s desk in the navigation room of his Dragonship. “The whole Island-World knows your mettle. But I fear my honour is as dust blown into the Cloudlands. I mean to go after Aranya and rescue her. I want you to know that, Beran.”

“My daughter was dead and returned to life as a Dragon,” said the King. “What could be worse than that?”

“A father’s righteous wrath?” suggested Ardan, before catching his breath. Idiot!

Beran’s grey eyes turned wintery. His fingers twitched on the desk as though they itched for a sword-hilt and a free swing at Ardan’s neck. He ground out, “You had better not be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“Unfortunately, I think I am. Aye.”

* * * *

Aranya sat rib-deep in a warm caustic soda barrel-bath, wincing, having her skin peeled. She griped, “Is that cloth or strips of skin you’re tearing off, there?”

“Don’t whine, it’s unbecoming in a Dragon,” said Jia. “More over here, Doctor Chikkan.” He called himself by the nickname of Chikkan, as his Herimor name was utterly unpronounceable.

The tweezers pinched. Aranya ground her teeth together. The sensation made her imagine Dragon claws delicately flaying her skin, inch by agonising inch. Fresh tears streaked her cheeks. Fine, her sores had to be cleaned. They had to get the cloth out and the caustic in, because apparently that was good for healing and for the itching. She wished she could split open her skin and step out of it like a butterfly sloughing off its chrysalis. Torture! How casually she had used words like ‘unbearable’ or ‘suffering’ in conversation, before. Now, she knew their true meaning.

She had craters on her face. One exposed her left cheekbone.

Aranya had flung the mirror across the room in horror; only, she was not strong enough to strike the wall with it. It lay forlorn on the bed. She thought she could still be a butterfly? O, woe to Immadia. She had turned into a mange-scarred rajal.

Chikkan said, “Yesterday at dawn, Thoralian departed for Yorbik Island.”

Aranya stiffened. Quietly, behind her, Jia asked, “What’s he so interested in at Yorbik, doctor? The shipyards, of course …”

“No. I mean, aye.” Metal pinched her skin as Aranya tuned her ears with care. He breathed, “Thoralian’s cleared this place out, see? Rumour is that his brother Dragons grow impatient with his eating habits. Thoralian said, ‘I must impress my new recruits.’ That’s what I heard.”

“Impress?” said Aranya, trying to square this with what little she knew of Thoralian. It made no sense.

Jia put in, “Why leave us here? What if we escape?”

The doctor laughed as though she had brightened his morning. “Lady, you’re buried inside half a mile of solid rock. A thousand soldiers and twenty Dragons guard this place. Only rats and cockroaches get in and out. Look, I’ve said too much already. It’s Dragon politics. Thoralian’s kin demanded just one thing of him – exterminate Beran. Then he can enjoy his delusions of grandeur.”

Aranya glanced up at Chikkan, picking his way along her collarbone now. Slit eyes? Why would she never have heard a single legend about a creature like him? She had also known nothing about Chameleon Shapeshifters, though.

“Do you miss Herimor?” she asked, abruptly.

The doctor’s hand jerked, dropping his tweezers in the bath. “Curse your intuitive Star Dragon powers,” he hissed. “Have you been meddling in my mind?”

“Ah – just a lucky guess,” said Aranya, feeling about for the tweezers. She had Star powers like her mother? Thoralian’s instincts had been right. “Could you tell me –”

“No.”

“Please, doctor, I need –”

“No! Shut your trap, girl. You’ll have Thoralian down on us both.”

After that, he and Jia-Llonya completed their work in silence. The doctor bade Aranya lie on a rubber sheet to dry off. Then he bolted as though a feral Dragon were breathing down his neck.

“That was fascinating,” said Jia.

For the first time in however long she had languished in Thoralian’s dungeon, Aranya sensed her brain bubbling like a meriatite furnace. “Aye. Jia-Llonya, riddle me this. Yolathion once told me there was no such thing as a secret Dragon Rider Academy in northern Jeradia.”

“Shows how little he knows.”

“So, where is it?”

“What do you know about the Academy?” Jia countered, her green eyes cool and calculating.

“Well, I happen to know two Dragon Riders who used to live there, Nak and Oyda –”

“Nak and Oyda?” the Jeradian screeched, before clapping her hands over her mouth. “They’re legends! I can’t believe you know them. The Academy’s real, of course. Was real. My great-great-great grandfather – I think that’s correct – used to live there. He was called Balthion. That’s how I – I always thought he was Sylakian, with that name, and – his son Durithion escaped with Kaiatha when their Dragons were lost –”

“Slow down, Jia,” Aranya laughed.

Jia’s strong fingers squeezed her hand. “Now I know we have to escape, Aranya! I have to meet Nak and Oyda. They’re heroes, characters ripped right out of the scrolls. What’s Nak like? Tell me.”

“One piece of advice,” said Aranya. “Keep your clothes on around him.”

She began to laugh at the image of lecherous old Nak in her mind, but Jia-Llonya stormed, “If you weren’t so sick I’d smack you to the next Island, Dragoness or none! How dare you?”

“What?”

“You’re just too much of a precious Princess, aren’t you? Why don’t you just spit it out – that Jeradian slut, don’t you mean?”

“No.” Aranya wanted laugh again, but her poor body would not take the shaking.

“Then what?”

“Firstly, I’m Sylakia’s number one enemy, a convicted criminal. Secondly, I meant Nak, not you. He’s incorrigible around women. Now will you wipe that stupidly affronted look off your face and listen to what I have to say? And then you will tell me what you know of the Academy.”

Manic laughter filled Aranya’s mind. She always started off by fighting like a maddened windroc with her friends. Did this mean Jia-Llonya was destined to become a friend, too?

Peculiar winds blew across the Island-World, these days.

* * * *

Ardan, feeling strong – and guilty – had chosen the direct flight to Sylakia via Talda Island rather than brave the longer, more southerly route via Xinidia, Erigar and Archion Islands. Erigar had been a staunch Sylakian ally since anyone could remember. He and Kylara had agreed they did not want any distractions as they flew secretly into the heart of enemy territory in search of Aranya.

He pulled up behind the nearest cloud, swearing unhappily. Kylara had been imitating an icicle on his back for the day’s flight it had taken them to reach Talda Island, given the icy but helpful breeze. Now, she shivered before kicking his scales. “What?”

“Dragons,” said Ardan. “Take a look at those hot springs.”

“I see dot – is that an Island?” Kylara said acidly. “I don’t see like a Dragon. Unless your excitement means you’ve spotted Aranya?”

“No.”

“Then do use a few words to communicate with me, Ardan.”

“Fine. I see … ten Red Dragons sunning themselves around some hot springs. Fast asleep. No, one’s just got up to have a swim.”

Kylara borrowed a couple of his more unsavoury words to let him know that she felt exactly as he did.

Ardan agreed, “Aye. And I’ll wager four Islands to a snake’s fart that they’re headed for Fra’anior to warm us up.”

“Well?” she said.

“Well what?”

In dangerously honeyed tones, the Warlord replied, “I assume you’re still planning to go after Aranya, leaving Fra’anior at the mercy of these Dragons? They’ll burn it as they did Naphtha Cluster.”

Ardan inadvertently coughed out a fireball of surprise and fury. “No!” One of the Dragons below glanced up as the bright Dragon fire streaked the sky. “Oh. That’s torn it. They’ve spotted us. Back to warn the Island, then. It’ll be some haul against that wind. Could we stop on those rocks we saw, or would those be too low in the Cloudlands for you?”

Kylara’s rough laughter halted the flow of his thoughts. “Ardan. You’re a Dragon, right?”

“Aye.”

“And that’s the enemy down there, right?”

“Aye!”

“Imagine ten bright red ralti sheep, ripe and juicy, just waiting for you to sink your claws into them.”

Fierce, unruly Dragonsong bubbled in his hearts. Aye. A double paw-full of fat Dragons, warm and lazy from the suns-shine? An attack from a lone Dragon and his Rider was the last thing they’d expect.

He growled over his shoulder, “Shall we go make friends?”

“And then, at the last second – whap!” Kylara smacked her fist into her open palm.

They shared savage grins.

Ardan dipped his left wingtip and spiralled downward, checking the flexion of his talons. He had no doubt he could outfly any one of those ten mature Dragons. The only snag was that the other nine would swarm all over him like army ants on a fresh carcass. He had to be cunning, striking fast and cleanly without becoming entangled in a fangs-and-claws battle. If he used his Shadow powers, Kylara and the saddle would fall. No, he had an idea. Experimentally, Ardan tried to focus his power on his tail. It blurred at once, while the rest of him remained solid. Now, if he could only attain that level of control in the heat of battle …

“Keep sharp, girl, but act innocent,” he said.

“Great Islands, you clearly don’t know the first thing about women,” she shot back.

“What, daggers concealed in fluffy lamb’s wool?”

“All the time,” said Kylara.

Four of the Red Dragons spiralled upward; the rest clearly felt too slothful to deal with the intruder. Good. Dragon-Ardan liked these odds better. He would have only one opportunity to surprise them.

As they neared the Red Dragons, Ardan called, Fiery greetings, old ones. Where do you hail from?

Sylakia, said the foremost. His three fellows drifted apart, aiming to surround him, Ardan saw. Are you the Dragon of the Western Isles?

I am he.

The other waited. Dragon-Ardan saw his chance slipping through his paws. At least one of them was wily enough not to trust his apparently friendly intentions.

Quite the young beast, aren’t you?

Ardan considered his words. I am Ardan. How are you named?

Our leader is Karathion, said the shrewd Red. I am Furion, called ‘the furious’. My shell-brothers are Teldion, Jakkarion, and Cazuthion.

Jakkarion drifted closer to Ardan’s tail. He sensed a bite incoming, but pretended not to notice; rather, he side-slipped slightly as if pushed by the breeze, bringing Jakkarion so close to Teldion that the latter was forced to stall to avoid a collision. He sensed Kylara stiffening in the saddle. A tiny tap of her boot on his left shoulder muscle alerted him. Go that way? Or an attack from that side? He extended his senses. Was that a fireball warming up in Cazuthion’s belly? Aye!

With a triple flexion of his wings, quarter-beats, Ardan ‘bounced’ in the air as Aranya had taught him – just fifteen feet upward, but that was enough to avoid the main blast of Cazuthion’s opening salvo. The fireball passed between his hind legs and roared toward Furion, who bugled in alarm as he ducked, unsighted by Ardan’s swift manoeuvre. Furling his right wing while beating powerfully with the left, Ardan pivoted, whipping his tail around with the aid of the centrifugal force generated by his rotating body. The bulk of his tail smashed into the side of Teldion’s head, while Jakkarion missed his bite by inches.

Continuing his pivot, Ardan swivelled into the path of the dazed Teldion. Mouth agape, Ardan engulfed the Dragon’s head, getting the neck just behind his skull-spikes deep into the V of his jaw. His neck muscles flexed hugely. Bone crunched and cartilage squeaked wetly between his fangs. To a geyser of Dragon blood spilling over Ardan’s tongue, Teldion’s head parted from his neck.

The Shadow Dragon’s challenge split the evening sky.

My brother! Jakkarion howled.

Claws raked his right thigh. Ardan instinctively kicked himself into clear air.

Dragon-rage thundered around Ardan as the Reds closed in. Those who had tarried on the ground leaped belatedly into the air. Cazuthion attacked! Ardan dropped at once, but that was a mistake. The Red Dragon changed angles instantly, scoring deep cuts on Ardan’s back with a thrust of his hind talons, knocking his hindquarters downward so that Kylara came within range of his claws. The Dragon Rider twisted in the saddle, somehow avoiding a raking blow while lopping off a talon with a hissing scimitar cut.

“Down below,” panted Kylara. “Fireball.”

Ardan saw what she meant. The second wave of a half-dozen Dragons rose ponderously into the sky, bunched thickly enough that he could not fail to miss. A gulp of air inflated his lungs. Ardan thought, and the Dragon fire surged up to sear the crop of his throat. The force of the discharge slowed him in the air. Fangs skittered off his scales, catching on his spine spikes. Again, Ardan fought his way free in a frenzied exchange of blows with Jakkarion.

His fireball struck one of the rising Dragons squarely on the left wing, blasting a thirty-foot hole in the wing membrane. And then, his world became fire.

For the first time, Ardan knew the blistering heat of Dragon fire. Four or five fireballs struck him simultaneously from different angles. His scales burned. The muscle and tissue inside the cuts he had already sustained, sizzled and crisped in the tremendous heat. These were mature Reds, capable of spitting a stream of molten rock hundreds of feet through the air. Ardan shook himself like a wet hound, but the rock stuck. An agonised whimpering arose from his throat; the Shadow Dragon realised it was the song of his own pain.

“Use your Shadow power!” Kylara cried, over and over.

He could not. They’d catch her; kill her with the ease of a cat slaying a bird. He needed a blink of power. Focussing through the burning of his nerve endings, Ardan released his magic. What he achieved was akin to a very rapid shiver, a ripple effect which passed from his muzzle to his tail. The Dragon-spit lava sloughed off his body. Another shiver, and it was gone.

Just beneath him, a Red laughed open-mouthed as Ardan writhed. The Shadow Dragon’s fireball smacked him square in the throat. Dragon fire could not damage him much in that location, but the blast surprised the Red enough that he gulped and stalled. Driving forward, Ardan slapped him open-clawed across the muzzle, tearing his right eyeball out of the socket. With a parting snap at the Red Dragon’s neck, Ardan fled beyond him, finding clear skies for a vital second.

Kylara shouted, “Go, Ardan! Keep going!”

Coward, one of the Reds roared after him. Ardan almost stopped.

“Go,” said his Rider. “You’ve done enough damage – one kill, two serious injuries.”

Ardan could not resist bellowing a parting few insults at the Red Dragons, accompanied by a fireball which missed its target by over two hundred feet. After that, he flew on until he had far outdistanced any pursuit. But he also flew further from Aranya and any hope of saving her, for Kylara was right. Fra’anior needed him more.

But his hearts dragged a hundred leagues behind him.

* * * *

Zuziana stood on the bow gantry of her small trader’s Dragonship, staring hungrily at the pulse-pounding sight of Fra’anior towering out of the vermilion Cloudlands, as if a bloody tide washed up against what had to be the greatest volcano in existence – greater even than the one she, Aranya and Ri’arion had once stopped at in the middle of Immadior’s Sea.

It was dawn over Fra’anior, a sight to make poets swoon.

“It is as I said, Captain,” she said to the man standing beside her. “The royal purple of Immadia flies over those Dragonships. Fra’anior is ours.”

He grunted, “You can see that far, Princess? I thought I had sharp eyesight.”

Zip danced a little jig of delight. “I can’t wait for you to meet Aranya. She’s awesome.”

“Nothing can be as awesome as an Azure Dragoness who – unholy caroli!”

She had learned that ‘caroli’ was a Helyon oath, the name of a disease-carrying rodent. It was singularly apt at that moment, because the Dragon which had just dropped from the sky ahead of them was at least the hundred-foot length of their Dragonship. He smiled toothily, casting a sinister gaze over their vessel. Awestruck, Zuziana took in the length of his fangs, his thicket of black skull-spikes and his monumental musculature. How could she fight such a freak? Half a world apart from that black beast was not far enough to feel safe.

There was a woman on his back who looked just as beefy as her Dragon, a muscular warrior with biceps fit to put most men to shame. Zuziana felt very much the diminutive Remoyan in comparison. No, she was an Azure Dragoness! And deadly in her own way, just not deadly enough to tangle with that beast, not without her monk.

“Where’s the Dragon?” the beast called. “Where are you hiding him?”

“Dragon? What Dragon?” Zip shouted back, but her voice wavered and cracked on the second ‘Dragon’. “Are you a friend of Sylakia?”

How, by the Islands, had that beast sensed she was a Shifter? That alone was enough to put the fear of rajals into her. Zip pinched her thigh to still an urge to transform. Please be on our side, she babbled inwardly. Please.

Smoke and flame spurted from his nostrils in reply. “Never. Answer my question, little one.”

She had no choice. Zuziana pushed back the hood of her cloak. He had better be the Dragon Aranya had set out to find, or she was about to be barbecued for breakfast, and her charred, gnawed-upon bones used for toothpicks.

Stealthily, she readied her magic, while saying, “I am Zuziana of Remoy, Shapeshifter and Azure Dragon.”

“We’re friends,” he rumbled, managing a graceful tilt of his head, “and this is Immadian territory.”

Zuziana clutched the railing to rescue her sagging knees. Sweet, sweet words!

The huge Dragon leaned slightly into the breeze, drawing close beneath their Dragonship, until his Rider sat just a few feet from Zuziana’s position on the gantry. The woman raised her scimitar in salute. “I am the Warlord Kylara, and this is Ardan, a Shadow Dragon. We are friends of Aranya’s and allies of King Beran.”

What did Aranya think of that dark beast? He could probably hear her heart burbling about like a confused fowl, see her pulse racing in her neck, and smell her natural dread of an aerial predator despite a tingle of excitement playing along her spine. The Shadow Dragon’s lips peeled open, revealing a cavern rimmed by gleaming white swords – his grin.

“Delighted to meet you,” the Princess of Remoy managed.

“We’ll escort you in,” said Ardan. “We’ve urgent news; a Dragonwing of seven or eight Reds –”

“However many we left after bloodying their noses,” Kylara put in. “Thoralian’s family is on the move.”

The black-in-black eyes gleamed with something more than moisture. Magic … and suspicion. Ardan said, “Spotted you on the way in. You make my scales itch, Zuziana. You, and someone else still hiding inside your Dragonship.”

“I’ll explain,” said the Remoyan. “We need Aranya, and fast. Where is she?”

The smile faded. The massive, armoured head shook, just once.

This time, Zip did sag. But the Captain caught her beneath her elbow. “Full power to the turbines!” he bellowed. “Men and meriatite! Fra’anior needs us.”

“Yes,” whispered Zip. “But we need Aranya more.”

* * * *

Zuziana faced off against Ardan in a trembling, tearful fury. “I’ll go fetch Aranya; she’s my friend.”

In Beran’s council of war, the heat was threatening to crack the crysglass panes of his Dragonship, and they had only been talking for a couple of minutes. Breakfast lay untouched on the table between them as the two Shapeshifters in the room quarrelled.

The rajal-sized Western Islander fixed her with a stony-eyed gaze. “What’s your plan, Princess? Can you hear her, as I? Can you fight Dragons who are three times your size? Can you fly far and fast enough?”

“I owe her my life.”

“Every day she spends in Thoralian’s grasp is one less day we’re likely to find her alive.”

“She’s my friend!”

“Easy there, Zuziana,” said Kylara, restraining her with her powerful arms. “I agree – you must go to your friend. One Dragon is not enough to take Sylakia’s Tower, no matter how formidable an opinion he holds of his powers. Is there no other way, King Beran?”

Ardan folded his tree-trunk arms across his chest, frowning at the Remoyan who simpered, then mouthed, ‘Ooh. You’re so big.’ Grr! His pulse throbbed at his temples.

The Immadian King scratched his beard. “I don’t pretend to understand this mystical connection Ardan has with Aranya, but we really are stuck between two Islands here – or three or four. Does it matter?” He dismissed the matter with a click of his fingers. “We’ve an injured monk who needs healing, seven or eight enemy Dragons who’ll reach Fra’anior any hour now, and we have two Dragons and no plan. I can neither spare you to fly to Sylakia, nor afford to keep you here. And one indisputable fact remains – judging by the intelligence you gathered, Princess Zuziana, Thoralian has assembled an unknowable number of Shapeshifter Dragons at Yorbik Island. This Dragonwing may be the first of many.”

“Sir! Message hawk, sir.”

A Jeradian soldier rushed in without knocking. In a conflict where every second counted, niceties were an unaffordable luxury.

“Here,” said Ignathion. He unrolled the scrap of scrolleaf with a practised hand. “Well. Your spies report Thoralian flew north yesterday morning, Beran.”

“Leaving Sylakia unguarded?” snorted Ardan. “Even a blind man believes in the five moons. Why don’t we take the fleet and fly straight to Sylakia? Burn them like they burned us?”

Only a Dragon could have expressed his desire for revenge in that tone – a crackling of fires barely withheld, an animalistic snarl rippling beneath his words.

Dragon-Zuziana’s response was immediate, a full-throated roar of outrage. Everyone stared at the diminutive Remoyan. She said, “The issue is one of timing, Ardan. The longer Thoralian has to train those Dragons he has secreted in Yorbik, the worse we’ll fare. We cannot afford to take the fleet to Sylakia when the real danger lies at Yorbik.”

“You are for leaving Fra’anior unguarded?” inquired Prince Ta’armion. He had been content to follow the discussion quietly; perhaps his thoughts were occupied with his new wife, perched on his knee. But no newly-wed euphoria could deny the sharpness of his question.

Zip flushed. “No … I will go to Sylakia. Ardan – you must lead the fleet to Yorbik.”

“I will not leave Aranya to moulder in a Sylakian dungeon!” Ardan shouted, achieving a volume that made the crysglass windows rattle.

At once, the Dragoness retorted, “Nor will I! So you can just stuff that idea down your meriatite pipe and smoke it!”

“No,” said Kylara, piercing the silence that followed, “because you both love her.” Her hand fell from her scimitar-hilt, clenched, unclenched. “You love her.”

Ardan sighed.

No-one in the room dared to look at anyone else.

A slight cough in the corridor outside heralded the arrival of a visitor to their council. “Flying monks,” gasped Ri’arion, clutching the doorway for support.

“Ri –” Zip shrieked, flying across the room as though she had taken to her Dragon form. “You foolish, foolish … man! Whatever are you thinking? Get back to your bed.”

Her slender frame buckled beneath Ri’arion’s weight. But Ardan leaped to her aid from one side and Kylara from the other, saving them a nasty landing. Instead, Ri’arion and Zip ended up lying beside each other on the floor beside Beran’s desk.

“See? I am lying down for you,” said the monk.

Zip said, “He’s delirious.”

Ri’arion said, “Warrior monks and Dragons.”

Zuziana mopped his brow with her sleeve. “Help me get him back to the cabin. Look, you’ve torn open these stitches, you daft –”

But the monk seized her arm with a passion that silenced her protests. “Listen. I’m not … crazy. And when two Dragons start shouting at each other, a Dragonship’s walls are only so thick.”

“What do you mean?” Zip asked.

“Fra’anior has hundreds of monks. We have magic.”

“Magic?” said King Beran, up off his seat, leaning over the warrior monk. “What magic?”

Rather than reply, Ri’arion levitated half a foot off the metal floor. Zip hissed and yanked him back down.

“Flying warrior monks?” Ignathion rumbled. “Won’t the Sylakian Dragons just gobble you up?”

Ri’arion’s smile was a cobra’s grin, beastly and sly. “The warriors of Fra’anior are ready, friends. They have waited all their lives to serve the Great One, the Black Dragon of the Islands. They call this the Way of the Dragon. We fly – some, better than I. Some of us shield. Others have magical arts in attack and defence. Our arrows are made of more than metal.”

“The monks can heal?” asked Zip.

“Some, but nothing close to what Aranya could achieve,” said Ri’arion, resting his head on the floor. “It will not be easy. Beran, Ignathion, talk strategy with Ta’armion. He knows many of our abilities – you must work out how to protect the Dragonships, and how you’ll penetrate the Dragons’ defences. We must fly quickly to rouse my brethren. I must go, for the Nameless Man’s word still holds weight around this volcano. A map, King Beran. I will show you where to send your Dragonships, even to the most secret monasteries.”

Ardan said, “I will take you at once, Ri’arion.”

“He’s my Rider!”

Lightning shot out of Zip’s mouth, crisping a strip of Ri’arion’s beard on its way to burning a neat hole in the starboard crysglass panel.

“Mercy,” said Zip.

“Good thing that wasn’t directed upward,” Ignathion added.

To Zip’s intense irritation, Ardan seemed to find her anger cute. He said, “Do all of the women around here either want to bite your head off or split your skull open?”

Zuziana deliberately turned her back to Ardan and her attention to Ri’arion. “You are going nowhere in your condition, you moons-mad monk.”

He also had a smile for her. Zuziana decided she was going to sink her fangs into one of those nice smiling faces in a moment. She bit back the urge to transform, telling her Dragoness to bide her time. Soon, she would be unleashed upon the hot volcanic winds.

Ri’arion said, “Thus said Hualiama to the Dragon Grandion, ‘I love thee not as a Human loves a Dragon, in all thy draconian majesty; nor for thy first heart, pulsing with nobility, nor for the courage of your second heart, which is as wide and deep as the Cloudlands themselves, but for thy third heart, which is pure love. And it is that love which has captured me, and set me upon a course more certain than that which the twin suns sail across the heavens. Thou canst deny it no longer, Zuziana. I am for thee, and thee alone.’ Hearing that, he transformed for her. He was the very first Shapeshifter to reveal his true nature. And she was called Dragonfriend.”

“Oh, how sweet,” said Ta’armion, wiping his eyes. “He said ‘Zuziana’ in place of Grandion. I’ve never heard anything so romantic in my entire life!”

“The perfect mistake,” said Zip.

“Then kiss me, my Azure Dragoness, and let us go stir up an army.”

“Aye, my very own Dragonfriend,” said Zip, glad to do as she was bid. “Will you tell me the tale of Hualiama and Grandion, soon?”

“Oh, forbidden love, it’s so poignant!” Prince Ta’armion burst into tears.

Lyriela startled as her husband pillowed his head on her shoulder. Rolling her eyes, she muttered, By the Great Dragon, what do I do now?

Ardan exchanged equally startled glances with Zuziana. Mentally, he growled, Lyriela, are you hiding a Dragon, too?

Aranya thinks so, and Nak and Oyda, said the girl. But I’ve never transformed. I’m Aranya’s cousin.

Oho, said Ardan. We need to talk.

Beran’s sharp eyes had not missed their swift-as-thought exchange, even though he would not have heard anything. He crooked a finger at Zuziana. “A word outside, if you would, Remoy.”

Half an hour later, Zip was flying south along the rim wall of the largest volcano in the Island-World, with a sick monk on her back and fresh hope singing in her heart.

Chapter 22: Roar over Fra’anior

Directly across the caldera from Ha’athior Island, as they departed Ri’arion’s old home near Lyriela’s village, Zuziana spotted seven burly Red Dragons beating toward the northern end of the volcano. Dragons, heading for Fra’anior. Her perceptive gaze swept the caldera. Several Dragonships full of warrior monks should arrive at the main Island within an hour. Nine others were in various stages of progress from the south-eastern and southern Isles, four hours by Dragonship from Fra’anior – perhaps three with a helping breeze.

Their plan was about to come unstuck, unless the Reds intended to rest before throwing themselves into battle. She could imagine that. They had laboured the day long against a robust breeze sweeping in from several points north of west, the same breeze which buffeted her and Ri’arion, who was looking greyer the further they progressed. They had visited eleven monasteries in the seven hours since leaving Beran’s forces at Fra’anior city. Six to go before the race back to Fra’anior. Could Ardan hold off all seven Dragons until nightfall? Did nightfall matter for a Dragon attack?

Putting her head down, the Azure Dragon pushed on despite her fatigue. Just think of the next stop, no further. Every minute saved, might mean the life of another Fra’anior Islander.

“What’s the matter, Zuzi?” asked Ri’arion.

“I see Thoralian’s Dragons – two, maybe two and a half hours away,” she said. “We’ve run out of time, Ri’arion.”

He sighed, “I feel so useless. All my hope was fixed on finding Aranya here. I’m so angry with her – and what has she done wrong? The healers at Ya’arriol helped, but not enough. I can’t fight! I can’t, I just can’t, my sweet …”

Zuziana gazed at him over her shoulder, hating the hopeless note in his voice, yet loving him. “You carried me at first. Now, it’s my turn.”

“Literally,” he groaned.

“You’re killing yourself raising up an army of crazy magical monks to save your Island-Cluster from destruction, Ri’arion. That strikes me as a vaguely worthwhile pursuit.”

“Now you’re being positively Immadian,” he chuckled, but he held his left shoulder and arm very gingerly. “Zuziana, I can’t go to Sylakia with you.”

Again, that hint of a protective nature underlying his austere monk-face. She wished he’d smile more, sometimes, even if it made every smile the more precious. “I’m an ugly fire-breathing lizard, monk-love. I understand. Besides, I have to babysit that Western Isles monster. You know the type. He’ll smell out the thickest trouble and fly straight into it.”

“And through it, and keep right on going.”

With a throaty chuckle, she said, “Ri’arion, you said something about monks shielding themselves. Do you mean to imply they’re able to deflect crossbow bolts and Dragon fire?”

“Aye, possibly. Shields are a complex topic.”

“As a Blue colour, that might be a power I could learn. Do you think you could teach me? Or,” she grimaced, “I can’t believe I’m going to say this. Would you be willing to open your mind to me again so that I can experience it for myself?”

The man on her back gulped. He was silent for such a long time, the Azure Dragon began to wonder if her Rider had fallen unconscious – hopefully not – but she could not bring herself to meet his gaze. She had wounded him, last time, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

“Well, I asked you to trust me, before,” he said.

“I broke your trust.”

Ri’arion laughed hollowly. “And here I feared the Nameless Man taking over a Dragon’s powers, not the reverse. Nevertheless, you are forgiven, dear one.”

“I’m sorry, Ri’arion. If we mind-meld again, is there a way I can transfer some of my strength to you? Because, to be perfectly honest, you’re not allowed to die before I’ve had the chance to have my way with you for a hundred years, minimum.”

His tan Fra’aniorian complexion suddenly assumed a ruddier, more volcanic hue. “It’s like that, is it? I wouldn’t know how, Dragon-love, but I’ll think about it. First, let’s talk shields.”

* * * *

Three mornings after she had last seen Doctor Chikkan, a squad of four Sylakian Hammers appeared unannounced at Aranya’s cell door. They dragged her out over Jia-Llonya’s protests. One of them smashed the haft of his hammer into the Jeradian girl’s chest. “Shut it, wench.”

Jia-Llonya staggered backward, white-cheeked.

“I’ll be back,” Aranya called as they marched her though the narrow, Dragon-proof tunnels.

Upward they climbed once more. Aranya was stronger. This time, she made it halfway up the long stairwell before collapsing, panting like an asthmatic Dragon. Chikkan had been right. Her lungs had been scarred by the pox. The soldiers dragged her on until they reached the main level of the dungeons, where a chill, dank breeze ruffled her hair and brought a metallic tang to her nostrils. At least she was never cold, Aranya thought. Poor Jia. The stone-chill and damp had been unkind to her. Never cold? She puzzled over this idea. Wasn’t her magic dead? Collared and drugged into oblivion. Could it be less absent than she knew?

As the Hammers bundled her along a corridor lined with barred cells, Aranya suddenly caught sight of the doctor peering out of one. His head jerked back as soon as their eyes met. Aranya kept her gaze fixed ahead. What was Thoralian plotting now? Was he using Chikkan to manipulate her? Had the doctor come under suspicion, too?

Ducking through a short, connecting tunnel she had not noticed before, the Sylakian squad brought her into a new cave, a vast cathedral of hundred-foot stalactites, interspersed with spears and curtains of crystal formations. Moist heat filled her lungs, and a strong whiff of that cinnamon scent she had come to associate with Dragons. The cavern floor was flat and sandy, leading down to what appeared to be a bubbling underground lake of unknowable dimensions, for the far shore was lost in shadows.

A Brown Dragon awaited her there.

Sallow eyes, similar to Thoralian’s, examined her as she approached – or rather, as the soldiers lugged her unresponsive body toward him.

“I am Gurdurion the Brown,” he rumbled, “nephew of Thoralian.”

He stared expectantly at her. Aranya deliberately chose Dragonish for her response. The language was capable of so many more nuances. Aranya of Immadia, Shapeshifter and Amethyst Dragon. I’m … pleased to meet you.

A polite lie, of course.

The sulphurous greetings of the Dragonkind to you, daughter of Izariela, he said, in neutral tones. “Give her to me.”

Grasping Aranya in his fisted paw, Gurdurion took off at once over the lake. She did not struggle. What would be the point? His forepaw enveloped her body from neck to knee. Had he wished, he could have ended her life with a twitch of his talons. Each was thicker than her torso.

After flying low over the lake for less than a minute, the Brown Dragon swept in to a landing on an islet made that much smaller by virtue of the three Dragons already crowded onto it – two Oranges, from what she could see in the darkness, and a Green. Some shuffling for space ensued, leaving Aranya as the centrepiece of attention between four Dragons’ muzzles. Great. She could be barbecued from every angle simultaneously.

So this was what Thoralian was hiding? said the Green Dragon, thumping Aranya’s arm with a knuckle, talon sheathed, thankfully. A Dragoness, Aranya realised, appreciating that a bruise was far preferable to a Dragon’s claw speared through her limb.

Pay attention, said Gurdurion. This is Aranya, daughter of the Star Dragon Thoralian hates so manifestly. Aranya, these are my grown-up hatchlings – Bexuria the Green, and my twin-yolk sons, Vathior and Yathior.

Aranya inclined her head politely. My most sulphurous greetings to you all.

Suddenly, a talon ripped the skin at the nape of her neck as one of the Oranges snagged the collar, hoisting her off her feet. She speaks despite the Lavanias collar? What power is this?

Gurdurion snarled, Have a care, Vathior. Our Human forms are frail.

Aranya was too busy choking to hear much. The Orange Dragon dropped her again; on hands and knees, she coughed and rasped and eventually spat blood, massaging her bruised throat. The Dragons watched without lifting a digit to help.

This Shifter scum is not freshly woken like us, father, said Bexuria. What an ugly visage she has.

Why does Thoralian wake you now? Aranya asked.

The green paw knocked her over. In a trice, a razor-sharp talon rested against her neck, pinning Aranya to the rocky ground. We’ll ask the questions, ugly one. What does the Dragon killer want with you? Why does he hide you from us?

If she was careful, Aranya sensed, she might make allies of these Dragons. At least, they were not yet enemies. This was clearly a secret meeting, one to which Thoralian was not privy. Gurdurion and his kin wanted something from her. Could she reason with them? Drive a bargain?

Time for a few creative lies, Aranya decided. She said, Thoralian asked for my help in impressing his recruits at Yorbik Island.

She has mind powers, Vathior blurted out, sounding horrified.

But Gurdurion snapped his fangs half a foot from her face. Do not lie to me, little one. I too have powers, and one of those is to smell untruth. Your words reek of lies.

Aranya gulped. I apologise.

If you hoped to make allies of us, you just failed that test, he added. Speak truthfully, and we will consider your words.

So, fractured loyalties within Thoralian’s family? Aranya considered her next words carefully. Mercy – impressing his recruits? With his mind powers? Did that mean Thoralian was forcing Dragons to obey his commands by ‘impressing’ them, as some animals did their young? No wonder these Dragons hated him. Either he ate them, or he controlled them.

Thoralian poisoned my mother, she said. I harbour no love for him. In battle, I killed his son Garthion.

Gurdurion smoked at the nostrils as he thundered, Thoralian ate my mate! His clenched paw splintered the rock right next to her face. I await the truth, little one, and I grow impatient.

He seeks the power of a First Egg.

She might as well have exploded a volcano beneath them. Suddenly, the cave echoed with the thunder of enraged Dragons. She clapped her hands over her ears. Aranya rolled over, seeking a chance to escape, futile as the gesture was – trapped underground by four Dragons on an island in the middle of a boiling lake. She must have ralti wool for brains.

Thoralian would destroy us all! Vathior howled.

Bexuria cried, He chains Dragons to his bidding. By the First Egg – he’d rule unchallenged.

Be still, my kin, Gurdurion snapped. His cunning eyes fixed on Aranya once more. And he believes you have the power to help him, doesn’t he? A Star Dragon power. The brown paw closed about her again, with deliberation designed to intimidate. This changes things indeed.

Does that mean you’ll help me escape Thoralian’s clutches, o mighty Gurdurion?

Human-Aranya would never have asked the question so directly, but speaking in Dragonish had brought out a different side of her personality, she realised.

Gurdurion’s talon stroked her cheek with a pitiless, greedy touch. Perhaps we could come to an agreement, my sweet Dragoness, he said. Aranya shuddered as she grasped his meaning. Yes, little one. You will be a boon to us. However, we need to choose the hour wisely. Thoralian’s dominion grows no weaker. You will not escape – I and my kin can guarantee that. But I will offer you certain knowledge in return. Perhaps it will comfort you in darker times to come.

Aranya gazed hopefully at the Brown Dragon.

Thoralian takes with him a new weapon, some fifty fire-drakes of Herimor, said Gurdurion, his irises filling with fire before Aranya’s startled gaze. But his goal is not Yorbik Island. He flies more … westerly.

She gasped, No …

Ha ha, yes, little one! This day shall be King Beran’s last upon the Island-World. And we Shapeshifters shall rule at last!

Aranya began to back up, but only as far as the Green Dragoness allowed her.

Gurdurion’s gnarled old claw returned to her cheek. A girl as hideous as you should be grateful to be mine.

* * * *

Thoralian’s Red Dragonwing arrowed toward Fra’anior Island, boring steadily into the wind with the primal power of the ultimate predators of the Island-World. Nothing preyed upon Dragons. At least, Ardan had considered himself such a predator, until Nak had described the Shadow Dragon of old – his namesake, the true monster. That was his least favourite recent conversation, second only to Kylara’s sad realisation of his feelings for Aranya.

Ardan flexed his flight muscles anxiously. Those Red Dragons were in no hurry. He checked Zip’s position one more time. The Azure Dragoness shifted in and out of Fra’anior’s vapours, rising from the massively cracked, overheated caldera floor. She disappeared over the far rim wall. Could she not return already? He’d welcome the help.

“Jumpy, Ardan?” asked Kylara.

He eyeballed his Rider, resplendent in her new Dragon Rider armour, which was on loan from Fra’anior’s less official stores – those which had never featured on a Sylakian manifest. Amazing how many hiding places a twenty-seven Island volcanic cone could boast, he chortled privately. King Cha’arlla had fifty blacksmiths working night and day to modify a suit of Dragon armour for him. It would not be ready for this battle. The mass of metal was so bulky, it would probably need a Dragonship all of its own to lug it to Yorbik Island.

Kylara flexed her new bow. “Love this thing,” she smiled. “It’s a beast.”

“Takes a woman like you to draw it,” said Ardan, admiring the flexion of her forearm muscles.

“You love someone else.”

The Warlord had a shadow in her eyes that made him feel a rotten traitor to the one with whom he had shared his soul-fire, who had inhabited his dreams ever since. Would he ever have the chance to right the wrongs he had done to Aranya, he wondered? What would become of Kylara if he admitted her accusation was accurate – but were his feelings for the Princess of Immadia truly love? Or just the magic? He shook his head slowly. How could he ever be certain? All that was clear to him now, was that part of his soul lived hundreds of leagues distant, and that he would stop at nothing to cross those leagues and assault the very heart of Sylakia, just for the chance to hold her again.

He said, “So you’ve decided, lady. Right now, this is pure, Dragonish lust.”

“Save your energy for those Dragons,” said Kylara. “Have you seen the craftsmanship of these arrows? Amazing.”

“Nak said they were designed to penetrate Dragon hide,” he replied.

“Can I test one on you?” She was not entirely joking. “There’s Beran’s signal. Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragon.”

Ardan dropped off the edge of Fra’anior’s league-and-a-half tall cliffs, spreading his wings to catch a thermal. The ground receded rapidly. Beran’s Dragonships rose more sedately, their engines whining with the effort. King Cha’arlla had ordered an evacuation of the outlying villages, but did not want the city to descend into chaos. Ardan hoped the people would be sensible enough to hide in their cellars, usually used to store the Fra’aniorians’ much-loved berry wines. A dozen Dragonships hung back over the city. The rest broke into four groups and trailed behind him as he powered skyward.

His hearts swelled with strength. A Shadow Dragon was made for this.

As they passed over the southerly tip of Fra’anior Island, two of the incoming Dragons swooped low enough to casually drop a fireball each onto the tiny village there. Smoke and flame billowed into the sky. A second pair of Dragons peeled off to the east, making for another village, also close to the cliff-edge.

“They’re dividing our defences,” Kylara said.

Signals rippled across the Dragonship groups as they changed orientation to engage the Dragons.

“Let’s make our presence felt,” Ardan growled, letting the image of Naphtha Cluster’s barren, Dragon-scorched earth fill his mind.

With a terrible roar, the Shadow Dragon swung into the attack. At once, the incoming trio of Red Dragons sounded their own challenges, accelerating as they rushed toward him, tons of fire-filled Dragon flesh bent on mutual obliteration. Fireballs volleyed across the intervening space. Ardan presented his flank, holding his wings well out of harm’s way, while his target Red was forced to duck the Shadow Dragon’s twenty-foot wide fireball. Molten fire engulfed his lower body. Ardan’s magic rippled as he surged onward without pause. He knew the Reds would have learned from the last battle. Sliding beneath the foremost Red Dragon’s slashing claws and rolling simultaneously, Ardan reared his head for a bite, nipping a sizeable chunk out of the Dragon’s tail.

Kylara buried her second arrow up to the feathers in the Dragon’s flank, right in the armpit beneath the primary wing joint. “Strike!” she yelled.

“One out of two,” grunted Ardan, annoyed at having done so little damage. He back-winged abruptly, presenting all four paws to an incoming Red. They grappled, snarling and snapping at each other. Ardan howled as fangs punctured his right hind paw. He kicked a ten-foot, three-toed trench into the Dragon’s underbelly in response.

From his back, Kylara could find no clear shot. Ardan heard an arrow zing off to his right. He swivelled by instinct, tossing his attacker into the path of his fellow-Red. Another arrow dived into a Red’s knee-joint. Ardan began to brake – too late. Two Red Dragons smashed into his chest. Hugging them together with his fullest strength, Ardan hinged open his jaw and savaged one of the Dragons’ muzzles. Kylara shouted as she loosed an arrow. It skittered off the scale-armour covering his flight muscles and deflected, by good fortune, into the second Red’s left nostril. His sneeze of Dragon fire came accompanied by a spurt of golden blood.

That surprised sneeze was his last. Ardan’s foreclaws punched spear-like into his right eyeball and through to the brain.

“One out of seven,” called Kylara.

Dragon-Ardan howled as the other Dragon’s jaws clamped down on his right wing-bone, between the second and third joints of the wing. Fire splashed inadvertently across the sky.

“Use the shadow,” yelled his Rider.

Split-second Dragon reactions took over. Ardan’s wing rippled before the idea registered consciously in his brain, effectively saving him from a crippling bite. He fired a fireball full into the Dragon’s face, following up with series of punches from his forepaws, so fast that they blurred before his eyes, quarrying holes in the other Dragon’s neck.

The third Dragon, who he had savaged first, tore into him from below. Ardan bellowed in pain, thrashing about to try to throw off his attacker. The Dragon gripped the Shadow Dragon’s right wing with both forepaws, clutching it close to his chest, and hung on with the grim certitude of death.

Deprived of the use of one wing, Ardan discovered that he had all the flying prowess of a very large boulder. He bugled in panic as they plummeted toward the rocky shore of Fra’anior Island.

Stupid flying monkey, you’ll kill us both, he roared, contorting himself into nigh-impossible positions to claw at his attacker, but the best he could do was gash his leg open. That was not about to stop a Dragon who had gone feral. Kylara pelted him with arrows, but without shooting right through Ardan’s wing, could not do enough damage – and most of the Dragon dangled around beneath his flank anyway. She tore at the buckles fastening her legs and waist to the saddle.

“Kylara, what are you doing?”

“Saving your scaly behind,” she retorted.

Ardan knew she had a wire-reinforced safety rope, part of her new equipment, but she had never trained to fight Dragonback as she intended. There had not been enough time. Now, his Rider stood up gingerly on the ridge of his spine-spikes.

“I’ll try to hold steady,” he offered.

“Concentrate on missing the Island,” she said, drawing her scimitar. “He’s mine.”

With a wild yell, the Warlord of Yanga ran down Ardan’s flank and slashed at the other Dragon’s elbow. He would not relent. Kylara fell to hacking at that limb like a demented woodsman, spraying bits of Dragon scales in all directions, putting the full force of her back and shoulders into every blow. The Red Dragon let out a hiss of pain. His muzzle appeared beneath Ardan’s wing.

“Jump, Kylara!”

Fire raced along Ardan’s flank. Kylara leaped outward, over the licking orange flames. Twenty feet on, her rope pulled her up with a sharp jerk. She crashed onto the Dragon’s head. Struggling to her knees, Kylara immediately laid about her with her scimitar, but his tough skull defied her efforts.

Ardan shouted something about the eyes, flapping his free wing, desperately trying to manufacture some margin of safety from the rock and bushes rushing up to meet them. Stowing her blade, Kylara drew an arrow from the quiver strapped to her back, reversed it in her hands, and plunged it as hard as she could into the top of the Dragon’s head. He roared in a mad rage, but she was not finished yet. Kylara smashed her armoured fist down on the arrow, driving it into the Dragon’s skull. She struck again and again with her fullest force, filled with a madness of her own, ignoring or perhaps not even feeling the blood running between her fingers. Ardan could not tear his eyes off the spectacle.

Suddenly, the arrow broke through into the brain. Convulsing once, the Red Dragon’s body went flaccid, his paws sliding limply off Ardan’s wing. The Shadow Dragon threw himself into such a sharp turn, he felt the blood drain from his head. Blackness crowded in around his vision.

Foliage slapped his wingtip as he zipped along the cliff, dangling Kylara like a kite on a string.

Ardan slowed deliberately, catching his Rider in his forepaws as he watched the Red smash into the near-vertical cliff face, bounce off, and careen toward the Cloudlands. For a moment, he and Kylara simply breathed. Alive.

She kicked his wrist with her boot. “Get me in the saddle, Dragon. We’ve a job to do.”

A minute later, a Shadow Dragon and his Rider rushed up from the depths, into a new battlefield.

Monks soared across the darkling sky threes and fours, attacking the Red Dragons as they lumbered about in pursuit of the Dragonships. Mosquitoes attacking ralti sheep, Ardan thought, although they were having some effect. Quick spikes of flame spurted from the clusters of monks, some keeping their shape and whirling about as if they were thirty-foot swords, while others pursued the Red Dragons with the animate purpose of the minds guiding them. The return fire did not touch many, but those it did, were consumed instantly. More deadly were the Dragons’ claws and fangs. They shattered the groups of warrior monks or struck them spinning away from the battle, some to crash into Dragonships or fall unconscious to the Island below.

Blinding flashes marked the demise of two Dragonships.

I am Furion! Roaring his name, the jag-toothed Red hurtled toward Ardan. Fight me, you putrid whelp of a windroc. Or will you flee again?

Anger ignited the fires of Ardan’s belly, but he fought to keep his cool – literally. He could not serve Fra’anior if he went mad. Rather, he should use Furion’s insults to fuel his powers. Aranya had explained the idea to him; now he felt its effect. A painful tightness akin to cramp developed in his belly. Dragon blood gushed from his three hearts to feed the needs of his body. Ardan turned to face Furion’s charge.

“Ardan, what are you doing?” Kylara asked.

“I’m fine.”

“What’s the plan?”

He knew without looking that she had an arrow to the bowstring. Closer and closer came the massive Red, filling his vision. His build was all jagged edges, right down to his scales which resembled splinters of crimson granite. Ardan’s Dragon sight focussed in on the flames fluttering inside his nostrils, the magic condensing within the other Dragon, judging the moment he would attack. Now! Flame rocketed across the space between them. The Dragons fired simultaneously, but Ardan’s shaped bolt sliced through Furion’s blob of molten rock, making it fall harmlessly beneath him and to either side. Magic and Dragon fire detonated together against the other Dragon’s chest.

It was far from enough to stop him. The Red Dragon’s momentum drove him on to ram Ardan with terrible force, but the sound was unexpected, not fleshy, but rather as if two rocks had slammed together. Kylara shouted as the impact rattled her. Ardan wrestled the burning Red with his forepaws. A ten-foot hole had been blasted front and centre in his chest, exposing the ribcage and burning away half of his second heart, but he still possessed the strength to fight on. The scent of burning flesh made him slaver as he clashed fangs with his enemy.

The Red shouted, Curse you, you monster! Die!

The Shadow Dragon was in no mood to comply. Hooking the two opposable thumbs of either forepaw into the Dragon’s chest, Ardan summoned his utmost strength. He poured magic into his muscles. A monstrous bellow shook them both as he ripped the Dragon’s ribcage open, splintering the bones and exposing his innards.

Ardan reached in, and plucked the Dragon’s triple jugular veins with his claws, severing the vital flow of blood from the second and third hearts to the brain.

Ha ha ha! His unbridled joy resounded off the cliffs of Fra’anior. Another Dragon fell.

“Three out of seven,” he said, grinning at Kylara.

“Four,” she said. “The monks forced one to the ground. But the Dragonships are taking a beating, Ardan. That Red, Karathion. He’s a killer.”

“Right. Let’s take him.”

“Where’s the Azure Dragon?”

Dragon-Ardan peered across to the north-western rim-wall of Fra’anior. More Dragonships, a dozen, speeding across the caldera on their way to Fra’anior. “Up at – ah, Gi’ishior, I think that Island was called. Last two stops there.”

“She’ll miss all the fun.”

Ardan managed to swagger a little in the air. “Aye, I love shredding Dragons with my paws.”

Sha’aldior …

The faraway cry arrested his posturing. Aranya? Are you alive? She sounded so faint.

Beware, Thoralian is coming, and he brings …

Silence. The weak connection vanished. Ardan’s three hearts galloped in wildly differing directions. He knew his return cry had fallen upon deaf ears. His great, dark head swivelled this way and that. Thoralian. Where was he? What was he bringing?

Chapter 23: Drakes and Dragonets

JiA-LLonya Slapped Aranya’s cheek with rather more enthusiasm than Aranya thought was justified. “Wake up. You’re daydreaming.”

The Immadian shoved her away. “I’m awake. Stop hitting me.”

“It was that or a Sylakian war hammer to stop your snoring.”

“I do not snore!”

“Oh aye, it’s your Dragoness snoring, I forgot.” Jia laughed merrily. “How gullible are you? No wonder Zip teased you mercilessly. It’s easy.”

“Gullible? Islands’ sakes, here I’m dreaming about Ardan coming to rescue us and all you can do is yank my hawser –”

“About Ardan? Remind me one more time how uncomplicated your love life is?”

Aranya growled something unintelligible about Dragons sitting on cheeky Human beings until they turned purple in the face. It was that or sink into the doldrums thinking about how no man would ever love her again, unless it was in a darkened room on a dark night and he could ignore the knobbly scars covering her body. Ardan would turn to Kylara. Yolathion would retch. Jia-Llonya could have him, for all she cared.

See, Fra’anior, what you have wrought?

If Yolathion was not dead already, he was certainly dying. Aranya was ashamed at her thoughts, but they kept running through her mind like windrocs plundering a carcass.

She should concentrate rather on discovering why everyone was so surprised she could speak Dragonish whilst wearing the Lavanias collar. How did that work? If it was some kind of mind-trick, she could not work out what it did to her mind, or to her magic.

“I read that women of the Kingdom of Kaolili wear face veils,” said Aranya. “Do you think I could manage that?”

Jia-Llonya sighed. “I hear some people are grateful just to be alive. Do you think you could manage that?”

If she had expected Aranya to produce a fireball at that comment, Jia would have to be disappointed. The truth was, they were both sick of being caged up. Aranya eyed the pitiful scraps of scrolleaf and the virtually hairless paintbrushes the Sylakian guards had procured for her. So much for imagining she could reproduce some of the painting she had enjoyed last time she was in the Tower.

Idly, she picked a black charcoal stick out of her meagre supplies box, and said, “Jia, if I sketched the Dragon Rider school I saw in my dream, do you think that would help us find it?”

The Jeradian girl rolled over on her end of the bed they had been forced to share. “Maybe you could draw some of the Dragons you saw, too. What about Fra’anior?”

“Not him.”

“Maybe if you put him to scroll, you wouldn’t need to fear him so much. And – don’t bite me for this one, Aranya – but you know how ralti-stupid I am about Dragons. Would you be willing to sketch your mother, Izariela, in her Star Dragon form?”

For the first time since the Chameleon Shapeshifter had stabbed her in the chest, a genuine smile curved her lips. “That, I’d love!”

But her hand began to draw a second head on her scrolleaf, and the outline of a third … Fra’anior. Even now, having brought her to the bleakest point in her life, a hellish pit from which there could be no return, he refused to relinquish his hegemony over her fate. Aranya sketched on, adding detail after detail, retreating into a world of deep contemplation, biting her lip in concentration. There was an indefinable core to the Black Dragon, she felt, some connection she could not quantify, and it captivated her imagination in a way that was at once both fascinating and repellent.

She tossed the page away. No. She had to do better.

After an hour or two’s drawing and four scrolleaves covered in Fra’anior’s heads, she became aware of Jia-Llonya peering over her shoulder.

“Seven heads?” she said. “Wow. Is this speck you?”

Aranya nodded. “He’s roughly the size of an Island. Always appears within a storm. I find it so calming, dreaming about him.”

Her leaden sarcasm made the Jeradian girl chuckle. Jia said, “He’s incredible. I love the way you’ve portrayed him; so lifelike. Gives me the soul-lost shivers, all over.”

“Sorry. But that’s how I see him.”

Jia tilted her head quizzically. “Only one thing that’s odd about this drawing.”

“What?”

“Why’ve you made him look like you?”

* * * *

Plucking a pair of tumbling monks out of the sky with a cunning swoop, Ardan raced across to Beran’s flagship. “Get me Beran,” he ordered, in a voice resonating with Dragonish thunder. Two of the warriors manning the forward gantry dropped their hammers in fear.

“Put the poor monks down,” said Kylara, amused. “And stop scaring the men.”

Ardan placed them carefully atop the Dragonship before hooking his forepaws, talons sheathed, into the netting for a moment. The Dragonship groaned and tilted.

“Ardan. Kylara,” said King Beran, apparently unfazed to find a Dragon hanging sideways off his vessel. “Report at once.”

“The battle progresses well. Zuziana is an hour distant as yet,” said Ardan. “I just heard from Aranya. Thoralian –”

“Aranya?”

Ardan nodded. “She’s alive. She warned us – Thoralian is either here, or he’s close. Either way you need to expect an ambush. And she began to say he was bringing something, but I missed the rest of the message.”

The King of Immadia, a seasoned campaigner, was already calculating in his mind, Ardan saw. Beran said, “Right. We’ll signal the highest alert. Can we spare you to scout? Maybe. The monks fare well and we’ve captured one Shapeshifter Dragon. But we’ve lost a dozen –”

KAARAABOOM!

“One more Dragonship,” said Kylara. “Karathion is devastating our forces.”

“Another Dragon joining their side would not be pretty,” said Beran. “Right. Ardan, you go clip Karathion’s toenails. After that, I need you to scout. Find me Thoralian. I’ll be here trying to herd bunches of random flying monks who don’t understand our signals – never mind.”

“I’m sure the Immadian Fox will prevail,” said Ardan.

King Beran’s eyebrows crawled skyward. “Are you still here?”

The Shadow Dragon fell away into the gathering night.

Ardan recalled the too-brief conversation he’d snatched with Ri’arion before the Nameless Man had flown away with Zuziana. ‘Gather the darkness around you,’ the monk had advised. ‘Shadow loves concealment. Subterfuge. You must fly not only with power, but with great cunning.”

Now, he stalked Karathion in the darkness. No booming challenge to give away his intent. No warning flare of fire, nor should the wind whisper over his scales when the shadow power could soothe that away. Even that soft susurration could alert another Dragon. Enwrapped in a silence so profound he felt it should surely still the very volcano upon which the Fra’aniorians made their homes, Ardan ghosted across Iridith’s pallid crescent. Just a sliver of a moon; no others were abroad as yet. He hunted his own kind.

Karathion apparently possessed an endless supply of fireballs. He flew with a graceful economy of effort, which Ardan found admirable in a creature so vast. Unconsciously, he copied what he observed. What freedom was his!

He ambushed the Red Dragon leader from beneath – from the most unexpected direction. Perhaps a flicker of movement, more sensed than seen, saved the great Red. Karathion half-dodged Ardan’s initial strike, taking a painful but not crippling blow on the lockable second joint of his left wing and losing a ten-foot strip of wing membrane to Ardan’s claws. His tail lashed out. Ardan wheezed as he was struck squarely between his hind legs. His natural Dragon armour protected his worst blushes, but the blow still knocked the breath out of him. Grunting and snarling, the two Dragons wrestled and tore at each other with the ferocity of male rajals in the mating season, falling through the air toward the Island massif.

Kylara succeeded in firing three arrows into the Red Dragon’s torso before Ardan broke with the enemy Dragon. “Good shooting,” he panted, eyeballing his enemy as he too gathered his breath, no more than three hundred feet away in the gathering gloom.

“You still planning to have children?” asked his Rider.

“Grr!”

Her question galvanised him. Ardan closed with Karathion, trying to bring his great strength to bear, but the old Red was powerful too, and far more experienced in battle. As they traded blows and bites over the course of minutes, Ardan began to sense that he was getting the worst of the bargain. He still had Thoralian to deal with, if Aranya’s warning was to be acted upon.

He wheeled away, panting.

“Let’s take him,” he growled to his Rider. “Aim at his muzzle. I’ve an idea.”

His wings pumped, closing the gap.

Kylara fired an arrow into Karathion’s face at point-blank range. The arrow drilled into his muzzle. As the Red Dragon reared in surprise and pain, the Shadow Dragon dived in. He punched the Dragon in the neck. No wasting niceties on claws or fangs. Ardan punched him right above the second heart, and then twice more, making Karathion shudder with the force of his blows. The wily old Dragon faltered. Ardan punched him one more time in exactly the same place; now, his blazing yellow eyes dulled, and rolled back in their sockets.

Then, Ardan saw fire flare in the darkness over the caldera – just where Zip should be.

* * * *

Zip constructed a shield with studious care, copying one of the models Ri’arion had presented to her in his mind. It collapsed.

“Good,” he said. “Excellent progress for a beginner.”

“Let me try again.”

“You’re tired,” said the monk. “Don’t forget, the battle for Fra’anior still awaits.”

The Azure Dragon sighed. “I’m flying as fast as I can, and the breeze is helping. We’ll get there. One more shield.”

“Fine.” The monk surfaced an image in his mind for the umpteenth time. “This is a fire shield. Rather than trying to hold the entire construct in your mind at once, try to let it grow out of your body as a natural extension of who and what you are. Concentrate, dear one.”

“I’m exhausted.”

However, the Azure Dragoness clenched her jaw. No giving up now. Imagine Aranya’s life would depend upon her mastery of this skill. She scoured the recesses of her Dragon-mind for the power she hoped to find. Show me. A silvery trickle of magic played along her spine-spikes; a sense of awakening, of expansiveness.

“Oh, very good,” Ri’arion encouraged her. “Roaring rajals, Dragon – that’s excellent!”

Zip wanted to bite her lip, but that was not so easy when one had a mouthful of wickedly pointed fangs to consider. She settled on pressing her tongue hard against the roof of her mouth.

Islands’ greetings, little one, said an unfamiliar voice. Come fly with me, and I will show you wonders you have never imagined.

Her shield wavered. Ri’arion?

“Dragon below!” shouted the monk. His mind clamped down on the wheedling, hypnotic voice. Leave our minds now!

That’s very unaccommodating of you.

To Zip’s horror, a Yellow-White Dragon half again as large as Ardan materialised from the hot gloom, dimly backlit by the lava flows more than a league below. He was just a few hundred feet below, to her starboard side. Where had that monster been hiding? He flew poorly … but she had no time to consider this.

I AM THORALIAN! His voice crashed against her mind.

Ri’arion threw up a shield at the speed of thought, damping Thoralian’s attack. Zip dipped, having momentarily stalled, but the mind-meld helped to orient her. Flying ralti sheep, what a headache she had now!

Keep the shield steady, girl, said the monk. Make for Fra’anior, quick as you can. Even a Dragon of his size can’t touch us.

Touch you? I don’t need to when I have my drakes.

Drakes? The Azure Dragoness hesitated, sensing the enveloping movement of other aerial predators.

Thoralian commanded, Go, my fierce friends. This is your hunt.

Suddenly, the air beneath them was bursting with red drakes – Zip thought at once of the many dragonets she had seen on her circuit of the volcanic Islands, but these were creatures apart. She saw mean, underslung jaws. Burning red eyes. Wing-struts trimmed with thorny spikes, and double-ended spiny tails to round them off. They were kindred to Dragons but without the high intelligence, she sensed. With harsh caws of excitement, the drakes fanned out across her path like the painted dogs of the north-western Isles Aranya had once described to her. As a pack, they closed in on the Azure Dragon and her Rider. Not one of their number was less than half her size.

Shield up, Ri’arion pulsed to her through their mind-link. I’ve shut Thoralian out. I’ve – uh!

His hands flew to his temples.

Thoralian, Zip gasped. His new mental attack comprised powerful hammer-blows to their minds. The Nameless Man groaned, jolting about in the saddle at each successive psychic blast. The Azure Dragon experienced the impacts through their link, but Ri’arion – gallant to the point of idiocy – was protecting her, taking the brunt himself. He was in no shape to do that. Thoralian glided serenely below, tossing his barrage at regular intervals.

Strength to you, my love, she said, flooding the channel with everything at her disposal.

You … keep … flying. Control the shield!

Even Thoralian could not keep up that output for long. His chosen method of attack having failed, he pulsed commands to his drakes. They flapped hard, catching up with the Azure Dragon and her Rider.

He’s controlling those animals with his mind. Ri’arion wiped his nose; blood came away on his fingertips. Mercy, he’s powerful. You surviving there, Zuzi? You just saved my bald monk skull from a roasting.

My pleasure.

Can you maintain the shield? Those drakes have fire attacks.

Zip kept accelerating, but the drakes kept pace with her adrenalin-fuelled efforts. She panted, Ri’arion, I’m losing … I don’t have the strength. Fire crackled against her shield. The drakes’ cawing grew more fervent. Should a hunter know what it was to be hunted? Suddenly, molten anger ran down her throat to ignite in her belly. Dragons faced their foes with fang and claw, not with the pathetically trembling tip of their tail waving before their noses.

Zuziana, her Rider warned.

I’m focussed, Ri’arion. Help me keep the shield – will it allow fireballs through? She gulped. Oh, I’m being stupid. That’s the one-way construct you explained, right?

A drake swerved in front of her. Zuziana did not waste a millisecond. Shaping a fireball with her tongue, she fired it straight at the drake’s muzzle. What? Her fireball was a tight ball of flame with a distinct blue tinge, as though she had set copper afire. With a sharp skish! of lightning which jagged across its scales, the drake seized up and plummeted toward the Yellow-White Dragon, still stalking them from below. Zip’s neck snaked about, shooting half a dozen fireballs at the nearest drakes in rapid succession. Several fell away, but there were plenty more to replace them and their claws were sharp, scrabbling against the shield, pressuring it in dozens of places now, a moving mob. Her Rider shouted helplessly, sweating and straining to maintain the integrity of their shield despite his condition, when a dark shadow swooped.

Ardan! Her hearts danced. If any Dragon could take on Thoralian and his drakes, it was him.

Ah, Ardan, said Thoralian. I was hoping you’d join the banquet.

* * * *

Ardan slewed into the strange red creatures, scattering them as a fox scatters fowl. He struck with claw and tail and fangs, but the drakes were tenacious, sticking together in the knowledge that the many could destroy the great, if only they worked as one. Kylara fired as fast as she could draw and reload. He caught a glimpse of the monk’s ashen face. Their shield was about to fall.

Islands’ greetings, friend, said a voice in his mind.

Ardan blinked. A bright light intensified between his temples, until it filled his entire world. It was so exquisite, so delicate. He could think of nothing else but allowing the light to charm his soul.

You will do as I command. I am your master, now, ordered the voice. Turn around. Go destroy King Beran’s Dragonships.

Aye, master, said the Shadow Dragon.

Thoralian said, Attacking the Nameless Man here at Fra’anior was premature. I will not be unprepared again.

No, master.

Monks spilled out of a group of Dragonships arriving nearby, forming themselves into clusters as if they were wasps preparing to defend their nest. The sky around the Azure Dragon and her Rider filled with fire; drakes snarled in an aerial brawl with the warrior monks, spitting flame and snapping their jaws as they called to each other in their harsh, guttural tongue. Men and animals fell. Fire flared almost continuously as the battle spread out over the southern peninsula of Fra’anior Island, and up to the city itself.

Ardan and Thoralian set a collision course for King Beran’s Dragonship group.

The Shadow Dragon spared a backward glance at the Azure Dragoness. She seemed to be fighting clear of the drakes, with help from the warrior monks.

She’s the enemy, said the voice in his head.

Aye. He launched an enormous fire-bomb down into a village as they passed overhead. The houses exploded in sheets of flame forty feet tall. See? That will be Beran’s fate.

Thoralian laughed. Good.

The woman on his back howled at him, but her words were as unintelligible as the voice of the wind sighing mournfully over his scales. She pounded his back with her heels, even with the hilt of her scimitar, but could not hurt a Dragon of his size.

Ardan snarled up at her, “Shut your trap or I’ll kill you.”

“Ardan, what the blazes is the matter with you?” she shouted back. “Listen to me. Listen, you idiot! Thoralian’s done –”

Shut her out, Shadow Dragon. I am all you need to hear, Thoralian instructed.

He snuffed her out, living only for the light.

They blasted through the crowded sky, the Shadow Dragon with his fireballs, and Thoralian with his breath of winter’s ice – a discharge of Dragon-breath so powerful it froze metal, and reduced soldiers to unmoving statues. Thoralian took three crossbow bolts in his torso, but fought on as though he were untouched. Monks barred their way. The Azure Dragoness bugled her challenge; a pathetic mewl, Ardan thought. Thoralian destroyed another Dragonship. One of his Reds fell under a concerted assault from dozens of shaven-headed warrior monks, but many of the men and women fell, too.

As the tides of the Cloudlands moved, so too the tides of battle. The warrior in Ardan knew the numbers were against them. Beran’s forces were too well organised and disciplined; his monks had tipped the balance. Catapult shrapnel burst through his right wing. Simultaneously, a monk stabbed a hole in his left wingtip.

And then, the Azure Dragon came racing past them as though shot by a catapult of her own. Magic? How had she done that? Lightning jagged across the sky; he saw black, while Thoralian howled in pain.

Then, agony flared in his back. Kylara had killed him! No, but the nerves of his right wing were ablaze. His own Rider had shot an arrow into his shoulder muscle, and by chance, nicked the secondary nerve serving the right wing. Numb, he slewed off course.

* * * *

“Honestly, you’re carrying this idea of a soul-fire connection with another Dragon way too far,” Jia-Llonya insisted, waving her bread roll at Aranya. The bread was stale; the vegetable soup served for their dinner, thin and tasteless. “Speaking to someone who is five hundred leagues away is impossible – physically, spiritually, even magically. No matter how gorgeous you think he is.”

“So is speaking to Fra’anior. Who does not look like me.”

“I’ve seen you in your Dragon form,” Jia pointed out. “How many times have you seen your Dragon in a mirror – your head, for example?”

Aranya had to think back. “Once. Nak showed me.”

“See?”

“It’s your silly imaginings,” said Aranya. “Anyways, I had a sense earlier he was in trouble, but now I feel nothing. Happy? Ardan is – yaaaaa-ouch!”

The wooden bowl of soup clattered to the floor, along with her spoon. Aranya clutched her shoulder, grimacing.

Jia said, “Nice mess.”

“Roaring rajals, it hurts. Will you check? Please?”

Rolling her eyes in a way which never failed to set Aranya’s teeth on edge, Jia rose to check her back. A second bowl crashed to the floor. “You’re bleeding! What the …”

Ardan. Oh … a nerve-shock running down into the fingers of her right hand, the eerie capitulation of his mind. What was that presence inside him? Orienting toward her as though it knew she was there? She recoiled, gasping, “Thoralian!”

Hatred was the consuming song of her soul. Aranya howled, You can’t have him! Ardan, my Sha’aldior – know me. Know who I am, for we breathed Dragon fire together, ‘Thou, my soul’s eternal fire’. Fight the evil! Reject it!

Aranya? His mental voice expressed confusion and resignation.

Focus on my fire, feel my powers …

Then, she convulsed. Aranya fell against the bed, and from there to the floor. Darkness consumed her.

Chapter 24: Shadows in the Night

It Was Ardan’s turn to pin King Beran with the glare of a Dragon who stood eighteen feet tall at the shoulder when he crouched down, and had a hundred fangs longer than the average man’s arm to make his point clear. Between those fangs, he spat, “With respect, I refuse to lie on this stupid lump of rock for one second longer, while Aranya languishes in Thoralian’s dungeons!”

“Your injuries –”

“Are my own fault.” Flame licked around his muzzle as he spoke, yet King Beran stood so stiffly before the Dragon, he resembled a petrified tree. “My wounds are superficial, apart from the arrow my Rider fired into my back.”

Kylara’s low chuckle did not improve Ardan’s mood.

“And you say Aranya saved –”

“My worthless hide, aye.” Mortification stimulated his belly-fires, forcing the Shadow Dragon to close his throat lest he burn someone. “Zuziana made the vital blow when Ri’arion’s monk-group levitated her sideways – as I understand it. Then, Aranya supplanted Thoralian’s hold on my mind. I don’t know how, but I’m grateful. And sorry!”

Zuziana said, “Ri’arion has transferred some knowledge of these warrior-monks’ mental disciplines to me. I’ll try to train you as we fly down to Sylakia, Ardan. I need to learn as well – we all do.”

“Can’t I just snaffle his brain?” grumbled Ardan.

The night had that preternatural echo of a battle’s aftermath. People moved slowly to their homes, to their neighbours’ houses, to see if their livelihood was wrecked or whole. Soldiers brooded or hurried about their assigned tasks, trying not to think about the fallen. Nervous glances checked the sky for more Dragons, but there were none. All was still, yet the repercussions would continue for days. Families mourned their dead. The monks gathered in tight, exhausted groups, squatting to tend the wounded or banding together to help clear the debris and restore order.

The Shadow Dragon lay where he had fallen near Fra’anior’s Royal Palace; his allies gathered around for a midnight conference, their faces grave, streaked with soot and blood.

His Rider put in, “You deserve worse, falling for that flying toad’s tricks.”

“GRAAAAAAAAARRRGGGHH!” thundered the Shadow Dragon, waking half of Fra’anior Island to the depths of his frustration and shame.

“Feeling better, my little mutton chop?” asked Kylara, very sweetly.

“Actually, yes. I suppose you think I deserved the crash-landing as well?”

“Actually, yes,” she echoed, apparently unconcerned by the ominous growl her teasing provoked. The Warlord deliberately settled her hands upon her daggers. “What are we waiting for? Thoralian and his two Reds are still fleeing for the Spits, and showing no signs of stopping. King Cha’arlla wants to know what he’s supposed to do with a captured Red Shapeshifter Dragon. Ri’arion’s spoiling for a fight, and Zuziana was ready to leave for Sylakia three hours ago.”

“Excellent summary,” said King Beran. “Here’s the plan.”

“Great Islands, do you never stop?” said Prince Ta’armion.

Beran grunted, “Not when my Commander’s probably eating Dragons for breakfast up north, and my daughter’s an honoured guest of the Sylakian Empire. Last time, Ta’armion, I did nothing. This time I intend to send my best weapons after her. You, Kylara.” He surprised everyone by singling her out. “I have chosen you to babysit those two Dragons –”everyone ducked as the two Dragons expressed their indignation with involuntary snorts of fire “– as you raid Sylakia’s Tower. You will leave tonight. And if you have to destroy the whole filthy place to find Aranya, be my guest.”

“And mine,” said King Cha’arlla.

“Meantime, we will make repairs with all speed, before we set sail for Rolodia.”

Ardan’s thoughts returned to the first time he had met Kylara, beneath the prekki-fruit tree. Little more of his past was clear, only that his destiny had truly begun to unfold on that day. Now he found himself in excellent company – Beran and Ignathion, the Warlord Kylara, and the Prince and King of Fra’anior. There was Lyriela, ever in the Prince’s shadow, and Zuziana, for once without the company of her not-very-tame monk, who had five healers fussing over him in a nearby palace room.

His brooding gaze returned to Lyriela. That one would not remain in the shadows for long. He needed to convince Ta’armion not to leave her behind, for they needed every Dragon – if she could learn to fly, and fight, in time. Thoralian would find his way through the Spits, of that there could be no doubt. The Dragon was bound for his lair. Yorbik. The answers lay there, he felt. The place where Thoralian would be at his most powerful.

“Don’t dawdle, o King,” said Zuziana. “We’ll catch up.”

The Immadian King’s expression remained sober. “You said she’s injured, Ardan?”

“Aye,” said Ardan, not using the word ‘tortured’, although everyone was thinking it. “King Beran, you can rely on us.”

“You’ll be our dark spear in the underbelly of the Sylakian Empire.” Beran chuckled unexpectedly. “Bring that girl home to her Dad. I haven’t whacked her in far too long.”

The Shadow Dragon scrambled onto his paws. “Kylara. Zuziana. Time to fly.”

* * * *

Two nights later, in the last hour of darkness before dawn, Aranya stirred from a sickening nightmare of the Shadow Dragon, in which she was powerless to prevent him from liquefying her brain and slowly sucking it out through her ear canals. Caught in a state halfway between dreaming and wakefulness, she opened her eyes to see the dungeon wall bulging above the bed. Dragon scales? The stones had turned into Dragon scales, she told herself. A black brow-ridge pressed in through the solid rock, followed by a Dragon’s eye, roving around the room before fixing upon her.

Sha’aldior? Aranya moaned softly. Am I dreaming?

The scale-wall shifted, bringing part of a Dragon’s muzzle into the room. The eye loomed above her pillow-roll, gazing at the Immadian Princess with evident pity. Magic washed against her senses, evoking memories of the mysterious soul-fire she had breathed with the Shadow Dragon.

Aranya. I have come.

A-Ardan? She sat up so fast, her head passed into the space occupied by his insubstantial muzzle. Aranya had forgotten how enormous he was. His head alone threatened to fill their entire dungeon. Ardan, it’s really … you? Flying through rock?

Terribly clever, aren’t I?

A sob wracked her body; Aranya pressed her fist against her mouth, but she was unable to control the tears splashing down her cheeks. Happy … so happy …

Likewise, overjoyed, he said, with such tenderness that it redoubled her tears. Aranya, Kylara and Zip are on their way inside. Had to dodge a few Dragons out there, but we made it without being seen.

She began, Everyone else –

All alive, said Ardan. Hurry. Wake up your bed-mate while I rip this stupid chain out of the wall.

Flushing hotly at what he implied, Aranya reached beneath his muzzle to shake Jia-Llonya’s shoulder. “Wake up, Jia. We’re escaping.”

The Jeradian woke to the sight of a Dragon’s disembodied paw descending from the ceiling. Jia-Llonya scrambled across the bed. Ardan carefully inserted a talon through the ring to which their chains were locked, solidified his digit, and then ripped the bolts bodily out of the wall. Poor, awestruck Jia! Her eyes bulged, but she could not even force out a scream.

“That’s Ardan,” said Aranya, softly. “He’s friendly.”

“Friendly?” spluttered Jia, ducking as Ardan’s insubstantial head swung over toward their barred cell door.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Aranya. “There’s a guard outside, Ardan.”

“He’s dozing,” said the Shadow Dragon. After a short pause, he added, “Mind you don’t slip in the puddle of blood. Quick. I’ll try to shadow you, but you need to move fast. Our diversion won’t fool the Dragons for long.”

“And the door?” Aranya asked, swinging her legs off the bed. She grabbed the pitiful cloak the Sylakians had supplied. “Jia, time enough to admire Ardan later. Hop to it.”

‘Great Islands,’ Jia-Llonya mouthed., shuddering. Her eyes followed the Shadow Dragon compulsively.

“Stand back.” Ardan’s paw solidified. He punched the cell door off its hinges.

“Controlling the power must be tricky,” said Aranya.

She wished she could articulate just how over the moons she was to see him, but Jia’s presence made her hesitate. Aranya had to settle for pasting a smile upon her ruined, scar-twisted lips. Then she dropped her gaze. What must he think of her now?

“Aye,” growled the Shadow Dragon. “Ri’arion said that if my concentration slipped even for a second, I’d entomb myself forever. Apparently brains don’t take to being embedded in solid rock. Aranya, I am so –” The words stopped in his throat. Ardan stared quizzically at them. “What was that?”

Aranya’s voice rose. “By the mountains of Immadia … an earthquake?” The shock came again, making her stagger against Jia, who linked arms with her.

“Quick, Aranya,” she urged.

They slipped out of the Shapeshifter holding cell, gathering up the trailing lengths of chain. Just as Jia-Llonya stooped to raid the dead guard for his keys and war-hammer, the ground lurched. Jia fell to her knees. Aranya skinned her elbow against the wall.

Ardan swore unhappily, a string of Western Isles expressions Aranya barely understood. He snapped, “That’s no earthquake, ladies. You need to run. NOW!”

The disquiet in his voice galvanised them. Jia thrust Aranya forward. On the wings of panic she sprinted the first section to the stairwell, and even partway up it, before the tightness in her chest turned into desperate wheezing.

Aranya stopped, doubled over, blowing hard. “Leave me here, Jia. You go.”

“Are you ralti-stupid? We’re chained together.”

“It’s not the Brown Dragon, is it?” puffed the Immadian Princess. “Powers of earth –”

The stairwell shook. Rock and dust pattered down from above. Grimly, Aranya set her foot on the next step, then the next. No pain was too much. She had to escape. Jia yelled and leaped past her, swinging her hammer in a low, vicious arc. A soldier screamed as the hammer crushed his knee. He tumbled past them.

“Go meet Zip and Kylara,” said Ardan, his muzzle appearing briefly above them. “I’ll clear the way.”

The Shadow Dragon slipped back into the rock. Aranya shook her head. A neat trick if you could do it. No place was safe from him. Thump. The ground bucked against her soles. She slipped and skinned her knees on the rough steps. No time to pause. Using her hands to help her climb, Aranya pushed herself up the stairs. When she fell again, she crawled, seeing black spots dancing before her eyes. The Shifter pox had stolen more than just her looks. She knew it, and despaired.

At last, with lungs afire and her breath whistling like leaky bellows, Aranya broke out into the dungeons above. Level ground! She wanted to laugh with relief, but she had no breath left to laugh. Instead, she allowed Jia-Llonya to draw her arm over her shoulder and support her as they stagger-ran along the corridor, past a knot of guards Ardan had already butchered.

“Help me!”

The voice issued from a cell to her left as they dashed by.

“The doctor,” said Jia-Llonya. “We can use him.” Doubling back, she fumbled with the keys she had taken. She shouted through the bars, “Where’s Yolathion? Where is he?”

“Beside the machine,” said the strange man from Herimor. He blinked eagerly at them as Jia found a key that fit and swung the door open.

Aranya gasped, “You’re not taking Yolathion?”

“If he’s alive,” Jia insisted. “You can heal him with your magic, can’t you? We have to try.”

No, she was incapable.

“There they are!”

Shouting excitedly, a brace of Sylakian Hammers pounded toward them, brandishing their war hammers. Now, Aranya heard a clash of weapons up ahead, just around the corner of the secondary tunnel, which intersected the main dungeon corridor one hundred feet ahead. Again, the entire Tower of Sylakia jumped and trembled … under attack by some monstrous, unimaginable force. Aranya blinked as her mind served up a picture of a Land Dragon drawn from the hallucinations she had seen during the storm. No. Surely not. Why would a Land Dragon attack here, unless … it sought her.

A beastly chill made every hair on her body stand on end. But she had no time to dwell upon it. The ground’s movement knocked the two soldiers together. Jia-Llonya sprang into the attack, denting one of their shields with a powerful, ringing blow. She dodged a hammer-strike in return, bending backward with a supple flexion of her spine. Aranya flung the chain she was holding at the second soldier, capturing his arm more by accident than design. She yanked hard and raised her knee simultaneously.

Crack! The man tottered, holding his chin. Jia finished him with a roundhouse hammer-blow to his left temple. “Come, doctor.”

Soldiers spilled around that corner, most not intent on them, but on fighting for their lives. Kylara spun gracefully through the melee, lashing out left and right with her scimitar to deadly effect. Somewhere nearby, deafening Dragon-challenges shook the caverns. Aranya heard the distinctive sizzle of fireballs and a slap of flesh against stone. Gurdurion and his cronies, she thought, fighting to keep a wretched, magic-less Star Dragon’s daughter from escaping.

They had come for her! Gratitude warmed her soul.

Kylara attacked the remaining Sylakian Hammers from the fore while Jia-Llonya ambushed them from behind. The resulting skirmish was short and messy. Aranya booted a man on the ground with her heel, stopping him from hamstringing Jia with his dagger. She tried to pick up his fallen war-hammer, but could not manage the weight, dropping it with a gasp. Then Kylara was there, clasping her forearm with a glad cry.

“Princess? You are well?”

“Alive,” said Aranya.

“Aye.” The dark brown eyes measured her. Aranya hated the soft horror which registered in the Warlord’s gaze. She would have to become immune to it, for her heart would break otherwise. Nevertheless, she could not sustain eye-contact.

Aranya gritted out, “Thanks for coming. Let’s go. Where’s Zip?”

Kylara pressed a dagger into her fingers. “Use this. To the galleries. We found Yolathion, and there’s a way out from there, but Ardan and Zip need our help.”

“Ardan needs help?”

Dragon-thunder eclipsed Aranya’s words. A body thudded against a wall, somewhere. A clear sound she associated with lightning, shhh-crack! And a softer, more feminine cry.

Zuziana! Hold on! Ardan’s voice …

The Princess of Immadia broke into a run as best she was able. Kylara and Jia easily outstripped her. When she entered the gallery in which she had seen Yolathion tortured, Aranya ducked involuntarily at the incredible din of snarling, snapping Dragons fighting in a confined space. Four or five reptilian monsters grappled with each other, splattering the walls with Dragon blood and bits of scales and wings. The cavern stank of smoke and sulphur, and the reek of burned flesh. Distinctly, she heard the basso rumble of Ardan’s laughter as the Shadow Dragon ghosted through his opponents’ grasp, only to re-solidify and drop on them from above with a crushing attack.

Azure flashed across her eyes. Zip! Tiny Zip, taking on a Red Dragon more than twice her size. A bolt of lightning seared Aranya’s retinae. Zip dodged a fireball, struck the far wall hard but four-pawed, and rebounded with a rapid backflip that landed her on top of the startled Red’s shoulders. Zip reached around his neck with both forepaws, and shredded his hide with all ten talons – not a killing attack, but one that made the pain-crazed Red launch himself blindly into the air. He struck a crystal outcropping and dropped with the grace of a stone, unconscious.

The din was incredible. Human-Aranya had never appreciated the primal fury of a Dragon battle quite so keenly. She was tiny. Any one of those Dragons could have smeared her against the stone with the ease of a person stepping on a beetle. But the Tower of Sylakia shuddered beneath their feet, and then, to her horror, rocked appreciably to one side before shifting back with a fractured groan.

Aranya shouldered Jia into a run. “Go!”

The Jeradian girl seemed dazed, but she followed as the Immadian ran along the high gallery above the Dragon-fight to the next cavern, hoping to find Yolathion. There. He lay on a rude stretcher beside the machine, unmoving. A technician had clearly been working on the device, but had wisely abandoned his tools and fled.

“This way,” said Kylara.

Aranya stumbled down the short stairway leading to the room below, breathless, coughing fit to turn her lungs inside-out. Her glance through the wide archway leading to the cavern they had just left, took in Ardan’s jaw severing a Dragon’s hind leg. There was Zip, scrapping with a smaller Orange Dragon, who was having the upper hand – or paw – of the encounter until the Shadow Dragon’s paws pulled her off the Princess of Remoy. Ardan disembowelled the Orange with a mighty stroke of his hind talons.

“Go to Aranya!” snarled Ardan, shoving Zuziana irresistibly through the archway.

The Shadow Dragon dived into a wall.

“Aran – oh, Aranya!” gasped Zip, putting her paws to her mouth in a very Human gesture. “Darling, petal, you’re – oh!” An expletive dropped from her mouth.

Aranya hid her face as Zuziana gathered her into a brief, awkward Dragon hug. Her chest was so constricted with mingled grief and happiness, she feared her next breath would never come. Zip hiccoughed Dragon sobs, patting Aranya’s back as though she feared to crack her like an eggshell, murmuring something that had to do with sorrow and Thoralian’s death in a volcano.

Her friend’s revulsion was unbearable. Aranya had tried to prepare herself, in the few moments she had hoped for a rescue, for people to react like this. But this was a subtle knife, cutting in unforeseen ways. Now a sidelong glance, the sorrow, the horrified inability to stop staring at Aranya’s wounds …

Beyond Zuziana, she saw a lone female Red, panicked, scanning the cavern walls in expectation of what finally came from beneath her – Ardan’s attack. A paw speared out of the ground, running its talons directly into her second heart.

“Ready?” asked Kylara.

Zip snagged the chain and pulled it apart. “What’s this collar?” she asked. “It has magic – strange magic.”

“Escape first,” said Aranya. “I’ll explain –”

Zuziana snatched her up with her paw. “You’re coming with me. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

Jia and the doctor handled Yolathion’s stretcher. Aranya could not believe he was still alive, but that was the point of Sylakian torture methods, which aimed for the most lingering, excruciating death possible. Thoralian’s orders, no doubt.

“Easy on the strength there,” gasped Aranya.

“You kidnapped me like this,” said Zip, who began to bounce along for sheer joy behind the Warlord, before suddenly settling into a more stately lope. Ardan had pretended that nothing was wrong, but Zip would feel every moment of her pain.

“I can’t transform, Zip.”

“We guessed as much. Sharp left, Kylara.”

They saw light; ruddy, welcoming light at the end of this new tunnel. Cool, sweet air gusted into their faces.

A Brown Dragon alighted just inside the tunnel’s entrance. A blast of sound reverberated down the tunnel, making every Human skid to a halt.

“You’re not leaving my tower,” snarled the Brown. “Ever.”

“Watch out,” shouted Zuziana. “Back up before he –”

Gurdurion’s magic pulled the ceiling apart with sharp retort of overstressed rock, causing an avalanche. But the Shadow Dragon was suddenly there, his arched back taking the brunt of the falling boulders and dirt, allowing the Humans to retreat beneath his belly and flee the way they had come.

Aranya began to cry, Ardan! But then she realised what he could do. The Shadow Dragon simply shimmered through the crushing weight of falling boulders and swam out of the rockfall with the ease of a trout exploring a still pool. He stalked after them with a discomfiting Dragon grin, one which reminded her just how vast the differences were between Dragons and Humans. Ardan gloried in his power. Aranya shivered, remembering Thoralian’s words. Would this beast turn upon them all, or was there another explanation for the coincidence between his Shadow powers and those of the creature who had once ravaged the Island-World?

The Shadow Dragon’s enigmatic beauty filled her stomach with a fluttering like dragonets’ wings. Beauty, even for a male – no other word sprang to mind when she considered his sleek, hulking Dragon form.

How could she deny the soul-fire’s ascendancy? If she did, another storm might engulf the Island-World. If she embraced Fra’anior’s vision for her future, choosing Ardan, then the Island-devouring fires of a hellish volcano might be preferable to unleashing that doom upon the world.

Aranya squeezed her eyes shut, and let herself be carried by her friend.

* * * *

As the group rushed back into the caves to take another route, they ran into a full squad of Sylakian warriors, fifty elite Crimson Hammers. The Azure Dragon drew breath, summoning up her lightning powers. But, dropping Yolathion’s stretcher, Jia-Llonya and Kylara sprang forward with sharp cries. She could not fire. Aranya raised her dagger, but the Dragoness did not release her friend.

The Sylakians flinched as the impacts from whatever was attacking or perturbing the Tower from below, intensified. The Tower groaned and vibrated like a tree being felled by a woodcutter.

Ardan surged into the wide tunnel from her left and bulldozed the Hammers with his tail, crushing them against the far wall, sixty feet away.

Kylara put up her scimitar. “Leave a few for us, would you?”

The huge Dragon crooked a claw. “There, that one’s still moving.”

Jia brained the man with her hammer.

“No, he isn’t,” scowled the Warlord, striking a muscular, arms-folded pose.

Ardan swaggered into the wall with a bizarre magical rippling across his form, and vanished. Zuziana chuckled. Dragons. She understood exactly why he behaved as he did. Such a show-off.

Aranya seemed to feel the same, goggling at the Shadow Dragon’s display, but there was also an unfamiliar reserve in her manner. Zuziana gazed at her friend, the pulsing of her hearts thickening with grief and anger. Roaring rajals, what had the Sylakians done to her? Her face was deeply scarred, her high-arched left cheekbone clearly visible through the mouth of one of the wounds, her lips twisted, the skin bruised and lumpy. Then, bile surged into her throat. The Princess of Remoy knew about torture. Garthion had tied her to a bed and methodically whipped her torso until not a square inch of skin remained whole, aiming solely to disfigure her and gratify his base lusts. Evidently, the father was a leopard who shared the same spots. Had he branded her with a heated metal rod? Sliced the holes open with scalpels?

But there was more. Her friend moved poorly, every breath soughed roughly in her lungs, and she squinted even in the semidarkness of the larger cavern they moved into now.

The Azure Dragoness glanced up, startled by a scuffle and a roar ahead of them. Fireball!

Dragon instincts caused her to throw up her shield in a split-second. Fire splattered against an invisible barrier just six inches in front of Kylara’s nose. The Warlord dropped to her knee, and then rose with studious unconcern.

Aranya said, “You can shield, Zip? Wow.”

“Ri’arion’s a great teacher.”

Up ahead, Ardan smashed a Red Dragon against the cave wall, flipped him over, and stood on his neck while his massive jaws champed in search of a disabling or fatal bite. The Shadow Dragon roared in pain as his opponent fought back with raking strokes of his hind paws, gashing his lower belly in a number of places.

Zip’s captive squeaked as the Azure Dragon took a running leap into the air, looping over the stretcher party and Kylara, before extending her neck to shoot a fireball at the Red Dragon’s head. The electrical discharge sizzled, stunning the Red for long enough for Ardan to finish him off.

I had it under control, snapped the Shadow Dragon.

Zip cooed, I’m in a hurry. Lead on, o Master of dark and scary places.

* * * *

Ardan blinked at the Azure Dragoness, stung by her cheek. He mastered his fires with an effort, rumbling, Follow me. The entrance lies just ahead.

His nostrils flared, checking the breeze. No Dragons. Turning the final corner, Ardan found himself teetering on a cliff-edge. The pre-dawn light was just beginning to illuminate the Cloudlands, making Sylakia Island’s shadow stretch to the horizon. His claws scraped on the rock as he steadied himself – Islands’ sakes, what was making the Tower behave like this? No amount of craning his neck could identify anything amiss, except … magic? Was he sensing magic, as Aranya had once tried to describe it to him? A tiny frisson on the scales, an awareness of impending doom?

Turning, he rapped, “Hurry. On my back. No time to lose.”

“How are we taking Yolathion?” asked Jia-Llonya.

“One of us can hold him, Jia,” said Kylara. “Sit between the spine-spikes above his shoulders. We’ll lay Yolathion across your lap. Doctor, would that work?”

“He won’t feel anything,” shrugged the doctor.

“How do I mount up?” asked Jia.

“Islands’ sakes!” snapped the Azure Dragon, seizing the Jeradian girl by the waist. “Up here. Ardan – yee … what was that?”

Jia and Zuziana both squealed as the greatest perturbation yet shook the Tower of Sylakia. Rocks tumbled down the cliffs. A faint shriek came from somewhere within the caves. Zuziana scrabbled for her footing, before simply leaping onto the Shadow Dragon’s back to set the Jeradian atop his left shoulder.

“Sit,” Zip hissed. “Aranya?”

“I’ll mount up, Dragon,” said Aranya.

“Good. Two paws for Yolathion. Help me, Doctor Chikkan.” Zip scooped up the stricken young man. He did not even moan – he was too deeply unconscious for that.

“Dragons incoming,” Ardan warned. “And –”

KRRAAAAACK!

With an ear-splitting report, as if the loudest peal of thunder since the dawn of time had struck from clear skies, the Tower finally split off its base.

Bundling Aranya into her paws on top of Yolathion, Zuziana jumped onto Ardan’s back a second time. He swept Kylara and the doctor up in his right forepaw.

The Shadow Dragon launched off the side of the toppling Tower.

Chapter 25: A Flight of Dragons

Zuziana OF REMOY clutched her ride as best she could as the Shadow Dragon spread his mighty wings, trying to manage all of their weight at once. He accelerated into a long, steady swoop, aiming a growl at the shouting chaos on his back.

Can’t you sort out the mess up there, Zip? Ardan said. And put up a shield? And make room for Kylara? And stop clawing holes in my back with your teeny little talons?

Zip knew that the Shadow Dragon was grinning by the timbre of his mental voice. Aye. Fly straight and I might manage.

Shall I mount up now? Aranya asked.

On me, said Ardan and Zip, simultaneously.

The Immadian laughed. Sounds uncomfortable, you two. Zip, here. Let me help with Yolathion. Gently, now …

Together, they slid Yolathion into position across Jia-Llonya’s legs, face down. Aranya helped Jia belt herself to the spine-spike behind her, while Zip saw to Kylara and the strange doctor, setting them into position in front of and behind Jia, respectively.

Plopping herself down between Zip’s spine-spikes with a sigh of evident relief, Aranya said, “Will you do this Rider the honour, Zip?”

A soft bugle escaped Zip’s throat as she tilted her wings to catch the breeze. “Let’s burn the heavens together, as Dragon and Rider,” she cried, launching off the Shadow Dragon’s back.

Slowly, as if intending to sail into the sky, the Tower of Sylakia tilted in a westerly direction. The rumbling sound deepened as the slide gathered momentum, millions of tons of rock in inexorable motion. The Shadow Dragon angled northward, racing to take them beyond the probable path of its fall. The other Dragonwing, four Reds and a Green, scattered as they too saw the danger – all thoughts of pursuit tossed to the winds, necks outstretched and wings beating so hard they clapped together beneath the Dragons’ bodies. Craning her neck, Zip searched the Cloudlands near the Tower’s base, uncertain as to what she had seen, or felt … there!

“Great Islands, Aranya, did you see that?”

Her Rider said, bleakly, “No, Zip. What did you see?”

“Well, I saw – I thought I saw – the body of a Land Dragon down there. It was huge, like a green island broaching the clouds. You don’t think it pulled the Tower off the side of Sylakia, do you? Why would it do that?”

Zuziana was in such a state of high agitation, it took her a number of wingbeats to realise the oddity of Aranya’s question. Whatever mountain of a beast’s back she had just seen slipping beneath the Cloudlands, Zip knew it was unmissable from a height of two or three miles, even with a Human’s inferior sight. She had flown Dragonback often enough to know that for certain. But it was Aranya’s tone that truly troubled her.

However, the spectacle of the Tower toppling into the Cloudlands rendered her speechless; the demise of what should surely be immutable. For many minutes Zuziana simply paced Ardan, until it was obvious they were well clear of danger and the Tower vanished into the Cloudlands in a bizarre, irreverent silence. Surely they should hear it crash somewhere, she thought. Surely it deserved the recognition of a shattering impact, flinging plumes of rock and dust into the air, gouging a trench several miles long.

“Shame you neglected to tie Thoralian’s tail to the Tower,” said the Azure Dragoness, hearing herself force cheer into her voice. “Petal …”

“I’m alright,” said Aranya, but she averted her face. “Zip, have I told you how incredible you are? Burgling the Tower and all. I heard someone else did it first, but then an Azure Dragon did it with more style. When they write your legend, they’ll be telling how you flung it into the abyss with a titanic firebolt loosed from the twin suns themselves.”

Zip sighed. “Petal, what’s the matter with your eyes?”

Her Rider raised her chin in a haughty gesture that was old-Aranya, but Zuziana knew her too well to be fooled. Her gaze was off-centre, the once-clear amethyst gaze turned milky, almost opaque. Her Dragon sight brought out the details far too clearly.

“What did Thoralian do to you? I’m your friend, Aranya. You can tell me.”

The proud expression crumpled. Aranya put her forehead to the spine-spike just in front of her, clutching it as if for safety, and her shoulders began to tremble. “I’m so scared,” she said. “I’ve lost my magic and my Dragon and … he stole my face, Zip! He stole my face! Can you imagine what that’s like? Oh … ralti sheep droppings, of course you can. Of course. You, of all people …”

“Petal,” Zip soothed.

“I can’t see well out of my right eye, Zip. The left is bad – just shadows and vague shapes. The pox can make a person go blind. He deliberately had me infected, Zip. Deliberately!”

“I’m so sorry.”

Aranya’s answering laughter was hollow, almost sepulchral, giving Zip the soul-lost shivers all over. “Is this the price you and I have to pay, Zip?” Aranya asked. “When they’re free from Thoralian’s tyranny, do you think the peoples of the Island-World will thank us for these scars we’ve earned?”

“Battle scars,” said the Princess of Remoy.

“Battle scars? How glorious you make it sound. My head says it’s worth the cost – oh, Zip! But my heart’s a terrace lake of bitter waters.”

As surely as the moons moved around the Island-World, she was going to kill Thoralian for this, Zuziana vowed. The Azure Dragoness knew a killing rage, her fires and lightning powers literally sizzling inside her belly. As she struggled to contain her feelings, Zip’s gaze swept the skies ahead of them, then to the rear. There was no pursuit, nor any sign of the creature she had glimpsed ducking back into the Cloudlands. How could anything live down there? Surely, a living creature of that size was impossible?

She said, “It seemed so uncomplicated when we set out to bait the Sylakians. Had we known? I’d like to think we’d still have had the courage to set out on that first flight, Aranya.”

“I’ve lost now, Zip. I’m so … beaten.”

“Wounded, not beaten,” the Dragoness replied, but her hearts were not in her words. She had never heard Aranya sounding like this, the undertone of defeat that weighed on every word. Her own scars, she could hide beneath her clothing. Aranya would have no such luxury. She asked, “What’s that collar you’re wearing? It feels –”

“Evil,” said Aranya.

* * * *

When Zuziana suggested seeing through a mind-meld, this provoked a low, resentful cry, “What use is a half-blind Dragon, Zip? Tell me. You have to see crossbow bolts in battle!”

“We’ll get there, petal.”

Aranya knew she’d hurt her friend. Angry with herself, she too scanned the skies for signs of pursuit, until the Azure Dragon gently assured her that the only Dragons which had survived the Tower’s fall had retreated to Sylakia’s mainland.

Her new, darkened world required courage of a different type, she was learning, and Aranya recalled her friend’s struggles only too well. Zuziana might never nurse a child, which for a Remoyan mother, was unimaginable. Quietly, she leaned over the Dragoness and poured out her heart for over an hour, during which Zip, unusually for her, said not a single word.

Then, Aranya stood up. “Let’s get this collar off.”

“Petal! Don’t do anything foolish.”

Aranya forced levity into her voice. “Hold on. I get to call you petal, now. The Azure Flying Petal of Remoy. And you will address your Rider with due respect.”

Zuziana’s chuckles were equally born in a murky, hopeless place. Curving her neck until her muzzle pressed up against Aranya’s leg, she sniffed hugely and offered Aranya a toothy Dragon smile. “Mmm. How do Riders taste, do you think?”

“Stop it, you … you petal-ish fiend.”

The Dragoness waggled her long, forked blue tongue at her friend.

“Rude Dragon – fine!” Evidently, that Nak-like offering was far too feeble. Aranya cudgelled her brain. Thou, whose suns-shine illuminates my heart.

Thou, the rainbows gracing my storm’s aftermath.

Smiles, through welling tears.

When a Dragon’s storm powers became uncontrollable, Aranya thought, to be told that she was the rainbow after the storm … she should cherish those words forever. And if Zip kept doing that, she’d weep all the way back to Fra’anior, when she had made up her mind to case her heart in stone. No more distractions. No inner turmoil. She had to focus on regaining her magic, if she could, and defeating Thoralian.

Aranya stepped onto Zip’s upraised paw, and was being cradled with care while Zip tried to slide her talons beneath the collar to pop the rivet at the back, when Ardan winged over with a such a bellow of outrage, it shook them to the bone. “What are you two doing?”

“Taking off this collar, o Shadow Dragon,” said Zip.

Ardan’s eyes bulged. “And if you drop her? If you –”

Aranya interrupted their glaring at each other by saying, “I have two of the finest Dragons in the Island-World to catch me. I couldn’t fall ten feet without one of you two scooping me up. And, this Lavanias collar must come off. Tell him, Jia.”

“I-I couldn’t argue with a Dragon.”

“Arguing with him is fun,” said Zip.

“And I think of you as a blue wasp up my left nostril.”

With a mental warning to the two Dragons to stop squabbling like hatchlings, Aranya said, “Jia, in my vast experience with a Dragon Rider, all of several months now, I’ve learned a few things about teamwork –”

“First, we should set a course,” said the Shadow Dragon. “Zip? You carry a map in your head.”

The Azure Dragon’s alert gaze took in the position of the moons in the lightening sky. Vast Iridith waned into the north-west horizon, while White was a tiny point of light almost directly south, and the full glory of Jade blazed jewel-like above where Aranya thought the Spits should be.

“Three points more westerly, Ardan,” said Zuziana. “Aranya, our first stop is Seg Island. Nak said we might find a Dragons’ Highway to help us skirt the Spits. Apparently, they’re too high for a Dragon and Rider to fly over – and easy to become lost in if you choose to fly through. But the lower Spits around the edges should be easy to navigate.”

“Are we skipping Fra’anior?” asked Aranya.

“Straight to Noxia from Seg to catch up with your father,” said Zip. “The warrior monks of Fra’anior are travelling with him – aye, we’ve a few things to tell you. They have healers. And we’ll have your story, too. We heard a great deal from Nak and Oyda …”

Unbidden, Aranya’s eyes flicked to Kylara, sitting very straight-backed between Ardan’s tall spine-spikes. She saw dimly, but enough to grasp the Warlord’s response. Not everything, she said to her Dragon companions. Not if you want me to live.

Nak told me, said Zuziana.

She already suspects, Ardan added. Aranya, you and I –

Can never be together, Ardan. How Aranya wished for Dragon fire to cleanse the heartache those words cost her! I’m scarred inside and out. I cannot be any use to anyone like this. You must choose Kylara, and love her well. It is over between us.

Zuziana sighed so heavily, it dipped them twenty feet in the air before she rose again.

He whispered, I am so grieved for you, Aranya. Horrified, and spoiling for a fight with Thoralian. Thou, my soul’s eternal –

Don’t, it’s too distressing. Please. Aranya stared into the distance, unseeing. Numb. Finished with all that the soul-fire had cost her, with anything to do with the fascinating Shadow Dragon. Ardan, it cannot be.

Only if that’s what you truly want, o jewel of Immadia.

Aranya sucked in a breath, mentally and physically. Time for the most terrible lie of her life. It is, Ardan.

She wondered why Fra’anior did not roar so loudly, it should break her mind and drive her insane. But there was only silence from the Ancient Dragon. With a squeal of metal and a soft ‘plink’, the rivet behind her neck snapped. Aranya lifted the hateful collar from her neck, thinking she might keep it, to study it, or to remind her of Thoralian’s treachery.

Very softly, pitched so that only Aranya could hear, Zip breathed, “You’re letting Thoralian win.”

“Then he wins,” said the Immadian, swallowing her nausea, the self-loathing, the despair as deep as the Cloudlands.

Flying into a perfect, cloudless twin-suns dawn over the Island-World, Aranya knew she could see little of it. She turned her gaze to the first sun’s dazzling face, letting the warmth fill her, be a balm to her desolation, hoping the breezes might blow her to a new destiny – one she chose, the destiny of a ruined woman robbed of her gifts and graces, and cast into a Cloudlands volcano. Let Zuziana disapprove. This was the result of an Immadian Princess’ arrogance. Yolathion, dying. Jia, losing her baby. War sweeping across the Island-World, sparked by two friends who tried to make a difference. Genocide at Naphtha Cluster. Even Ardan, deeply wounded during his battles inside the Tower, wincing a little with every wing-stroke. Storms, burning, dying. She was the epicentre of it all.

They spoke the day long, commiserating, bickering, cursing Thoralian, weeping and dreaming of the future. Aranya learned about the new-technology weapons and the Shapeshifter Dragonwing awaiting them at Yorbik. She marvelled at the flying warrior monks of Fra’anior. She silenced her friends with her description of the storm she had generated, and the Chameleon Shapeshifter who had poisoned her. She stunned them with the knowledge that only Thoralian knew how her mother might be cured.

It was Kylara who said, “You carry such an Island’s weight of burdens, Aranya. And I thought my leadership a heavy load.”

With the aid of a cool, brisk breeze, the Dragons made excellent time, taking a midday rest at a tiny Island unknown to Zip, whose cliffs were inhabited by the strange, monkey-like people they had once seen climbing the lower cliffs of Sylakia. Aranya was grateful to her friend, who described what she saw from time to time, so she knew of the Dragon’s first sight of the Spits, and the strange, greyish clouds that cast a permanent gloom over the jumbled rock-spire wilderness. She remembered a four-day journey from the Twenty-Seven Sisters through the Spits to Sylakia by Dragonship. Flying as fast as they were, at more than triple the speed of a Dragonship’s four leagues per hour, Zuziana expected them to raise Seg by the early evening, which they achieved.

Aranya joshed her friend about being so precise, and for her trouble received a sulky grumble about basic mathematics being lost on Immadian Princesses who were so tall that their heads were lost in the clouds.

They alighted on a remote peninsula on the western cliff-edge of Seg, where Ardan had spotted a cluster of hot springs.

Zuziana, unchanged from her Dragon form due to the possibility of running into Sylakian patrols or sympathisers, took Kylara and the doctor in search of herbs and roots to treat Yolathion and make up a purgative for her. “Nasty!” Aranya made a face at that idea.

“Anything to encourage your magic to return,” said Doctor Chikkan, suddenly as keen as a hyperactive dragonet. Aranya wondered how greatly Thoralian’s retribution figured in his thinking.

Seeking time alone with her thoughts, Aranya slipped away to the nearby hot springs, which were ringed with tall ferns and steaming slightly in the cooling evening air. She tested three pools before finding one of a bearable temperature. Great Islands, actual hot water to bathe in. She needed to get the dungeon stink, as Jia-Llonya had politely termed it, off her body and out of her hair. If only she could wash away the memory of Thoralian so easily. Aranya decided she should be planning her revenge, rather than cowering behind her friends.

‘Why, if it isn’t the poxy Princess of Immadia,’ she imagined Thoralian sneering. Maybe Zuziana would know how to arrange a headscarf so that it hid her face.

The hot spring was only just large enough for a tall woman to stretch out. Aranya sighed at the luxurious warmth. Above her, the sky deepened from the vibrant oranges of suns-set to the unfathomable purple of night. If only the answers to life’s mysteries were written in the stars. Had she hoped the Lavanias collar’s removal would inspire an instant return of her magic, then she was disappointed. Chikkan had advised that it would take days for the drugs to wear out of her system, even with the help of his delightful-sounding medication.

A prickle against her senses … magic? “Alright, you can come out now,” she said. A quiver in her voice betrayed the fragile hope that impression had conjured up.

A patch of boulders rose and transformed into Ardan’s shoulders and neck. “Ha,” he snorted. “You heard me? I was practising my Shadow skills.”

“By spying on me?”

“Watching over you,” he claimed. “Look, I’m the largest chameleon in history. Ri’arion’s idea.”

His camouflage was imperfect, but he still managed an impressive rendition of a dusty boulder, which could be overlooked by a casual glance. “Stalking a half-blind woman?” she said. “I guess you have to start somewhere.” His Dragon-fire stomach protested rather violently at this. “And you need to learn to control those belly-fires, or you’ll give yourself away every time.”

“Ha!” But he aimed the fiery plume of his snort at the sky.

“How much did you see?” she asked.

“It hasn’t been a day yet, Aranya, yet I feel I’m the one who is being tortured.”

What answer could she give him? Mutely, she watched the Shadow Dragon settle down in a much larger pool close by, making the scalding water overspill the sides and run into her pool. Truth? Could he handle enough truth to put the matter beyond doubt?

“Ardan, I don’t know how to say this without being brutally plain. There are other factors to consider,” Aranya said, striving for calm in order to wrench loose the words she must say and dangle them before him. “I am not only repugnant to look at. I’m breathing poorly because this Shifter pox attacks the internal membranes. My lungs are scarred and the airways restricted. Furthermore, the disease is likely to have rendered me infertile.”

Coldly, he said, “Do you think a Western Isles warrior so fickle and uncaring –”

“Ardan! Must I write it on a scrolleaf? I am maimed, inside and out, and I could not … I can never … I hate this! I hate it …” She buried her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry. I understand.”

The Shadow Dragon tried to pat her shoulder. Aranya appreciated the gesture, awkward as it was, and the deep regret in his voice.

She whispered, “That magical day we had could never happen again, Ardan. That’s why I need you to forget all about the Princess of Immadia. She’s gone forever.” The incongruity at speaking about such matters with a Dragon, and the loss of the only foundation her life’s Island ever had, lent her words a terrible weight. “Kylara is a strong, very fine –”

“I don’t love her. Not in that most Island-shivering sense.”

The raw cry of her heart was, ‘Then, do you love me?’ But he could not. Must not. She denied those words, telling herself that he was the ravening Shadow Dragon of old, a brutish Western Isles warrior with scarification marks covering his chest, nothing like any man she had ever imagined loving, but it was as futile as dust blowing upon the Cloudlands.

As his great, gleaming muzzle bowed to the ground, her blurred vision made the Dragon seem even more shadowy than usual. His words tiptoed across the space between them. “I should have followed you into the storm. I failed you, Aranya.”

“You can take no blame for this.”

His fires surged, volcanic. His anger burned, vengeful. The Shadow Dragon growled, “Will you show me your body, Aranya, once more? I want to picture how he mutilated you when I tear his hearts out and toss them to the windrocs.”

Shadow and fire. Aranya shivered beneath the all-consuming gaze of a Dragon.

She rose from the pool.

* * * *

Chikkan’s purgative made her next day a misery, giving Aranya a blinding headache and intermittent, debilitating stomach cramps. Exactly the plan, he claimed. Aranya begged Ardan to toss the doctor overboard.

The two Dragons spent the morning labouring against contrary winds, beneath iron-grey skies. Zuziana had to rest in her Human form while Ardan carried six passengers for an eight-hour stint from noon to nightfall. But even he was not indefatigable. The Princess of Remoy mined Ri’arion’s knowledge to begin their instruction in mental techniques and disciplines, and drilled them with an air that struck Aranya as far more monkish than the carefree Remoyan of old.

Aranya had the distinct impression that Ardan was pleased to be the one carrying her. Being fought over the previous evening by two Dragons intent on having her sleep in the protective circle of their necks had served to cheer her, daunting as it was. Feisty little Zuziana taking on the monstrous Shadow Dragon? She smiled. Her friend had won that round, at the expense of promising to sleep pressed up against Ardan’s flank while he kept watch. Come dawn, the two Dragons were pressed together very cosily, their shared body-heat meaning that none of the Humans needed a blanket for sleeping.

She was not jealous at all.

By the following afternoon, Ardan was once again reduced to carrying six Riders. Zuziana did not have his stamina. She made up for that by increasing the pace of her teaching.

Unexpectedly, in the middle of a lesson about focus, Zip said, “Why a Land Dragon? Riddle me that, Immadia. Why destroy the Tower?”

Aranya shook her head, losing whatever focus she had managed to achieve. “I just don’t know, Zip. It couldn’t have come from Fra’anior, because he supposedly wants me alive.”

“Alive and enslaved, you mean,” Kylara put in.

Ardan flinched, losing the rhythm of his wingbeat. “Aye. You’re no use to him dead. Do Land Dragons go feral? It would be the oddest coincidence, otherwise.”

Zip said, “There’s no such thing as coincidence when it comes to magic, Ri’arion likes to say – usually when he’s pontificating about something or other.”

“That’s what I meant!”

“We all understood your point, Shadow Dragon,” said Zip, tartly. “And you, Jia. Please spit out whatever you’ve been brewing all day. The duties of a Dragon Rider may or may not include arguing with your Dragon, but speaking your mind is mandatory.”

“Zip-Zap being our resident expert in this skill,” Aranya put in.

To her surprise, a roar of perfectly Dragonish fury flipped Aranya’s hair over her shoulder. She twisted in her seat on Ardan’s spine-ridge to glance at the diminutive Remoyan, seated directly behind her.

Zip grimaced. “Sorry.”

Jia checked the rolled-up cloak they had used to tie Yolathion in place once more, across her legs, before saying, “I call this the ‘everyone wants a bite of Aranya’ theory.”

“Oh, you know all about having a bite of someone else’s boyfriend,” said Zuziana.

“Zip!” gasped the Jeradian girl.

“Speak, o boyfriend-snatcher of Jeradia.”

Aranya reached back to smack Zip’s knee. “Honestly, Zip, leave me to fight my own battles. Jia doesn’t deserve this.”

“For the official scrolleaf,” huffed Jia, appearing hotter and more bothered by the second, “Yolathion was the one chasing two rogue Shapeshifters all over the Island-World, not me. And, might I add, taking a second consort is perfectly acceptable in Jeradian culture, even if Immadians want to pinch other peoples’ boyfriends and keep them exclusively to themselves. Plus, she used her magic, which is unfair – or her magic used her, I guess.”

Only the leathery creak of a Dragon’s wings broke the resulting silence.

Aranya chuckled, “Zip, can you teach her to give a little less of her mind, please?”

She could hear Zip’s smirk; no need to look. “Oh no, she’s an excellent student.”

Jia-Llonya said, “Back to the bite-of-Aranya theory. It doesn’t make sense unless you think about it this way. Fra’anior requires the Amethyst Dragon to carry out his purposes in the Island-World, which, if we read our histories, are highly unlikely to include any benefit for the Human race. Although, he did snag us a handy Shadow Dragon. Nice work there, Aranya.”

The Black Dragon had slammed two fast-moving Islands together, Aranya thought, as she and Ardan coughed simultaneously. Now, they had to deal with the resulting cataclysm.

Nothing that her new heart of stone could not block out.

“Secondly, Thoralian wants Aranya to help him track down the First Egg, which is somewhere across the Rift in Herimor.”

“Did I say that?”

“Thoralian himself told you so,” said Jia-Llonya, who had pressed for his exact words the day before.

Aranya did not want to think about Thoralian and his vile plans, but now she recalled the incident all too vividly. “Oh, yes – definitely Herimor. Simple, right? Take a jaunt across the Rift, pick up the old Egg, conquer the world. Which puts him at cross-purposes with the Black Dragon. So we can conclude they both want me miserable, but alive.”

Nobody laughed at her joke.

Jia added, “Which brings us to these Land Dragons, who seem to be popping up everywhere you fly.” She cast an apologetic look back along the line of Ardan’s Riders. “Sorry, Aranya. I’m trying to cheer you up, can you tell?”

Aranya waved her hand. “I’m smiling.”

“Well, truth be told, your sightings over the Sea of Immadia are the first such report in over a hundred years – apart from what we saw, was it only yesterday?”

“Yesterday morning,” said Kylara. “I saw something, too. Animal. Not a shadow of doubt – like one of the eels we get in our inland swamps, only a thousand times bigger.” She affected an exaggerated shiver. “We Western Islanders have a legend that Land Dragons chewed up our Islands and spat them out. And you both saw that hole through my Island, Ardan and Aranya. What could possibly have carved such a hole, save a million caveworms, or a Land Dragon?”

Aranya scowled off to starboard. “So the Land Dragon pulled down the Tower of Sylakia because …”

“The Land Dragons want to prevent the daughter of a Star Dragon from stealing back the First Egg,” suggested Ardan, “and they’re prepared to send their forces across the Rift to ensure they keep its power for themselves?”

“See what your disobedience to the Ancient Dragon has set off?” said Zuziana, patting Aranya on the shoulder.

This time, she was certain. Fiery butterflies inhabited her stomach, and it was not the doctor’s medicine at work. Aranya sensed that her magic was beginning to trickle back. She gulped. Surely she was not imagining this? Could she hope?

“Insolent Remoyan,” Aranya grumbled. “So now Fra’anior, Thoralian and the Land Dragons are all conspiring against me? And the five moons are up there whispering about which of them will descend to clip my wings?”

Jia said, “Wrecking the Tower and tossing it into the Cloudlands strikes me as a touch drastic. Perhaps if you’re the size of a Land Dragon, one doesn’t negotiate with Dragons a mere hundred feet in size, which compared to you resemble scale mites.”

“The cheerfulness continues like a rain of windroc droppings,” laughed Zip.

Chikkan cleared his throat self-importantly. He said, “Even for a Land Dragon, crossing the Rift is no trivial exercise. Do you have the first conception of what the Rift is like? No? You cannot simply fly a long-range Dragonship over it.”

“Did you come over the Rift, Chikkan?” asked Aranya.

“My grandfather did,” he said. “When I was young and he still lived, he told me that the Sylakians knew the secret method of passing across the Rift. I presume that is how he transported the drakes you spoke of, lady Zuziana. That route is called the Way of Fizurial – and I don’t know what that means, except that Fizurial is a mythical Island said to move in conjunction with the Mystic Moon. As for the Rift itself, my grandfather spoke of a place of storms which reach from the root of the world to the portals of the moons – storms of molten lava, wind and magic. The fires of the underworld blast upward, creating windstorms so powerful they will shape mountains, and strip flesh from bone. It is said that a hundred-league-wide maelstrom appears and vanishes at random intervals, sucking entire Islands into its maw. And the Rift-storm churns up the Cloudlands, spewing poisons and magic so many miles into the atmosphere, not even a Dragon could overfly it.”

“Yet here you are,” said Ardan.

“Service to Sylakia is all I have ever known.” The doctor turned to smile at Aranya, a discomfiting light gleaming in his eyes. “My grandfather taught me to worship Star Dragons. Fear not, lady, for I would not go so far – but I once heard him tell a legend of a people called the Foam Riders who live inside the Rift, who claim that only a Star Dragon is able to tame the Rift-storm. Were you searching for the way, I would ask them.”

“See, even these Foam Rider creatures want a bite of Aranya,” said Zip. “My jealousy grows no less.”

Aranya rolled her shoulders as if that could somehow release her burdens. Land Dragons tracking her across the Rift? That was about as likely as, say, a Chameleon Shapeshifter tracking her by magic. How many more Chameleons might be out there? Did that mean she needed to watch her friends more closely? Her father? Ignathion? Now there was a thought to scare the living pith out of a person! Who could she truly trust?

Suddenly, that sinister light in Chikkan’s eyes … she’d scare herself ralti-stupid this way.

Sighing, Aranya said, “My duty lies first to our Island-World, north of the Rift, and to Yolathion and Ri’arion, if by some means I can help them.”

Ardan asked, “Are you suggesting that your magic has returned?”

“It’s far too early for that,” Chikkan disagreed.

Aranya groaned loudly and long. Two minutes of hope, wrecked.

Chapter 26: Beran with Bite

Skirting the south-Western tip of the Spits as narrowly as they dared, the small Dragonwing turned their noses to the north and gathered speed. Windrocs were a constant danger, but the Shadow and Azure Dragons flew high enough that the birds gave up following them. To their right hand or paw, a sprawling landscape of rocky columns loomed beneath a tablecloth of unbroken grey cloud, as though a table of a million legs stood above the Cloudlands. The spires were surprisingly uniform in height and shape, and up to a quarter-mile square. Some leaned against their neighbours, or appeared to have been severed by unimaginable forces in times past. Two days of hard flying, dawn to midnight, brought them past the cut-off dome of Rolodia Island, once an ally of Immadia, now spoiled, burned and its lake-terraces deliberately destroyed.

Aranya could not see Rolodia, but Ardan’s low-voiced description more than satisfied her curiosity. “Perhaps it’s better not to see,” she said.

“It’s better to see and remember what Thoralian did,” said Jia-Llonya, seated one position ahead of her on Ardan’s back. “That’ll give us the strength we need to beat him.”

And this was the doe-eyed consort she had imagined?

Aranya gazed at the young man stretched over Jia’s lap. Doctor Chikkan said it was only a matter of time before Yolathion died from his mistreatment. They had made him as comfortable as possible, and forced pain-killing herbs down his throat. What more could they do?

“He has strength,” said Chikkan. “But I don’t know that he’d want to live. He’d be a cripple.”

Later, when Zuziana took her turn flying with Aranya and Kylara, the Dragoness said, “Do you think your tears could heal him, Aranya, as they did me?”

Sadly, she told Zip and Kylara how Yolathion had declared that he never wanted to become a Dragon. His healing would require a miracle. Zuziana had been deathly ill when Aranya cried her life-changing tears, but her body had at least been whole. Yolathion’s bones were broken in more places than they could count, his joints dislocated, his spine twisted. Nothing could save him now, this sweet young man who had once dropped his helmet at her smile.

Having overnighted on the mountainous slopes of Nox Island, famous for its excellent, earthy red wines, Ardan and Zuziana set course for Remia, and within three hours, sighted King Beran’s Dragonship fleet on the horizon.

“Ha. Slow-slugs,” said Ardan.

“You forget how time-consuming Dragonship travel is,” added Zip, snorting dismissively. “Being a flying boulder, I bet you can’t catch me!”

With a flip of her wings, she shot ahead.

Aranya wondered if she had been so full of herself as a Dragon. Most probably. But when she thought about seeing her father again, her hand rose instinctively to touch her cheek. Perhaps she should borrow a headscarf from someone. Or hold her head high, and brave the inevitable gasps her appearance would cause.

* * * *

Beran’s eyes filled with tears when he saw her. He clasped Aranya in his arms. “Sparky.”

“I missed you, Dad.”

Love and horror. Her father’s body trembled as she had only ever felt once before, on Izariela’s Tower when she had returned to give the King, and her people, new hope. His hands moved on her shoulders, touching the scattered lumps, and his breath caught in his throat, a stifled moan. Shuddering in response, Aranya knew that Thoralian’s chosen method of torture was so devious, it even injured those she loved without him ever touching them.

She maintained her composure enough to add, “Can we debrief first thing? And then I need time, and space, to myself. Please … you understand, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

Only a lifetime’s training in kingly duties kept King Beran moving from the top of his flagship, where he had chosen to meet the incoming Dragons, to his navigation cabin. Aranya felt his gaze every step of the way.

Seen across the conference table, his grey eyes expressed such a depth of distress that she could not bear to look at him. Beran appeared to have aged twenty years in as many days.

Let him stare. Let them all stare. She was a stone, unbreakable, as immovable as an Island.

Gazing into space, Aranya repeated much of what she had told the others, before fielding an endless gauntlet of questions from Ignathion, Nak and Oyda – necessary and gentle questions, she understood, but harrowing nonetheless. After three hours, the Immadian King cut them off to excuse her.

She entered her cabin and shut the door, overcome by an eerie echo of her journey into exile with First War-Hammer Ignathion. How little she had known, then. Could she have imagined becoming a Dragoness? A felon? Disfigured beyond salvation? Aranya perched on the bed. Here she sat, scrabbling through the ashes of her life.

Glass crashed next door. Fists, pounding the wall; a familiar voice raised in a muffled, faltering cry. Aranya flinched. Her poor father. Beran was raving next door, calling down blood-curdling curses on Sylakia and Thoralian, such words as she had never before heard pass her usually dignified, articulate father’s lips. Aranya knew she should cry. She should weep whole terrace lakes, but all within was a wasteland. She buried her head beneath the pillow-roll, but could not shut out his voice.

At length, the council returned to more measured debate and planning – discussing her, no doubt. Probably exchanging appalled, sympathetic comments about her condition.

Perhaps an hour later, a rap at the door startled her.

“Leave me alone.”

“It’s me, petal.”

“Oyda, please. I don’t want to speak to anyone.”

“It’s important, Aranya. May I come in?”

“If you have to.” Oyda entered soft-footed, and shut the door behind her. The Princess said, “Did my father send you in to pat my head and tell me everything’s going to be alright?”

Oyda did not raise an eyebrow at Aranya’s tone. She said, “Are you ready to listen, petal? I’ve something to say which you need to hear.”

“I need to hear what, exactly?”

She sat up, but hid her face from the old woman, fearing that her sympathy would sear like acid. Oyda’s feet entered her peripheral vision. Aranya wanted to cry out, ‘Don’t touch me!’ Could they not understand it hurt too much?

Oyda said, “I know how presumptuous this is going to sound, Aranya, so if you want to yell at me, that’s fine. I want you to imagine that I’m your mother, and I am going to speak Izariela’s words to you.”

Aranya wondered that the whole world did not catch its breath at Oyda’s audacity. Her mind seemed to expand inward and outward at once. A full-throated roaring filled her ears. Her lungs ceased to function. Aranya saw her mother before her, leaning over as if to comfort a babe in her crib, the pure light of a Star Dragon’s power shining from her face and eyes.

She stared at Oyda, and saw Izariela.

The apparition said, “You’re still my beautiful girl.”

She knew storm power. In her Amethyst Dragon form, Aranya had soared on storm blasts, played between boiling thunderheads and dared the lightning bolts to strike her down. But Oyda’s words conveyed an even greater power; so acute, it carved into her soul like the sharpest of Immadian forked daggers.

“You are beautiful.” The shining figure reached out.

Aranya screamed, throwing herself back against the cabin wall, away from the questing fingers. “No! You can’t do this to me! You’ve no right. No!”

“You need to hear this, Aranyi,” Oyda insisted. “I love you, my beautiful petal.”

“NO!” Her Storm-powered shriek broke in the cabin, thrusting Oyda against the door with a furious gust of wind. “No, please … don’t, you’re killing me …”

The old woman lowered her head and braved the blast, walking across the cabin. Reaching out, she cupped Aranya’s ruined cheeks in the palms of her hands. Her touch was not acid, but the warmth of Human affection.

Oyda wept as she added, “Your mother would say this, Aranya. ‘You are the suns sparkling on my terrace lake, and the snows gracing the peaks of Immadia. I will always love you, no matter what.’”

Had Nak spoken those words, she would have punched him.

However, Oyda had poured sweetness into unspeakable wounds. Aranya broke down, and wept on her old friend’s shoulder until she had no tears left to shed.

* * * *

Wiping her puffy eyes, Aranya asked, “How did you keep my father out of here when I screamed?”

“I ordered him,” said Oyda. “One hundred and seventy-seven summers gives one certain privileges over youngsters like Beran. And, on that note, I take issue with something I heard you say earlier.”

If her father was a ‘youngster’, what did that make her? A hatchling? Still stuck inside the shell, as a Dragon might say? She wished she knew more about what Dragon society and culture might have been like. All they had was the old fireside tales and the inexhaustible fonts of Nak and Oyda’s memories – apart from what the Pygmy Dragon had stolen from them. If her visions had been true, Dragons used to live in thriving communities … and Thoralian would toss it all into a Cloudlands volcano.

A brutal return to reality.

Smiling faintly, Aranya said, “Watch out, here comes the inevitable lecture.”

“Nak’s the one who lectures,” said Oyda, a touch astringently. “I warn you, I will do the fearsome mother-Dragon impression again if you take that tone with me, petal.”

“I saw her – Izariela. I saw her in the storm, as I told you, and I saw her here today.”

“You must have the Star Dragon power of visions,” said Oyda, with a secretive and pleased air about her. Aranya wondered if she had won a bet with Nak. “Are you quite certain you’re an Amethyst Dragon, Aranya?”

“It’s my natural form, isn’t it?”

And if Oyda would not rock her Island any further! Aranya spurned the implications, but knew the idea would bother her later. “Oyda, thank you,” she said. “You scared me ralti-stupid, but I survived the experience. You’re the sweetest, kindest … and I’m sorry I made you cry.”

Oyda nodded, her thousand-wrinkle smile almost closing her eyes. “I’m just a surrogate mother for you, petal, until you rescue your real one. You’re catching flies again. Shut the rabbit-hole and open the earholes instead.” Aranya clicked her teeth together with a Dragonish snap. “Here is the product of a hundred and however many years of experience. Ready?”

This is not your fault.

The abrupt switch to Dragonish made Aranya gasp. When Oyda said no more, seeming content just to watch her reaction, she said, “What isn’t my fault? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, let’s see. Sylakia annihilating all memory of their enemies. Magic-fuelled trysts with Shadow Dragons. War upon the Island-World. The impossible demands of Ancient Dragons, the torture of boyfriends by foul cannibal Dragon-Emperors, magic, uncontrollable storms, your tears manufacturing Shapeshifters, fate, the Shifter pox …”

“Oyda,” she said, with an appalled chuckle. “Stop, stop. Point made.”

“Ah, but I know how stubborn you can be. Has it penetrated that incredibly dense lump of material atop your shoulders, I ask?” Oyda wagged her finger beneath Aranya’s nose. “Thoralian started his mischief a hundred and fifty years before you were born. Sylakia invaded nations while your father was gallivanting around the Island-World with a Star Dragon in chains. Beran campaigned for years while you played with your dolls.”

She reddened. “I never played with …”

“Oh, it was Dragons and Princes with you, was it?” Oyda hastily removed her finger as Aranya pretended to bite it. “It’s not your fault! It cannot be.”

Aranya nodded mutely. Perhaps there was a truth within her words that she could learn to believe in.

Oyda’s expression became pensive, as if she were drawn to a long-ago, faraway place. At length, she appeared to come to a decision. “Aranya, I say this because I hope it might somehow help you. Many years ago, before I met Nak and became a Dragon Rider, a trusted family friend forced himself upon me. I’m not a big, strong woman, Aranya. I could not fight him off, besides that he had a dagger to my throat.”

“No, Oyda. That’s terrible.”

“I felt soiled afterward. So used. So helpless and filled with hate, both for him and within myself. When I trained to become a Dragon Rider, it was because I wanted a Dragon to call upon when I went to take my revenge. But there was a woman at the school in Jeradia who helped me – Mistress Mya’adara. I remember what she said to me, words which I have passed on to you. I see you walking the paths of that same dark Island, and I weep for you, petal, I truly do. Words can never erase it. But maybe, for you, this will be a beginning.”

“Oh, Oyda …”

Now she understood in some small measure why Oyda felt compelled to nurture those in her care, Aranya thought, hugging her friend warmly. She took in stray Shapeshifter Dragons and helped them piece their lives back together.

A new insight struck Aranya. Fate did not so much consist of single, self-contained threads, as the weaving of a tapestry. Her amethyst thread looped, knotted and intertwined with many others – the white of Izariela, Zip’s sky-blue, the dark patterns of a Shadow Dragon. Each thread was precious and unique. Some were thicker than others or more predominant, others thinner and weaker, yet they still formed part of an intricate whole.

When she expressed this thought to Oyda, the old woman said, “And what does this teach you, Aranya?”

“That no person is an Island,” Aranya said at once, before looking deeper into her churning feelings. “I should be thankful my thread did not snap at the Last Walk; I should have the courage to accept what happened with Ardan, and – oh, roaring rajals, Oyda, I’m going to say it – I should not blindly rebel against the Black Dragon, but approach his overtures with … maturity, I suppose. Dignity, even.”

“Bravo, petal.”

The Immadian Princess held Oyda even tighter. “You are my master weaver, Oyda. A precious, gentle hand upon the loom.”

“Now, something else,” said the old Dragon Rider, seeming embarrassed by Aranya’s emotional response. “I’ve been thinking about how you change colour – actually, the type of Dragon you are. Acid? That’s for Greens only. Horrible choice of colour, petal. I ask myself why you can’t be any colour you choose? Why, if you have that level of control over your Dragon form, as a Shapeshifter are you restricted to replicating wounds, and scars, and so on? Why should that stop you? Could you not make yourself anew?”

“Because that’s my fundamental nature?” Aranya wondered aloud. Oyda’s small sigh demanded more. “Fine, because if I … if I meddled in a transformation, I might end up like my mother?”

“Ouch. Sorry.”

“You’re … you’re hoping … I can just transform my way out of this?”

A nightmare, or a magical dream?

Oyda sighed. “Oh, petal, it was a ralti-stupid idea. I should have thought about Izariela first.”

Aranya squeezed her hand. “No, it was kind and thoughtful of you. Of course, there are enormous differences between Human and Dragon anatomies. Even Ri’arion cannot explain how it is possible for a Shapeshifter’s instinct to simply know how to change between forms. Which part of me knows I’m Amethyst, not Azure? That I am forty-three feet long and not fifty, or that I have five discrete stomachs to replace one ordinary Human one?”

“I’ll leave you to ponder that, petal,” said Oyda, rising.

“Don’t go.”

“I believe your father would like to see you.”

“Then one last request, Oyda.” Aranya tried to smooth out the pain in her voice. “Would you ask Nak not to make any of his usual comments, just for a while? I love him, and all …”

“He’ll understand.”

The old woman paused in the doorway, her eyes sadder and wiser than Aranya had ever seen them. “Petal, I’ve lived a great long time on this Island-World, perhaps longer than a person has a right to. I have seen Sylakia’s evil grow and spread like a cancer. Thoralian nullified your mother before she had her chance. But fate has a funny way of redressing the balance when we least expect it. I truly believe that. You flew when you should have fallen into the Cloudlands. You crash-landed on my doorstep. You saved Immadia and brought hope to the world.”

“I believe with all my heart, and Emblazon would have agreed with me, that you are the one who has been chosen to stand against Thoralian and his schemes, and defeat him. Your suffering is not for nothing; it has worth and meaning and indeed, power. You see, the true battle is not fought with our bodies, but with our hearts. And you, Aranya, have a brand of courage which makes your heart ineffably beautiful, if I may borrow a Nak expression. Izariela would be so very proud of who you have become.”

With that, the old Dragon Rider left.

A perfect rainbow after the storm.

* * * *

Beran brought with him a tray of nibbles – spicy fish skewers, ralti kebabs, a deep bowl of Noxian sweet potato, and enough vegetables and fruit to sink a Dragonship. He also brought Sapphire. The dragonet flashed across the cabin to bury her head in Aranya’s lap, cooing and rubbing her muzzle against her stomach.

“Poor mite, she’s been beside herself,” said Beran.

“I thought she’d stay at Fra’anior with the others,” said Aranya, stroking the dragonet’s soft scales. Petal, I missed you, but I’m alright now. “How are the ice-dragonets?”

Sapphire made a cat-like purr, rubbing her muzzle with her paws now in a gesture that Aranya had begun to suspect indicated deep emotion. There was more to these quaint, amazing little creatures than she had ever imagined. Sapphire’s eyes swirled gently, drawing her into their hypnotic depths. She pictured white dragonets mingling with all the other colours in Island-wide aerial celebrations, shy and curious meetings, already a number of pairings …

“Over the Islands, literally,” said the King. “May I sit?”

“Dad.” She made a droll face at him, before realising she had no idea if that expression worked, now. “What’s new on the winds?”

“A skinny ex-felon turned up on my Dragonship today. I’ve orders to feed her up.” Beran placed the tray on the bed between them. “We’ve the beginnings of a workable plan for Yorbik. And Sparky, you need to take it easy on your old Dad. I’ve been dragged from the depths of the Cloudlands to the skies, yet again.”

“Sorry, Dad. Yum, the fish is delicious.” She offered Sapphire a chunk. “The Chameleon Shapeshifter was a bit unforeseen.” The dragonet declined, but wound herself around Aranya’s neck, purring contentedly.

“I take it from the blast, your magic has returned?”

“I was provoked,” she replied, feeling exactly that way. Why did he have to jump straight to business? “Only a little magic, mind.”

“Since others have had their bite of you, it’s my turn,” said her father, evidently reading her mood with discomfiting accuracy. “All I’m saying is, your Dragon is important. She’s your other half, so to speak, and she represents hope for Yolathion and Ri’arion, not to mention the entire Island-World. But I didn’t come by to lump more worries on your shoulders.”

“Oh?”

“No, Aranyi.” His grey eyes softened. “It’s a bitter, wicked thing Thoralian has done, chewing you up like this – and I hope he burns forever in a place reserved for villains like him. You probably heard.” He laughed curtly. “I have another purpose, for which I have Nak to thank, as he set my feet on a better path. A wise old man, our Nak, once you ignore the lechery.”

Curious. Spooning more of the tasty sweet potato into her mouth, Aranya considered the man squirming before her. What was so difficult for her father to say? He had always valued directness.

“We passed over Remia, Dad?”

“Aye. We’re bound now for the eastern edge of the Horness Cluster, where we’ll gather our strength. Jendor is too wild to even put Dragonships down. From there, we can practically spit and hit Yorbik. We’ll link up with Commander Darron before making final adjustments to the plan – flying ralti sheep! Shut me up if I start talking strategy, Sparky. I’m not here for that.”

“Fine by me,” Aranya mumbled through her mouthful.

This had to be Oyda’s work. Food and love, her two failsafe ingredients for getting a Dragoness, or a person, back on their feet.

“Close your mouth when you – oh, listen to me.” Beran helped himself to a fish skewer. “You’re seventeen summers now, not seven. No. My business is to tell you about your mother. Not the stories you already know. Details. Snippets. Impressions. Her poetry.”

Aranya paused mid-bite. “Because … Nak thinks I might learn something about being a Star Dragon?”

“That, too.”

“You’ll speak of my Shifter heritage? Of Izariela’s powers?”

“Nak believes that love conquers all, Sparky. I guess in a roundabout Nak way, he’s thinks that if you understand who you truly are, that will give you the best chance of defeating Thoralian. I don’t go for the soppy romantic delivery, but his point is well made.” He pushed four scrolls toward her. “Nak and Oyda interviewed everyone on Ha’athior who might possibly have known your mother or Lyriela’s parents. That information is detailed in these.”

Aranya’s heart pulsed in her throat. Oh, what could she ever do to thank them enough?

Beran took her hand in his. His fingers touched the scarred nodules upon her skin as though wishing to trace, beneath the ruined surface, the Dragon fire that rose within her even as the tides of her emotions waxed like the moons.

He said, “As you know, the magical imperative of destiny is little understood. We say there is love at first sight. We call it star-song and moons-madness and many names besides, all trying and failing to capture the indefinable enchantment that arrests two souls when first they meet.”

This poet was her father? Or was this the man who had courted Izariela, who had later become embittered by her fate?

“The day I met Izariela, I was sailing a single-handed Dragonship to a secret meeting, and followed in idle curiosity what I thought to be a Dragon landing on a Ha’athiorian mountaintop.” His quiet laughter was three parts joy and one part melancholy. “There, I discovered a girl clothed in white, quickly concealing her amazing hair beneath a headscarf as she turned away in embarrassment. Did she summon me? Did fate turn my path aside that day? Did our souls sense each other, and draw us together?”

“I can’t answer those questions, of course. I stopped to ask if she was lost, if she needed help descending the mountain. Izariela was most amused by my concern.”

Aranya smiled at her father. A Dragoness would have been tickled, or annoyed, by such an offer.

“Aye. There this beauty stood, right on a cliff’s edge, and a heavily-armed, bearded foreigner accosted her to offer a ride – in a culture in which kidnapping to wife, is common practice. I’m afraid Izariela must have thought I took her for a fool.”

“Still, she hid her appearance from me, and I knew that nothing else in the Island-World mattered but to catch a glimpse of her face.”

“Your grandfather died young, in a hunting accident, you’ll recall. I became King of Immadia a month shy of my eighteenth birthday. I was in the habit of introducing myself by my title in the hope it would impress the ladies. So I strutted up to her and announced, ‘I am Beran of Immadia, King of the most splendid Island in the world, but you outshine its beauty by far.’”

Aranya burst out laughing. “You didn’t! You never told me this, Dad!”

“Ludicrous, eh? I used exactly those words. Which was also when she looked up and smiled at me, stole my heart, and my ability to speak right along with it. I was so mortified I beat a hasty retreat – stop laughing, you wretch. I didn’t even ask her name. So imagine my surprise the very next week, when I spied your mother at King Cha’arlla’s nuptial ball. I’ll never forget. Izariela wore a stunning Fra’aniorian lace gown in a colour akin to the brightest of skies, white with just a hint of blue – the same colour as her eyes. Her smile dazzled. She was the darling of Fra’anior, the talk of the ball. The King introduced us. We clasped hands, as you know the Fra’aniorians do, and the rest was history.”

“Dad …”

“Oh, you want details?”

“Stop yanking my hawser!” Aranya cried, and then chuckled in delight at her fiery response. Yes, her magic was returning. But was it enough? She could not sense her Dragon form yet. “What did Mom say? How did she respond?”

To Aranya’s surprise, her father’s ears turned a flaming pink colour. “She said, ‘Islands’ greetings, beautiful Beran.’ Poor Cha’arlla did not know where to look. Nor did she, once she realised what she had said. We were so infatuated with each other, Aranyi, she didn’t leave my side that whole evening, to the dismay of every other suitor at the ball. And they were many.”

“Which was when you kidnapped her?”

She had never seen her father so discomfited. Fascinating! He fidgeted like a little boy caught stealing sweets. “I … was in a tearing hurry, so I … well, asked her permission after the event, so to speak. Given as I had the armies of at least ten Islands breathing down my neck at the time. Aye. Izariela was already in chains aboard my Dragonship when I proposed. Had her uncle and aunt, Ja’arrion and Va’assia, been alive, I believe I would have been roasted by Dragons to boot.”

“You spirited her out of Thoralian’s grasp just in time,” said Aranya.

“And a jolly good thing she loved me, eh?” quipped Beran, making a show of mopping his brow.

Aranya chuckled, “I called Ardan ‘delicious Dragon’ when we first met. He’s anything but –” she broke off with a wheeze of dismay, realising what she had revealed.

Her father said, “Don’t worry, Sparky. I worked that out.”

“He told you!”

“He’s an honourable man, Aranyi. If it matters, I like him even more than sweet but starchy Yolathion.” Her father reached out to clasp her shoulder. “Let’s speak of your mother. Maybe later, you’ll tell me all about this fascinating Shadow beast, and why you rejected him – nothing to do with our bullying Ancient Dragon, is it?”

Her father approved of Ardan? He had guessed why she had rejected him? Great Islands, was her life an open scroll to him? Shaking her head, she said, “Dad, are you quite certain you haven’t any magical powers of intuition?”

“I can read hurt in a man’s eyes, Sparky. After your mother was poisoned, that was all I saw in the mirror, for years.”

“Following which, you’ll kick Fra’anior in the teeth for me?”

“My job as your Dad definitely includes kicking Ancient Dragons in the teeth. Just say the word.”

Chapter 27: Storms Rising

WHILE BERAN’s Dragonhip fleet rode the rising winds to Horness Cluster, Aranya rode the joy and fear of her magic’s resurgence. Joy, because her healing power could ease Yolathion’s suffering. Fear, because the horizon blackened with storm clouds once more and the breezes grew capricious and spiteful, making Ri’arion cast sinister glances in her direction. Aranya shrank from his disapproval. Aye, it was her storm. She could do nothing to control it.

Somewhere, Fra’anior mocked her.

Jia allowed her to minister to Yolathion. The guilt over his condition gnawed at her conscience. Should she give him the magical Dragon tears when they reappeared? Did her healing magic ease his suffering, only to prolong it?

The winds did serve to send the dirigible fleet scudding northward. The fourth evening after they had rejoined King Beran’s forces, Aranya heard the Steersman sing out sight of Horness Cluster. Finally. She had a headache the size of Immadior’s Sea from Ri’arion’s incessant mental training, and now counted amongst her usual, exhausting nightly repertoire, dreams about a Land Dragon running amok.

With Sapphire snoozing on her shoulder and Zip and Jia-Llonya helping her in the medical cabin, Aranya wiped Yolathion’s brow with a cool cloth, before placing her palm flat on his forehead.

“I hate seeing Yolathion like this,” Aranya said, letting her power flood into him. “Our last conversation was a bit unpleasant.”

“How?” asked Zip.

“He told me –”

“No. Not the Dragon,” he moaned. Aranya yelped as Yolathion flapped his right arm toward her. “Don’t make me a Dragon … don’t …”

“Sapphire, no! Ouch.”

Aranya blinked at the sight of three neat cuts in the back of her hand from the dragonet’s claws. Yolathion slumped on the pillow-roll, as pallid as the corpse he nearly was. His chest rose and fell shallowly. The force of his movement had reopened the wounds in his right arm.

Ari hurt?

Sapphire, it’s alright. Sapphire? The dragonet licked her hand. Don’t … oh dear. If my tears heal, I don’t know what my blood might do to you. You were just protecting me. Don’t fuss. Ari is fine.

“The dragonet’s talking to her,” Zip informed Jia-Llonya.

“Wow! So the legends are true.”

“Yes,” said Aranya. “And you just learned what Yolathion and I spoke about. He’s dead set against becoming a Dragon. If I use my tears, he’ll probably turn into a Shapeshifter.”

“But if you don’t, he’ll certainly die,” Jia pointed out.

“If I do, there’s no guarantee the magic would heal him. How would the bones be re-set, for example? How could he fly? He’d live the rest of his days in a chair at best, a bed at worst.”

“You want him to die!”

Zuziana held the furious Jeradian back – to Aranya’s surprise, the tiny Remoyan succeeded against the much taller girl. Dragon strength? “No, I don’t. But how can I make that decision for him, when he has clearly stated he does not want the magic? Would you? Or Ignathion?”

“If I, as the one who actually loves him, assumed that responsibility, would you then be willing?”

Aranya flushed hotly. The little rajal had her claws out! How dare she? She said, “Would I be less of a coward, do you mean?”

“Back off, you two, before you start the clawing and hair-pulling!” snapped Zip, thumping Aranya in the chest and Jia on the shoulder. “We all love Yolathion –” she grinned impishly “– alright, calm down, Jeradia. We all want to see him well.”

Jia turned to Aranya. Only the twisting together of her hands betrayed her misery as she said, flatly, “One factor which may influence your decision, is that we discovered Yolathion betrayed you at some point during your campaign in the Western Isles. Aye, you gasp. He communicated your plan to travel via Mejia and the probable timing of your arrival at Jeradia, to Ignathion’s command. That’s why they were so well prepared.”

“He was talking to Ignathion all along?” Aranya could hardly believe her ears. “Then what was the point of that bluster about being ashamed of his father?”

Zuziana snorted, “Families. I’d bet half of Remoy’s terrace lakes the Chameleon Shifter used that intelligence to time his attack at Fra’anior, and he made you miss Lyriela’s wedding – which is the bit that truly makes my lightning bolts frazzle and spark.”

You’re sweet, said Lyriela.

Aranya jumped, but Zip did not. She must have heard Lyriela’s footsteps with the benefit of her Dragon senses. Aranya growled, Just another thing Thoralian stole from me.

Her cousin added, Zuziana, King Beran asked if you would scout ahead. We need a good Island and a place where he can address all the troops.

“Good,” said Zip. “Aranya, Lyriela, let’s go. Time for a talk amongst us girls. Jia?”

“I should stay with Yolathion.”

Aranya quelled Zip’s half-formed snarky comment with a hand on her arm and a firm headshake. Sometimes the Remoyan was irrepressible.

Zip said, Lyriela, you cannot fly comfortably in a dress. Maybe you’d fit a pair of Aranya’s trousers. What do you think?

Trousers? Lyriela bit her lip. What would Ta’armion say? And, I should ask his permission first …

Zip goggled at her. Islands’ sakes, girl! Which century do you live in?

A Fra’aniorian one, said Lyriela.

Shortly, Zip was delving into Aranya’s bag of clothing with the enthusiasm of a ferret who had scented a meal. Lyriela dressed diffidently. They’re very tight. And revealing. What will my husband think?

His pointy ears will prick up and he’ll start panting like a hound, offered Zip, with a wicked grin.

Lyriela’s cheeks resembled a perfect dawn. That’s it. There’s no way … I feel unclothed. I can’t go in a dress?

No, said Zip, firmly. Dresses are not for riding Dragonback. These trousers fit you perfectly, unlike that underfed waif over there. Thoralian’s dungeon food clearly didn’t agree with her.

Oyda’s feeding me up, said Aranya.

Zip smiled sweetly at her in the mirror. Good, because the next time you run naked into a room full of Sylakian Hammers, you need to give them something to grab.

Z-Zuziana o-of Remoy, spluttered Aranya, slapping down her friend’s hands as she mimed exactly what the soldiers would be grabbing. You’re shameless!

Ha. You don’t see me cavorting with any troops, do you? Anyways. Lyriela. Over here. This is what we’re going to do.

With a firm rap on the door of Prince Ta’armion’s quarters, Zip entered. “Beran’s orders,” she said. “I’m to scout ahead with Aranya and Lyriela. I assume that’s fine with you?”

The Prince glanced up from the map he had been studying. “Of course. You’ll be careful?”

“I’m a Dragon.” Lyriela, now.

“Aye … ay-ay-ay!” The chair crashed to the floor as Prince Ta’armion leaped to his feet, turning pink, purple and white in blotches all over his face. “Lyriela!”

Aranya’s cousin twirled just inside the doorway, as instructed, and smiled coquettishly at her husband. She signed, ‘How do I look?’

“Fabbrilwonderzing,” gasped the Prince.

I make that fabulous, brilliant, wonderful and amazing all at once, said Zip. The trousers win first prize, Lyriela. Just look at his face – how that man adores you! Right, go fetch your kiss.

Lyriela stepped across the cabin, almost lost her nerve, and then slipped her arms around the Prince’s neck. ‘A kiss before I leave?’ she mouthed. Ta’armion instantly obliged. He was so obliging, it took some time before he realised he had an audience who could see precisely how much he relished his wife’s foray into her very un-Fra’aniorian trousers.

“Great Islands!” He released her as though he had burned his hands, gabbling, “You do look fabulous, Lyriela. I don’t think I should let you go dressed like that, though. Someone might see.”

“Who, a few windrocs and a passing cloud?” asked Zip.

“I shall escort you aloft,” said the Prince, gallantly. Lyriela’s smile was radiant as he tucked his arm possessively about her waist.

Aranya taught Lyriela the easiest way to mount a Dragon, stepping first onto her hind paw, then up onto the bend of her knee, before scrambling up the slope of her hindquarters and walking up to the spine-spikes.

Zuziana isn’t made of eggshells, laughed Aranya, seeing Lyriela creeping along. Sit here in the front saddle position. Buckle the waist belt and the thigh straps. Make sure everything’s tight. Your bow. Secure the quiver in this loop. I’ll be right behind you, and when we take off, don’t forget to breathe.

Lyriela laughed her soundless laugh. I love this already. Oh! Oh dancing dragonets …

That was when the Azure Dragon walked to the platform’s edge. Spreading her wings to catch the breeze, she took off. Ardan’s watching from way, way above, she said.

Lyriela’s mental voice wobbled madly as she cried, This is glorious, Zip!

No sneaky turning into a Dragon, Zip admonished.

Aranya spread her arms, playing with the steady flow of air generated by Zuziana’s wingbeats as they rapidly left the fleet in their wake. How she longed to fly. Just last night, she had dreamed of flying low over the Cloudlands, the airstream tingling upon her scales, scenting the aroma of exotic, faraway Islands, when … Ancient Dragons roamed the Island-World, thundering in watery realms far larger even than the terrace lakes of Yorbik Island, and Land Dragons vaulting out of the waters like archer-trout leaping for iridescent insects, and … her head snapped around.

What was that?

She desperately needed her old eyesight back. Aranya tried to scan the Cloudlands to the south, but no amount of squinting would bring the world into focus. Darkness crowded about the edges of her vision, as though she saw through an age-stained pane of crysglass.

“Aranya?”

“I saw … I thought I saw … is there something behind us, Zip?”

The Azure Dragoness scanned the Cloudlands from horizon to horizon. “Only our Dragonships ten leagues behind, and the twin suns peeking above a storm obscuring the southern and eastern skyline, Aranya.”

Aranya said, “Will you help me, Zip? I need to find a way to convince Jia-Llonya and Ignathion that Ri’arion needs my power. I haven’t the strength to serve them both, and it’s your monk we need more in the coming battle with Thoralian. I must stop treating Yolathion, for Ri’arion’s sake.”

“Oh, Aranya.”

Lyriela said, Will you speak Dragonish, please? I can’t lip-read a Dragon.

Sorry. Aranya repeated their brief conversation to her cousin.

Aye, she said. Aranya, we must allow your father to break this news, difficult as it is. It cannot come from Zip. We can offer the monks’ healing power in exchange.

To keep Yolathion alive and suffering, Aranya thought. Every time she saw him, it twisted her up even more inside. What had she done to him? Her stupid choices, her hounding him into turning traitor against the Sylakians – had he done so willingly? Or for her alone? Ironically, only to be betrayed by an Amethyst Dragon’s failure to control her passions.

It’s a wise approach, Lyriela, said Zip, sounding relieved.

Was it so evil for her to want Sha’aldior? A dancing, crooning Shadow Dragon stalked Aranya in her mind; without warning, he turned into a seven-headed monster sweeping down upon them from the storm. Aranya jerked so hard against her saddle-straps that she knew she’d have weals on her thighs afterward.

Petal? Zip worried. What is it? I hear the drumbeat in your chest, I smell fear …

I’m struggling to find the Island of sanity, Aranya admitted. The pox changed me … changed something, Zip, but even before, especially in the storm, I was starting to see waking visions and I can’t tell now if what I’m seeing is real or the past or the future, and I see Ancient Dragons disporting themselves amongst the Islands, and war breaking over our world with the power, sweeping whole Islands to their doom …

Petal. Shh.

Aranya gazed to the horizon. The storm’s thunder was the Black Dragon’s vexation, the boiling thunderheads his breath, the darkness moving beneath the murky storm-front his fury sweeping over the Island-World.

You’re frightened, dear cousin. Lyriela twisted about in the saddle to put her arm around Aranya’s shoulders. You need to confront Fra’anior, or the strain will drive you mad, and wreck our Island-World.

Aranya asked, The storm is normal? Real?

Real enough, said Zip, scanning the horizon behind them. But normal? No. Even I can sense a strangeness about it, the presence of great magic.

Yet I sense something else out there, only, I don’t know what, Aranya said. Zuziana could not sense what she knew, the eerie melody of magic run wild, drawing her soul like a string tied to a kite. I rebuffed the Black Dragon. Now I fear that the full scope of his retribution is still to be visited upon us, and I cry, ‘Haven’t we suffered? Haven’t enough people died?’ It’s too costly a price, Zip. Too painful to bear.

That is why we will see this fate through to its end, together, said the Azure Dragon.

Together, said Lyriela. Not least for my parents. For Aunt Izariela. For Rolodia and Naphtha and all who have burned on the pyre of Thoralian’s madness and ambition.

You’d do that?

Zip’s nodding bobbed them up and down. Aranya, a whole army back there says we’d do that. It is time for good to be seen under the suns. We’re the tools to forge the future.

The Princess of Immadia turned once more to stare with half-blind eyes at the cloud-covered realms they had crossed. What was hidden there? What mysteries haunted her, above cloud and below? Did her storms reach into the Cloudlands to destroy the territories of Land Dragons?

Zip said, Petal. Lyriela must play for you when we return. But if I could teach you the mind-meld Ri’arion taught me, you’d be able to see through my eyes. Would that help ease your mind?

Aranya nodded. It would.

Her heart beat – doom, doom, doom.

* * * *

That afternoon, Beran’s forces sprawled out over a wide, boulder-strewn meadow on an eastern Isle of the Horness Cluster. The soldiers were more than happy to disembark after days of being cooped up inside the Dragonships. The commanders quickly set the warriors to work pitching tents, organising camp, and playing war games to work off their excess energy.

Nak arranged a fire-pit to roast enough ralti sheep for three thousand troops. He was in his element, tottering about on his canes, slapping shoulders, barking orders at the ‘youngsters’ and accidentally pinching a female Western Isles warrior’s backside. He nearly lost his head for that indiscretion.

Later, as no less than thirty-two ralti sheep sizzled on the enormous spits – they had decimated someone’s flock, Aranya thought – trumpets sounded and the troops gathered around a large boulder to hear King Beran’s address. The King stood with Ignathion at his shoulder, while the Shadow Dragon looked over the throng from nearby. He had no need of a boulder to see over everyone.

“Men and women of the Isles!” her father shouted. “There comes a time in our lives when we must choose to stand up for what we believe in. We must stand for truth and justice. We must choose the right. I see before me brave men and women from all over our Island-World, and my heart gladdens at this vision of the Islands united as never before.”

Raising his fists to the sky, Beran hollered, “Do I hear Jeradia’s mighty ones?” Cheers and hoots rose from the right. “And the famous warriors of the Western Isles?” A thunder of scimitars against shield-bosses. “And the monks of Fra’anior Cluster, who follow the Path of the Great Dragon?” A dignified clapping of hands. “Do I hear the roar of Dragons?” Ardan and Zuziana drowned out the clapping with fine, reverberating challenges.

Ignathion thumped King Beran on the shoulder. “Who is from Immadia, Island of the free?”

“Immadia!” shouted the troops from the North. Aranya found herself shouting right along with them.

“You all know me,” boomed Ignathion. “I once invaded this King’s Island. I counted him my worst enemy, the Immadian Fox. Now, we stand together as brothers, united against an evil that threatens to enslave and destroy us all!”

As the two leaders spoke, exhorting the troops and outlining the basic strategy for their invasion of Yorbik Island, Aranya’s weak eyes wandered over the crowd. Tall, tanned Jeradians stood alongside dark, loincloth-clad Western Isles warriors and pale, bearded Immadians. A pool of purple robes denoted the elite troops of Fra’anior, commanded by the Prince, a number restricted by the carrying capacity of their Dragonship fleet. The shaven heads belonged to the monks. And here, standing beside her, were two brave and precious souls – Nak and Oyda.

Oyda’s fingers laced with hers. She said, “The tragedy is, Princess, that in peacetime, dying is for the old. But in war, it is for the young. How many of these will see their next summer?”

“We can hope,” said Aranya.

“War is no place for useless old men,” said Nak.

“You’re not useless!” Her fires surged up. Aranya hastily damped her response before the cloaks of the Immadian soldiers guarding her caught fire.

“Can you feel your Dragoness yet, petal?” asked Oyda.

“No. Nothing.”

Nak said, “Don’t you worry. The disguise I have planned for you will work, and I’ll bet three Islands to a rajal’s dinner that your Dragon will not stand idle at the first clash of battle.”

Aranya wished she had his confidence.

Her father painted visions of a peaceful future. Her visions included Ancient Dragons … Fra’anior, are you there?

From impenetrable darkness, he spoke. You have chosen your own path, little one. Now you must walk it to its end.

She bowed her head in shame.

No. If she had a choice, then she would choose to be unashamed of her failures. Besides, the guilt and loss would only act like an anchor thrown from a Dragonship. Thoralian would find a way to turn her unshed burdens against her.

All she needed to do was learn to fly through life unencumbered. Simple.

Unbidden, her thoughts returned to the Shadow Dragon. Thou, my soul’s desire … Aranya bit her lip as his muzzle turned, singling her out amongst that great throng. Oh, great Islands, how had Ardan heard her murmur, inaudible as it was? She had spent weeks in that dungeon, trying to forget him. Now the awareness of his dark, ardent regard made her tingle inside, as though that deep fire breathed within her, gently radiant. Aranya could see only the shape of his muzzle, not his eyes, but the sense of connection between them caused heat to race from her belly, up her spine and explode into her face. Her scalp prickled. Her hair stirred, straining against its confining braids.

Thou, he whispered to her soul.

N-Noooo … she fled the fire in her mind, but the shadow was faster, trapping her just as he had ambushed her in the cave.

She did not want to escape. Aranya bowed her head, shaking as that memory of the Shadow Dragon thundered through her mind. Broken promises; renewed vows. How could she find a way to be true to both?

Later on, the evening was full of chatter, ideas and strategizing, argument and counter-argument, and all around, the sounds of troops singing, bantering and sharpening weapons. Ignathion, Beran, Ri’arion and Nak tossed viewpoints about as enthusiastically and warmly as the sparks flitting from their fire, while Aranya tried not to brood, nor to think too hard about Ardan and Kylara, who had departed with a cargo of six message hawks to fly ahead to Yorbik Island. Zuziana kept watch somewhere in the star-drenched skies above.

Idly, Aranya scratched the base of Sapphire’s skull where the dragonet liked it best.

Are you hungry, Sapphire?

The dragonet did not open her blissfully shut eyes. Ari sad?

I’m missing my Dragon – my Amethyst Dragon form.

Dragon sleeping. Ari wake up?

Aranya bit her lip. Mercy! I wish I knew how, Sapphire.

Oyda, mending someone’s leather greaves, looked up. “Where’s your cousin, Aranya?”

“Shaking those bushes over there with her husband,” said Nak, pointing with his cane.

An activity she would never enjoy again. Aranya sighed. Perhaps she should become a monk. They were supposed to be masters of their mortal flesh. Since Beran had ordered the young couple not to stray too far, Nak’s prurient interest had an obvious target.

“Your fires, Aranya,” Oyda warned, as the fire roared upward unexpectedly.

“Not mine,” she replied. “Oh dear –”

With a roar, the bushes exploded. Aranya was on her feet, running, when she cannoned off Prince Ta’armion. He came pelting out of the little thicket, trouser-less and dishevelled, shrieking, “Who hid a Dragon in my pillow-roll? Who?”

“GRAAAGH!” snarled the Dragon in the bushes, rolling over and standing up.

Aranya was about to hurdle a low boulder when she tripped over a large paw and landed nose-first in a patch of soft, damp soil. The Dragon stepped on her legs. What have you done with my mate?

Lyriela, please. Calm down. You know me. The pressure eased, to her relief. You’ve transformed into a Dragon. We knew this would happen, dear cousin. We spoke about this.

A Dragon? Help me!

Shh, easy on the hackles there, girl. Aranya leaped to her feet, reaching up to pat Lyriela’s neck. By the mountains of Immadia, she was huge! Let’s take a look at you. She swallowed her fear. Oh, you are a beautiful beast. What lovely scales you have, Lyriela. Such pretty colours. Aye, four paws, perfect Dragon wings and a slender tail, and the most gorgeously magical pair of violet eyes I’ve ever seen.

Lyriela subsided, almost purring at the compliments. Aranya stifled a giggle with a stern inner admonition. Warming up the new Dragoness’ fires now would help no-one.

“Aye, by the mountains of Immadia, as some people might say,” said Nak, leaping to his feet to describe a bow that threatened to pitch him into the fire, “thy draconic finery doth outshine the very brilliance of the dawn. What awe and delight is mine!”

Prince Ta’armion stuttered, “W-W-What? Have you all g-gone stark, raving mad?”

“Petal, go fetch the poor man his trousers.”

“Yes, Oyda.”

When she returned, seconds later, the Prince was scanning the campsite, in a frantic state, exclaiming, “Where’s Lyriela? Who stole my darling wife? We were just in the middle of –” Oyda stepped on Nak’s foot to stop his snigger in its tracks “– well, we were just over there, when that creature – Aranya! Where’s that wretched girl? You played this trick on me once before. Twice is too much, I own!”

“Here, o Prince,” said Aranya, holding out his trousers.

“Thanks. What? That’s not you? Who is … oooooh, I don’t feel good. This was a nasty joke to play on a man of my delicate sensibilities.”

Nak said, “Bah. You’ll be fine. Pass the wine, someone.”

It was King Beran, of all people, who began to laugh – and once he started, the hilarity rippled around the circle. Aranya moved over to stand with her cousin, her fifty-foot, oh-so-Dragonish cousin, who seemed quite taken aback by the spectacle of all the Humans around the fire crying with laughter. Her scales were violet, a much lighter shade than Aranya’s rich amethyst, fading to a delicate white-purple on her belly and beneath her neck, and her form had a muscular sinuosity about it that made her movements decidedly hypnotic. Would that be Lyriela’s power, Aranya wondered? What powers would have transferred through their family’s lineage to her?

Ignathion raised his water flask in salute. “Come and sit with us, Lyriela.”

But I’m not wearing anything.

You’re wearing your Dragon hide, said Aranya. Easy does it on the first step. You don’t want to squash any of us little people.

“Oh, by the Great Dragon’s own fires,” groaned Prince Ta’armion, finally doing his sums and arriving at the right answer. “Aranya, I swear … you put your cousin up to this, didn’t you?”

“No, Prince Ta’armion. You married into a family of Shapeshifters. What did you expect? Songbirds?”

Last time he had been shocked by a Dragon’s transformation, in hardly less comical circumstances, the Prince had collapsed insensate. Now, he clutched at the shreds of his courage.

“I do declare, upon my honour as a Prince of Fra’anior, she is a most resplendent beast,” he said, looking the Dragoness up and down. “Quite magnificent. I think this cheeky rebellion can be forgiven. First the scandalous trousers, now a Dragoness – you’ve had quite the day, Lyriela. Give your husband a kiss, my petal.”

Lyriela stumbled forward and butted him so hard the Prince sat down abruptly. “Oof!”

Sorry. A sweet smile curved her lips as Lyriela scooped up her husband in her forepaw. How about a cuddle, dear husband?

“Save me!” wailed the Prince.

Chapter 28: The Tears of War

KylARA BIT HER quill pen in concentration. “I’ll have you know, writing isn’t my strength.”

“No, but writing on peoples’ heads with your scimitar is.”

“Your Dragon hide conceals the scar.”

“Aren’t you lucky I’m still so pretty?” the Shadow Dragon chortled horribly, pressing his muzzle closer to Kylara. “Can I help?”

“Stop breathing, you monstrous lump,” grunted the Warlord. “You’re scaring the birds and blowing my scrolleaf away.”

“All the quicker to swoosh the birds over to Beran,” growled Ardan. “I’m sick of waiting.”

“Fine. Tell me why you still make moon-eyes at Aranya.”

“It’s called sympathy, Kylara. Pity, more like.”

The Warlord slipped the rolled-up scrap of scrolleaf into the message pouch on the hawk’s left ankle. She made the signs for her instructions, holding an image of Beran’s Dragonship steadily in her mind. The bird cocked its head sideways, accepting the directions with a firm squawk.

Kylara launched the hawk with a smooth sweep of her arm. “Fly true, my beauty.”

The message would summon the fleet to Yorbik, the first stage in Beran’s plan. It appeared that Thoralian had concentrated his forces at the shipyards – as best they could tell, skulking through the night and flying a league and a half high by day. Thoralian intended to confront them at his stronghold, and did not care if Beran and Ignathion wasted time invading the rest of the enormous Island, thirty-one leagues tall by one hundred and nine wide. Seventy percent of the world’s known meriatite deposits were located at Yorbik, making it the most important Island north of the Rift, bar Sylakia itself.

Ardan wondered if Kylara had cooled toward him, and he toward her. Was she hinting that he should pursue the Immadian Princess? He could not, for he suspected that Aranya’s physical condition would become a source of bitterness and misery for her. No mind that she was the only one he desired – that did not figure in her noble self-sacrifice. His paws clenched painfully. Worst of all, he understood. He saw the hollowness in her eyes.

This could not go on. How could he bring Aranya out of the place she had hidden herself?

“Ready, Dragon,” said Kylara.

“Let’s burn the heavens!” Coiling, the Dragon flung himself skyward like a dark thunderbolt, choked up with fury at Aranya’s helpless situation. Thoralian would answer for this.

They spent the late afternoon and evening flying eastward around the top of Yorbik Island, bound for the fingers of Ferial. Ardan pushed hard, making over twenty leagues per hour as his restless energy and a truculent breeze combined to generate impressive speed and stamina. Far below, the tremendous olive-green hardwood forests of north-western Yorbik rolled by, and then a glimmer of reflected suns-shine announced the largest terrace lakes in the world, up to ten miles wide in places.

As for the shipyards? All was still. Thoralian conducted his preparations under a shroud of secrecy – or, as Ri’arion had suggested, a magical shield. Ardan did not have the skills to penetrate it, nor did he want to alert Thoralian by making the attempt.

Ardan, squinting ahead to Ferial, suddenly cried, “I see a battle!”

“Drat,” said Kylara. “I was so enjoying the hours of uninterrupted flying.” Packing away the flags with which she had planned to signal Commander Darron, the Warlord pulled out her Fra’aniorian warrior bow instead. “Roaring rajals, I do love a good weapon!” she enthused, testing the draw. “How many Dragons, Ardan?”

“At least two Reds, and a fleet of ten Dragonships flying the Sylakian windroc.”

“Huh. A dinnertime snack for you, isn’t it?”

The Shadow Dragon surged through the air. “We’ve a ways to go yet. Let’s ambush them.”

“Ooh, are you planning to imitate a nice fluffy cloud? I’ve always imagined you like that, Ardan.”

Ardan wished she would save the insults for when they were closer to the enemy, when he could release the fire boiling inside him. Kylara was right. A cloud would be perfect. Honing his Shadow power, Ardan began to build his illusion, an idea which the Fra’aniorian monk had floated by him, briefly, before they left the fleet.

“Let me light the fire-pot before you make your attack, alright?” said Kylara, checking her armour. She clipped two braces of arrows in place. The monks had come up with the innovation of arrow-clips, ensuring that no arrows would be lost during flying upside-down or other Dragonish hijinks.

“Aye.”

Two slow, fat Reds, supported by two of the new-technology Dragonships Zuziana had described, were giving Darron’s forces a pounding. Slow and fat hardly counted when those Reds were armoured with Dragon scales and possessed fire attacks that rivalled his own fireballs. Ardan described the dangerous dirigibles to Kylara, meantime, flexing and retracting his talons. Remember Aranya. Remember her face. He would have no trouble burning the heavens today, for the Dragonsong of retribution wailed within him, producing its own peculiar form of madness.

The Shadow Dragon revelled in the power of muscles fed by a triple-heart cardiovascular system, taking great gulps of air to supply the needed oxygen and angling his wings to maximise the forward thrust as he aimed for a position high above the clash.

If the Sylakian or Immadian forces saw a cloud diving vertically from the face of the Jade moon at over forty leagues per hour, they did not respond in time. Ardan aimed at one of the Red Dragons. The luckless Red had begun to turn, sensing danger, when Ardan crashed into his neck with an accompanying thrust of his hind feet, taking the full impact through his heels. Even a fully-grown Dragon’s neck could not survive that impact. Crack! The vertebrae splintered, killing the Red instantly.

“I AM ARDAN!” bellowed the Shadow Dragon.

He hurled himself at the Dragonships.

“Fireball left,” rapped Kylara. Ardan barrel-rolled instantly, letting the fire pass between his outstretched wings. Then he passed out of the other Red’s range, closing in on the Sylakian Dragonships before the catapult engineers could do more than catch their breath in horror.

“Taking the port shot,” said the Warlord.

The bowstring twanged sharply; such an innocuous, musical sound presaging what came next. KAARRAABLAM! Bits of Dragonship rained out of the sky.

No need for flags, Ardan thought, banking away from the resulting fireball. The Immadians could harbour no doubt as to whose side he was on. As if responding to his thoughts, signals flashed and bells clanged urgently on the Immadian Dragonships, signalling the attack.

“Nice,” he grinned. “I’m going to like that Commander.”

“Shut the trap and worry about that other Dragon.”

“Coming around, Rider.” Ardan swore as four crossbow quarrels stitched holes in his left hindquarters. “Flying monkey droppings, they’re fast.”

“Stop bleating! Your fireballs aren’t for toasting bread.”

That had the needed effect. Ardan’s roar stupefied the Sylakians. He followed up with a raging fireball that expanded to well over thirty feet wide. With such power, he had no need of good aim. His roiling fireball skimmed the nose of the new-technology Dragonship, setting it afire, and splashed liberally against the Sylakian vessel directly beyond it.

Ardan saluted the blasts with a withering round of laughter. Then he was menacing the Dragonships and the remaining Red, hounding them as if he were a huge black rajal scattering a herd of slow-moving ralti sheep, sweeping through the field of fire as the battle closed in, vessels from both sides grappling and pounding each other with catapult-shot and six-foot quarrels, until Kylara suddenly thumped him on the shoulder, crying that the green flag had been run aloft.

The Shadow Dragon alighted on the platform of Commander Darron’s flagship, making the dirigible groan and sink. “I’ll transform.”

“You’ll do nothing so stupid!” rapped his Rider.

“Aye, the crossbow bolts.” She had saved him again.

Kylara slapped his shoulder appreciatively. “Four feet of metal stuck in my Dragon’s rear end isn’t an issue, but as a man, that might be awkward.”

Then she slid down his flank, braking with her boots, before taking the leap onto his knee and from there, another hop to the ground. Ardan glanced over at the welcoming committee climbing aloft to meet them. The first man had to be Commander Darron, from Zip’s description.

“Ardan, listen,” said Kylara. “When I give the command, use your Shadow power. I’ll pull those quarrels out – that’ll save you the cutting.”

“Aye, but not the bleeding,” said the grizzled Immadian. “I’m Commander Darron. We’re grateful for the help.”

“Kylara, Warlord of Yanga Island,” said the Dragon Rider, making to clasp forearms in the Isles way, only to have her palm kissed and fingers blown upon. Ardan was surprised to see her blush. “Er … well, we shake like this, Commander. The Shadow Dragon is Ardan, also a Western Isles warrior.”

“I see they grow puny Dragons in the Isles,” said Darron. “Are you double Aranya’s size, Ardan?”

He rumbled, “More than that.”

“We had intelligence. Aranya and Yolathion were captured –”

“It’s a long tale, Commander,” said Kylara. “Thoralian had them both tortured. Aranya is alive but can’t summon her Dragon, and Yolathion is dying.”

“Sorry to hear that. Come down, we’ll speak,” said Darron. “When will King Beran move against Thoralian?”

“Yesterday,” said Kylara and Ardan, together.

A Dragonish smile curved the Commander’s lips. Ardan could almost imagine the fangs as he snarled, “And not a day too soon. I’ve a hankering to beard that so-called Emperor in his den.” To the man who had climbed up behind him, he barked, “Sub-Commander Urgon – round up those Sylakian Dragonships, would you, and drop our captives off at Ferial Island.”

“Aye, Commander!”

The Shadow Dragon growled appreciatively, “Aye indeed. We’ll brief you, Commander, and then we need to sneak off to Yorbik. Thoralian’s about to discover he’s built his throne on top of a live volcano.”

Darron looked to the southern horizon as though he could see all the way into Thoralian’s lair, deep beneath the shipyards of Yorbik. “At last, the endgame has begun. Tremble, Thoralian. Your doom is upon you.”

* * * *

At the hour of midnight, the fleet passed over the western shore of Yorbik Island, bound for the shipyards. Once more, King Beran’s group of advisors was gathered in his forward navigation cabin, but this time, for a purpose different from the endless councils of war which had preoccupied them on the journey over from Horness Cluster. Yolathion’s death-rattle down the corridor made that purpose as clear as crysglass. Chikkan said he would not last another hour.

Aranya bowed to Ignathion and Jia-Llonya, masking the turmoil in her heart with a diplomatic Princess-expression. Belatedly, she realised they could not see what was hidden beneath her face-veil. “I will try to transform in the common area. Bring him to me there. Ri’arion, Zip?”

“We’ll help,” said Zuziana.

Nak nodded. “After that, I’ll have you in the bathtub, Princess.”

There was no trace of ribaldry in his tone. Nak had been treating her with a kind of forlorn gallantry, like a priceless, cracked vase. Aranya preferred the old Nak to this one.

Aranya pushed herself to her feet. The corridor struck her as a kind of Last Walk. Her Amethyst Dragon was close – faint, but detectable. Ri’arion had outlined the dangers with typically brusque honesty. Should the transformation fail, Yolathion would certainly die, and the Immadian Princess would likely follow in her mother’s footsteps.

Ahead of her, Ri’arion and Zuziana walked with clasped hands. The Princess of Immadia clenched her fists. She must not dwell on it.

She turned to Jia-Llonya. “I might need to say a few … things, to Yolathion.”

The Jeradian girl raised her hand as if to capture Aranya’s unstated meaning in her palm. “Do whatever you think is necessary. I’ve no wish to sharpen a scimitar on your skull.”

Aranya winced. “Thanks, Jia.”

“This is going to sound weird, Aranya, but –” Jia sucked in a sharp breath “– I’m not a doctor, right? I know my limitations. Just these last few days, however, something about Chikkan has started to bother me. As in, I’m not convinced he knows what he’s talking about.”

“Oh?” The Princess pushed this to the side of her mind, having more important things to focus on. “Let me think about that.”

“All being well, Ardan and Kylara should be approaching the shipyards around now,” said King Beran. “Let’s hope Thoralian sleeps well this night. Or badly, if you prefer.” He coughed out a laugh. “And, from tomorrow, wrapped in eternal darkness.”

Jokes that fell upon her mood like sparks upon tinder.

Beran took her hand. “Walk with me, Sparky.”

The common area, which housed the apparatus for manually driving the meriatite turbines which the soldiers fondly termed the ‘back-breaker’ – Aranya hated the irony of that name – had been cleared. She inhaled as deeply as she was able. Right. No partial transformations. To her surprise, the Nameless Man and the Remoyan Princess joined hands with her.

Ri’arion closed his eyes. “Open your mind, Princess.”

Strength flooded into her almost instantaneously. Can he afford this? Aranya asked Zip.

He says he must afford it. Now, transform.

Many times, when driven to exhaustion or extremity, Aranya had found a transformation subtly more difficult than when she was well rested. Now, she wrestled with her fears. She searched within for the courage to summon her Dragon. The connection, so weak. The magic, showing only the faintest glimmer of life. Yet this would bring her one step closer to Ardan. One step closer to being able to confront Thoralian with real power at her command.

Aranya began to strip off her clothing, before pulling up with a curt inward rebuke. Yolathion was dying! Who was she to wait? Aranya wrenched herself past the point of no return.

A long, deep groan escaped her lips. Dredging up her magic from the most enigmatic recesses of her being, Aranya drew the Amethyst Dragon close, welcoming her to her old abode; yet should the wavering magic give way to nothingness … she quashed that idea. She could afford no self-doubt now.

Usually, a transformation proceeded at the speed of thought. This time it took an eternity, lingering in a quasi-complete state that threatened to become her new reality. More! More! Aranya mined deeper, despairing. Remember Izariela! Remember the Star Dragon, leading her home. Fra’anior, roaring at her … Thoralian’s gimlet-eyed enjoyment of her pain … the storm, surrounding her with elemental power. And that was where she found the power to break what needed to be broken, to burn away the last effects of the drugs and the magic-suppressing Lavanias collar, and to trigger her beguiling, transformative power.

Solidity!

Dragon-Aranya’s first exhalation was a thunderclap.

Zip pushed away from the wall, rubbing her ears. “Roaring rajals – well, we have a Dragon! My darling, petal, you’re back.”

Aranya stared at her paws. Oh, the faithful replication. Her scales were raddled and uneven – but undeniably a Dragon’s scales. And her magic was present, thrumming faintly in her veins as her triple Dragon-hearts took up their work. There was an expanding sensation, a knowledge of multiple stomachs and flight and deep wells of magic, of secret Dragon lore collected in the recesses of her mind, a crashing in of feedback from the ultra-sensitive senses of a Dragon, as if all was new and glorious, a world painted in fresh, vibrant colours … and oh! The scent of her friends, so well-remembered! A soft bugle of joy escaped her lips, swiftly stifled.

She had much to accomplish. Joy was premature.

Ignathion and Jia-Llonya brought the stretcher into the room and laid the young man down before her.

“Yolathion,” she whispered.

The Dragoness loomed over the Jeradian, taking in his condition with a Dragon’s eye for detail. As if stormy thunderheads swelled within her being, dark and distended with wind and hail, so her sorrow took form and developed. Poor, broken Yolathion. Bloody spittle flecked his lips. His cheeks, grey and sunken, moulded to his cheekbones as though a death’s-head had already begun to emerge from his dying flesh. The monks’ power had been insufficient to sustain him.

Aranya drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and said, “Yolathion, you did nothing to deserve this. It’s wrong. If you ever wondered, I did forgive you for throwing me off the Last Walk, for by doing your duty, you became an unwitting tool of destiny. I loved you dearly, with your silly Jeradian poetry and your handsome smile, and your character which knew no bending. We can all forgive you for seeking a solution that would keep your family alive. It was foolish, aye, but in a sweet, misguided way.”

She dared not look at Jia-Llonya as she eulogised the still-living. There was a tingling in her cheeks, a feeling akin to grit lodged in the corners of her eyes. Aranya recalled weeping for Zuziana. She clasped that feeling to her breast.

Give me strength, Izariela, to walk this road, even if it’s the wrong one for Yolathion. Grant him strength. Restore that which was lost.

“Now, Yolathion, you must live,” she said. “There’s one here who loves you more than I ever will, who would move the Islands but for your smile. Live for her. Live joyously.”

Aranya raised a talon to her eye, bringing away a tiny, glistening drop. One drop from each eye, no larger than a Human tear, but this was pure, distilled Amethyst Dragon power. So little? It would have to suffice.

Stretching out her paw, Aranya said, “Open his mouth.”

Jia-Llonya pressed against Yolathion’s clenched teeth. “He won’t.”

“Here.” With great care, Aranya inserted the tip of her talon between his teeth and twisted slightly, opening a quarter-inch gap. She tilted her paw. The shining droplet hesitated, as if having second thoughts of its own, before trickling down to vanish into his mouth.

She repeated the operation with her left foreclaw, and stepped back.

“What now?” asked Ignathion, his eyes agleam.

Yolathion’s throat worked. He took a shallow, labouring breath, and then lay still. No rattle from his chest. No pulse apparent in his neck. Utter, deathly silence enveloped the room. The Amethyst Dragon thought she saw a strange light rising from his body. A vision, or was this a man’s soul taking flight upon the winds of the Island-World?

Jia-Llonya pressed her knuckles against her mouth, stifling her sobs. Ignathion moved to place his arm around her, his massive shoulders hunched over with sorrow. “Is my son … is he …”

“No,” said Aranya, shivering. “Look. It has begun.”

Magic, luminous beneath his skin. Yolathion gulped air, his chest creaking like a blacksmith’s leather bellows.

He lived again.

* * * *

In the pale first light of the dawn following Aranya’s administration of the Dragon tears, the morning of their assault on Yorbik Island, Zuziana stared at her friend. “What the … Aranya? Is that you?”

“Nothing like a dye bath, Western Isles armour and a new hairstyle for disguise, is there?”

If Ardan were here …

Stow it, Zip-Zap. Indecent but effective is Nak’s motto. And the dye hides the worst of my blemishes.

“I’ll bet Nak declared himself well pleased with the result. Mount up, Rider.”

Zuziana craned her neck curiously as the now dark-skinned Princess of Immadia, clad in brief body armour, hair dyed black and braided tightly to her scalp, mounted up. Uncanny! She was far too skinny for a Western Isles warrior, all bone and sinew and a neat double row of abdominal muscles, but still – unless Thoralian’s magic could penetrate the disguise, no-one would know who her Rider was. Nak was full of surprises.

From the edge of the Dragonship’s upper platform, King Beran saluted them. “Fly strong and true, Dragon and Riders.”

Aranya mounted up behind Ri’arion in Zip’s double Dragon Rider saddle. Part of her wished her father would worry less, but it might be helped if he had a daughter who caused a heap less trouble. The monk twitched at her soft chuckle behind him.

“I asked Ri’arion to find the Pygmy bow for you,” said Zuziana, as the monk passed it to her. “I don’t understand, Aranya. It’s a less substantial weapon than the Fra’aniorian bows.”

“But it’s just as powerful, I can reload quicker, and the lack of length helps if I have to switch sides,” said Aranya. “But mostly, I like the association with the Pygmy Dragon. I’ve seen her – in a vision, at least, and Fra’anior did tell me to seek the Onyx.”

“Waving a Pygmy bow about isn’t going to satisfy the Great Dragon.”

Aranya scowled at Ri’arion’s dour certainty. “Then I’ll just smack you over the head with it, shall I? Let’s burn the heavens, Dragon.”

The Azure Dragon chose to launch off a smooth three step run-up, flexing her flight muscles so powerfully that her Riders were pressed back against her spine-spikes. She felt Aranya wriggling about, checking her weapons, double-checking her straps and buckles, plucking the bowstring restively. She felt the same way. Always, before battle, the back of her throat felt dry and a dull headache would develop, which vanished as soon as the action began.

Her gaze zoomed in on the crowded sky above the shipyard.

Do you want to see what I see, Aranya?

I’d be grateful.

Aranya’s mental touch was much less formidable than Ri’arion’s, but far more mysterious and nuanced, to Zuziana’s surprise. She knew Ri’arion had been working hard with her friend. The touch of Aranya’s mind was deft, silk to the monk’s steel, depthless and ever-shifting, reminding her of nothing more than the changeable vapours above Fra’anior’s caldera.

Oh mercy … oh, Zip. How many Dragonships?

I make it over two hundred, said Ri’arion. And if I read the situation correctly, I’d expect more surprises from inside Thoralian’s pit. That’s where he’s hiding, I’m convinced.

Zip’s Dragon-sight brought the shipyards into sharp relief. A towering stack of Dragonships drifted above the hills to the height of a league. At least thirty of the vessels had Dragons resting atop of them – Dragons too fat to fly, or just resting until they were needed. She narrowed her eyes. Those catapult emplacements had not grown any smaller or less numerous, nor had the ground defences done anything less than multiply in every conceivable direction, sprawling over the surrounding hillsides, manned in uncountable numbers by Sylakian troops. Ten thousand crimson robes? Twelve? They covered the ground like a bloody tide.

The ground forces, led by Kylara, had already been deployed the previous evening under cover of darkness, and had spent the night making a forced march to the shipyards.

Do you think Ardan made it inside? Aranya asked, through the mind-meld.

Ri’arion shook his head. Thoralian’s too tricky for that, I judge. But do I see Commander Darron’s fleet flying in from the north, Zip?

Aye. Ardan and Kylara must have reached them. And our Western Isles friends and Jeradian troops should be down there somewhere.

“Then it’s time to knock on the Sylakian door,” said the monk.

“I’d prefer to kick it in,” said Zip. “Fire arrows at the ready, Riders. Let’s go pick a quarrel.”

“And groan at the terrible pun,” said Aranya.

The Azure Dragoness made no attempt at concealment, flying straight for the stack of Sylakian Dragonships, high enough to take the ground emplacements out of the equation. Behind her, two oil pots caught aflame. The tailwind arising from Aranya’s storm brought the smell of smoke curling into nostrils. Zip gathered her power. To think she had once been just another child in the vast Remoyan royal brood, a petite Princess chosen largely for her lack of distinction, to be Remoy’s hostage in the Tower of Sylakia.

Now she soared as free as the winds.

She said, “Thank you for making me a Dragon, Aranya.”

Her friend chuckled in surprise. “You started the war on Sylakia. It was your idea.”

“Who burgled the Tower first?”

“Fine. Can we at least agree to share the blame?”

Zuziana accelerated to attack speed, over thirty leagues per hour. The Dragonships waited. They rocked on the breeze, but did not otherwise move, trusting in their massed firepower to down a lone Dragon.

“Shield,” said Ri’arion.

The Azure Dragon screamed a wild, ululating challenge.

* * * *

Every hair on Aranya’s arms and neck stood to attention as the Dragoness voiced her challenge. Such bestial hostility! With the benefit of Dragon sight, she saw the engineers readying their weapons, heard the rising shriek of the meriatite engines as they poured steam into the explosive gas canisters feeding the new-technology catapults. Through the mind-meld, she and Ri’arion picked targets at the speed of thought – the new dirigibles, of course, and ones with Dragons resting on top of them.

They were in for a flaming surprise.

Aranya swallowed. Approaching a battle of this magnitude in her Human form gave her a wholly new appreciation of her Dragon’s power. She felt antlike. The firepower massed against them was immense, far greater even than the fleet which had assailed Immadia. New, more powerful technology. Ground emplacements manned by over ten thousand troops. Thirty Dragons were ranged against them, and Thoralian himself lurked somewhere.

She remembered the soul-chilling blast of his breath, of his evil delight in her predicament. Could she find a way of bringing that lizard low and stealing his secrets? Otherwise, Izariela was as good as dead. Should it come down to a choice between Thoralian’s death and her mother’s doom … Aranya only prayed she would be steadfast of purpose. The Sylakian Emperor had to be destroyed, no matter the cost. But please, oh please, by all the powers that existed, let Izariela not die by her paw.

Aranya steeled herself inwardly, drawing together and shaping the threads of her power. Forget what was past. Only this moment mattered, the hour that she must embrace the destiny for which she had been formed in the womb, and had chosen to make her own. She must stand against evil in all its forms, and defeat it.

As they approached firing range, Aranya steadied her bow. It took courage to trust in Zip’s shield, but she could see and appreciate the construct in the two minds holding it steady. A double shell to protect against fire and flying objects. Unbelievably clever, the physics behind the shield having a simplicity that bespoke hundreds of years of refinement.

The crossbows discharged their loads almost simultaneously. Perhaps two or three hundred metal quarrels hissed through the fresh dawn air, homing in on the Azure Dragon. They pinged off the shield with the sound of hail plinking against crysglass.

The Princess of Immadia drew the flaming arrow back to her ear, and let fly. A true shot.

KAARAABOOM!

Jubilant, her cry imitated a Dragon’s bugle, but Aranya knew her voice was raspy and her lungs weakened by the pox. She could not even raise a decent shout. Who cared? That subtracted one Dragonship and one Dragon from Sylakia’s tally. Just a few hundred dirigibles to go. Ri’arion’s shot plugged in the armour of his target, perhaps striking a stanchion. He muttered something acerbic, slapping another arrow to the string. Aranya rode Zip’s slight course correction, lining up her second shot to destroy a new-technology Dragonship even as it discharged a load of shrapnel across their path. Again, a patter like hail tapping against their shield.

Untamed, joyous Dragon-laughter rose above the alarms clanging on the Sylakian Dragonships as they belatedly realised they had a real battle on their hands; that the Azure Dragon was neither suicidal nor feral, but truly dangerous. Zip unleashed two fireballs. One missed, but the electrical discharge of the second sparked across two Dragonships, igniting them with a double explosion. Dragon fire turned their world orange. Although they were shielded, the blast rocked them violently. Aranya felt the strain through the shield. Ah. It was not inexhaustible.

The Pygmy bow sang its note again, sending another flaming arrow speeding to its target.

“Dragons from the sinkhole!” called Ri’arion, returning fire for fire.

Aranya saw Dragons pouring from the darkness of the sinkhole, sleeker, more agile Dragons – so many! Two dozen? Three? Her heart lurched into a gallop. How could they possibly prevail against so many? Even with Lyriela’s help, if she transformed, they would be just four Dragons against this horde.

Suddenly, the ground beneath one of the catapult emplacements just east of the sinkhole, erupted. The Shadow Dragon! Now, Thoralian would pay.

“Let the battle commence,” Aranya whispered.

Chapter 29: The Shipyards of Yorbik

Roaring a mighty challenge, Ardan cracked the earth asunder as he oriented on the Dragons issuing from the sinkhole. As he had overheard, Thoralian had been hiding some of his Dragons underground. Their task was to hunt for Aranya. While a mysterious force or shield had denied him access to their caves, King Beran had assumed as much, and prepared a backup plan. Four alternative plans, in fact.

Ardan’s fireball lanced into the fluttering horde, spinning two Dragons into a crash-landing on the far side of the gigantic sinkhole. He set the nearest catapult emplacement on fire, and then dived beneath the soil.

Ha! Fight this, you herd of flying sheep!

The sensation of moving through rock was like pressing through incredibly viscous water. Ardan passed through the basal rock for several hundred feet before surging to the surface.

SURPRISE! He ambushed a slow-to-rise Red from beneath, blasting a hole in his belly. The Dragons scattered with wild howls.

To me! Gurdurion the Brown rallied them with a cry. Find Aranya, Karathion. I and my brothers shall hunt this Shadow beast.

At once, the Dragon force split in two. Massive, stolid Karathion led his group of over a dozen Dragons skyward, aiming for the Azure Dragoness and her Riders, who were pounding the Dragonships with shot after shot. Gurdurion, accompanied by five other Brown Dragons, four Greens and a gaggle of Reds, turned toward Ardan with ominous intent. He could not mistake the expression on Gurdurion’s face. The Brown Dragon had a plan, and it involved a Shadow Dragon’s demise.

They would have to find him first. Ardan dived underground, rippling through soil and rock with equal ease. If he had thought as a warrior he was made for this, then as a Dragon, it was a truth magnified a hundred times over. Three hundred yards on, he broached the surface like a trout hooked by a fisherman, changing direction, ambushing soldiers and catapults from beneath, spraying the fire-hose of his fury about him with an indiscriminate appetite for destruction, creating the exact chaos Beran had envisaged. He sensed the Dragons spreading out above him, trying to track his progress. No mind. Ardan ambushed an unwary khaki-coloured Green, snapping his neck with a shake of his mighty jaws.

This is for Naphtha Cluster! Ardan thundered, spraying scales out of his mouth. Bounding atop a crossbow emplacement, he broke the machine off its foundations and squashed the engineers manning it, before darting back to his rocky abode. Now he snuck to the west, to help forge a path for Kylara’s troops, who awaited King Beran’s signal to commence the ground assault.

Ardan broke earth and rock with his back, throwing entire Hammers of troops into disarray. Stupid men. They thought they could wait in orderly squads? He hosed them down with fire, changing their colour from crimson to flaming orange.

Artistic. Aranya would appreciate that.

Sensing Gurdurion’s stalking presence, Ardan turned his tail up and nose-dived for safety. To his shock, something seized him by the tail and stopped him dead in his tracks.

He was trapped! He could not move!

* * * *

The Shadow Dragon’s panicked bellow shattered Aranya’s concentration. She tried to scan the ground. No … Sha’aldior? Where are you?

She saw as if through his eyes, his tail and left wing trapped somehow by solid spars of rock which would not yield to his Shadow power, Gurdurion and his kin above, preparing to rain fire and acid down upon him. Zip! Quick, Ardan’s trapped!

Tossing their plans to the winds, Zuziana folded her wings and dived. That took trust, Aranya realised. The Dragoness reacted before she had assessed the situation. Ri’arion, cool as always despite their abrupt descent, fired burning arrows into two more Dragonships, piercing the armour and setting them ablaze. Then he clipped his bow into its saddle-holster, and drew his enormous blade – avowedly, his favourite weapon.

Ri’arion said, Zip. I know what to do. I’ll help the Shadow Dragon. Shield him. You two distract Gurdurion.

Please don’t leave me –

You have Aranya, who’s better suited to the meld with you than I will ever be. Fly strong and true, my beloved. Be safe.

With a scream of rage, Zuziana fired a double lightning-bolt down into the melee which had developed around the Shadow Dragon, with beast after beast lining up to take their shots at him. Two Brown Dragons dropped, dead. Aranya fired as fast as she could put arrows to the string, driving her sharpened, magic-enhanced Fra’aniorian arrows deep into Dragon hide and muscle. Should she transform now? Was this the time?

No, said Zip. Trust Ri’arion. Follow the plan.

Great Islands, Ardan’s gone feral, Aranya gasped. Oh no, this is something else …

A monstrous, dark power gripped the Dragons swarming around Ardan and rattled them, smashed them together, flung them against the ground with irresistible force. Aranya could not see it properly. Shadow hands? A Dragon boasting the many heads of Fra’anior? Was this the Shadow beast they had feared, the devourer of Dragons? Whatever it was, it required an enormous output of magic, Aranya realised. His darkness had a real, visceral power. Faster than she could credit, a dozen of Gurdurion’s kin fell, stunned or killed, she could not tell which. But Gurdurion shielded himself somehow, and alighted near the Shadow Dragon.

The rest of the Dragons streamed upward, angling for the Azure Dragoness, eyeing her with blistering fury.

Where is Aranya? Where’s the Amethyst Dragon? one of the Red Dragons roared. Bring her out so that we can destroy her!

The ground leaped toward them at a dizzying pace.

Turn now, Ri’arion pulsed through the mental link. He launched off Zuziana’s back, the centrifugal force flinging him downward as though he had been shot by a catapult. The monk raised his huge sword above his head, arms locked in position, turning himself into a steely Human arrow.

Aranya began to warn, Dragon –

Zip fired a fireball at the intercepting Red Dragon’s head, a direct strike. He missed his swipe at Ri’arion by mere inches. Then Zip was dodging, jinking, fighting her way through the massed Dragons, desperate for free air. Numerous fireball strikes drained her shield’s energy. An enormous Green Dragon clouted her sideways, and his Acid attack seared Zip’s wingtip as she whizzed by.

Breaking free, they raced westward toward Beran’s Dragonship fleet, just a league away now and closing fast.

Aranya felt as though she were sinking into Zip. She was the Dragon. The Dragon was her. Their thoughts and reactions melded perfectly, as though they were one whole being, and she saw and knew everything that Zuziana was doing. There was no conflict, but rather, an awareness of a fluid and mutable partnership, rich and nuanced, and of a new alignment of potentials and powers. Could they share knowledge, she wondered? Draw on each other’s magic? Discover Dragon powers in each other and bring them to life?

These reflections occupied a fraction of a second.

Zuziana-Aranya looked at Gurdurion as the flying monk collided with him. Ri’arion speared viciously between his ribs, just behind the main flight muscles, the force of his fall thrusting the entire length of the sword and his arms beyond the elbows into the Brown Dragon’s heart. The Brown’s head snapped up, jaws agape.

Ahead, the Immadian fleet signalled the ground assault. Flick to the pursuing Dragons. Thirteen in all, led by a vast, regal Red Dragoness whose wingspans had to measure one hundred and twenty feet if an inch, and beside her, a Green male who topped even that. A certain family likeness struck her …

The Immadian gasped, Ja’arrion and Va’assia!

* * * *

Ardan knew only that the pain had stopped. He was so weak! Head drooping, he faced the Brown Dragon across the short space that separated them.

Gurdurion readied his power. I don’t suppose you’d want to say a few words before I place a rock in each of your hearts?

Whap! The Brown Dragon shuddered as though kicked by a giant boot. A man bounced off his back, dazed, rolling to his feet by instinct alone. Ri’arion! His shoulder hung at an awkward angle, dislocated.

Gurdurion reared up, clawing at his side where Ardan saw he had been wounded. The Brown’s muzzle opened to scream, but no sound emerged. Suddenly, the force holding him vanished and his wing and tail became his own once more, although both places still felt strange. Ardan pounded forward to sink his claws into Gurdurion’s chest, slashing his second heart to pieces. The Brown slumped, mortally wounded.

Ardan, my friend. Welcome back. Thoralian’s voice echoed in his mind. Where are you hiding Aranya? I’ve been looking forward to our reunion.

The shaven-headed monk dashed over to Ardan. “Reject him.”

The Shadow Dragon shuttered his mind.

How very clever, said Thoralian. You’ve learned a few basics. Where are you hiding Aranya – Sha’aldior? Tell me!

On the Azure Dragon’s back, Ardan replied, before clamping his jaw. His mental voice shut off simultaneously. How had Thoralian done that? Some sneaky magic …

How could he alert Aranya? She must already see Karathion’s Dragonwing hunting her. Nevertheless, he spoke briefly to the soul-fire dancing within him. They know where you are, Aranya.

It would have to be enough. He had no time to waste.

“Get me aboard!” rapped the monk. “I can help.”

“You don’t have any weapons.”

Ri’arion’s glare seared like Dragon fire. “Aye, because I left my sword in a Dragon’s heart. I am the Nameless Man. My weapons are unseen.” And he threw up a shield, deflecting a putrid green blob of Dragon acid.

The Shadow Dragon wasted not a second more. Scooping the monk into his paw, he tossed him up onto his shoulder. “Hold on, Nameless Man. We need to clear a path for Beran’s troops.”

Ardan felt magic prickling his scales as he leaped into the air. Here was Ri’arion’s mental touch, telling him it was a shield, that he need no longer fear fire or arrow. He had no saddle, but he felt the monk tying himself to the spine-spike behind him with an elongated leather belt. Beran’s meticulous preparations, he realised, feeling a surge of gratitude toward Aranya’s father. Smart man. Always working the strategies down to the least detail.

Three fireballs cleared them a path through the remaining Dragons. Ardan rose beneath the Sylakian Dragonship fleet, picking his next target, a cluster of crossbow emplacements on a nearby hill.

“Shall we mind-meld?” asked Ri’arion. “I’ve worked on a subordinate, slightly separated model. We’d share thoughts but not pain, and you’ll make your own decisions without interference from me.”

Ardan nodded. “Agreed.”

“Tail?”

“Gurdurion’s turned some part of it into stone.”

“Don’t hit anything, or you could crack your tail off,” Ri’arion advised.

The monk’s mind touched Ardan’s. Here I am. Let’s invite each other in, as we practised.

I see Kylara, said the Shadow Dragon.

As the first light of a twin-suns dawn warmed the hilltops surrounding Yorbik’s shipyards, a dark tide rose as if leaching up from the ground. Ardan saw a wave of Western Isles warriors and Jeradians pouring down the hills from the west, with many Fra’aniorian monks in close support. The trained warriors would never have fought in this way before, except in the manoeuvres they had briefly hammered out at Horness. As they stormed toward the brand new, fifteen-foot defensive wall fronted by a ditch of equal depth which Thoralian had constructed as his outer layer of defence, the monks swung into action, levitating the warriors over the barrier in enormous, hundred-foot bounds. Arrows rained down on the defenders as King Beran’s force soared overhead. Then they were down, running, the giant Jeradians swinging their heavy hammers and the Western Isles warriors slicing like shadowy daggers into the massed Hammers of Sylakian troops. The monks wielded their fiery, spectral magic-swords and blasted dust and stones into their enemies’ faces.

The two armies smashed together with a crash that echoed off the hills. The units of Sylakian Hammers crumpled in dozens of places.

“Kylara’s going to be annoyed if we help her troops,” said Ardan, swooping low.

Ri’arion laughed hungrily. “Then let’s annoy her as best we’re able.”

* * * *

As they fled from the chasing Dragons, Aranya called over her shoulder, Ja’arrion and Va’assia, join us! Thoralian is the enemy.

Thoralian is our master, returned the flight of Dragons, in perfect, chilling concert. Their power was telling – Zip was quick, but the bigger Dragons were catching up fast.

“We can’t reach them verbally,” said Zip. “What’s the plan, Aranya? Reveal yourself?”

“The plan is not to drop a dozen enemy Dragons on my Dad!”

“Agreed. Then up we go.”

Aranya understood. The Azure Dragoness stood on her tail, rocketing up into the open, cloudless expanse, while bringing them close enough to the Sylakian fleet so that they would attract the right sort of attention. Quarrels. Metal shards. Nets. The perfect medicine for a pursuing Dragonwing. Zip glanced back to check the pursuit. Through her friend’s eyes, Aranya saw that the Dragon leading the charge was a magnificent, grass-green Dragon with a delicate orange underbelly, and deeper orange details around his eye-ridges, muzzle, wings and underbelly – Ja’arrion.

Great Islands, what a beast! Her uncle. Another of Thoralian’s captives.

Zuziana swung her gaze forward again, depriving Aranya of a vision in which the Green Dragon turned against the Sylakians. How to break through to those Shapeshifter Dragons, the Immadian wondered? Could they succeed in stealing them from Thoralian, whose mental power seemed to hold them in a kind of hypnosis? Use Ri’arion’s power? Lyriela!

“Yes,” said Zuziana, in tune with Aranya’s thoughts. “We need a diversion.”

“I’ll be the diversion.”

“Aren’t you too weak?”

“No. I’ve a storm up my sleeve. Get me above the fleet, Zip.”

This was the only way. Aranya felt unready, but she did not want Zip to know it. Much depended on King Beran’s airship forces not being trounced by the superior Dragonship-and-Dragon combination of the Sylakian dirigible fleet, or the ground assault would quickly come under attack from the air and be overwhelmed.

Could she scare Thoralian out of hiding?

Zuziana powered upward, rising so fast that her Rider’s stomach felt as though it had retreated into her shoes. “Make yourself useful meantime, petal. I’m not lugging you about for the joy of it.”

Aranya raised the Pygmy bow. “Liar.”

The Azure Dragon adjusted her flight path with a slight flexion of her wings, curving them around a withering hail of catapult-shot while giving Aranya a clear shot to the port side. Her eye narrowed. Now.

WHOMP! An explosion rocked them.

The Dragons closed in relentlessly, dodging the fire of their own vessels. Together, Aranya and Zuziana flowed into a change of direction, flashing between the massed dirigible balloons, corkscrewing as they climbed, a seamless harmony of thought and action. Shots taken at the speed of Dragon reactions. Adjusting their flight path to avoid a metal net flung at their noses. Mocking the fat Dragons they passed, provoking one Red into firing a fatal fireball – he succeeded only in blowing up the vessel beneath his belly.

“Moron,” giggled Zip, using the blast for extra propulsion.

Where the lithe Azure Dragoness passed, the Dragonwing could not follow. Far larger and bulkier, the pursing Dragons became snarled between the close-packed Sylakian dirigibles, running into each other, even brawling on the wing as frustration set in. Thoralian’s commands streamed upward, confused, irritated and contradictory. Aranya recalled suddenly what her father had said about him. Thoralian was a one-dimensional thinker. It made stealing his Dragons all the more essential.

As Zuziana whizzed past the uppermost vessels of the Sylakian fleet, Aranya unsnapped her buckles and gathered her feet beneath her.

“Fly true, my friend.”

“Wait. Higher, while you gather your storm.”

Aranya reached out with her mind, picturing Fra’anior’s habitual abode within a tempest, the way his voice broke over her with primeval force, the awe-inspiring connection he enjoyed with the powers of wind and hail and lightning. Pain blossomed within her breast. She trembled. Great Islands, it was too much, the hunger for storm power consuming her mind, her body, demanding all of her magic …

Her friend cried, “Wait! Command it, petal.”

Aranya tasted ozone on her tongue mingled with the moisture of incipient rain. The wind buffeting her hair as though it sought to tear her braids out by their roots. She stood Dragonback, bending her knees in concert with Zip’s passage, the act of balancing seemingly effortless when two minds acted in concert. Together, Dragon and Rider speared up into the sky above the buzzing hive of Sylakian Dragonships, stacked miles high above Yorbik Island. Zip brought them over the centre of the Sylakian formation.

The Princess of Immadia raised her arms. Crying a commanding word in Dragonish, We-are-one! she hurled her body into space.

The storm rushed to embrace her. Clouds raced from the horizons at inconceivable speeds, mustering, billowing, swelling with all the potential of their electrical charge and weight of hail. A titanic pressure squeezed her ears. Her rotating body drew the winds together into a screaming core. Clouds as black as night funnelled in her wake as Aranya’s fall gathered speed, intent on one purpose – to roust Thoralian out of his den, and destroy him.

She transformed.

Dark and vengeful, the no-more Amethyst Dragon plunged like a meteorite into the top of the Sylakian Dragonship fleet. Hatred made an open furnace of her mind. Now taste this, Thoralian! Aranya unleashed her revenge. A tornado of flame ripped free from the vortex of her magic, slewing into the Dragonships, puncturing them, hurling Dragons off their perches and exploding dozens of Sylakian airships in a series of blinding flashes. Multiple branches of lightning struck from her body. The storm winds flung ashes and debris in every direction, an awesome trail of destruction left in her wake.

Aranya speared down, and down, driven on by the song of madness in her mind and the uncontrolled discharge of magic.

Her magic stuttered. Failed. Perhaps no mortal flesh could have contained such a storm. Aranya’s assault slowed. She glanced off a Dragonship’s cabin, tangling her wing in the metal cable of a grappling hook, swerving aside as blackness crowded around her already clouded vision. Her wings refused to answer her commands.

Dimly, somewhere, Aranya was aware of Dragons chasing her, of a speck of blue speeding over to King Beran’s flagship, of the Shadow Dragon’s bellow near the ground … and she crash-landed atop a Dragonship, smashing its platform with her tail. At least three metal-cable nets whipped about her, then two more, all furnished with hooks that bit into her wing membranes and nostrils and paws, just as Yolathion had once captured her.

For a moment she simply lay quiescent, trying to understand what had happened.

Karathion the Red alighted, delivering her left flank a crushing blow of his forepaw. He seized the netting and shook her fiercely. Daughter of the Star Dragon. Slayer of my kin. We meet at last.

Bring her to me. Thoralian, gleeful, rose ponderously into the brilliant dawn.

Instinctively, Aranya snarled, How bravely the snake slithers out of his hole.

Her mind reeled. Where was Fra’anior when she needed him? Never present. But the visions came upon her, more vividly than ever before.

Izariela! Radiant, white-hot with anger. Aranya! What have you become?

Mother?

Karathion ordered his kin to cut the hawsers free, but to leave her tangled in the nets. Dragons crowded around, staring, mocking, laughing fierily at her plight. Aranya smelled smoke, cinnamon and another scent, an evocative, compelling fragrance that she realised must be her mother – imagined or real, she did not know. The Star Dragon appeared to drift right through Karathion’s bulky torso. The sadness in her gaze, unbearable.

I was never there for you, my treasure. This is my fault.

I have storm powers, Mother. I must use them to win the day – surely?

And should this vengeance cost your soul, Aranyi?

Aranya gasped. What?

They must think her mad, raving, mumbling incoherently as the net jerked this way and that.

We Star Dragons refuse the paths of evil. We seek the light, for darkness can never quell the light. I should have passed on our secret knowledge and lore, my daughter, but the lineage is broken unless you can restore it. I can do no more, for each appearing steals more from what remains. Lest I fade … seek the truth …

Mother? Mother!

The vision faded.

Had she done wrong, assuming the form of a dark, vengeful Dragon? What did she mean, to seek the truth? The truth was that Sylakia needed to be defeated, or more Islands and peoples would go the way of Rolodia and Naphtha Cluster. Izariela’s rebuke had to have a deeper meaning than the literal.

Stop bleating for your mother. It’s pathetic, said Karathion. Gripping the net in his four paws, he launched off the Dragonship, shadowed on the port side by Va’assia and to starboard by Ja’arrion.

Ja’arrion? Will you hear me?

I hear you, said Thoralian. If she struggles, Ja’arrion, put out her eyes. She will not need them where we’re going.

As you command, Thoralian, said the Green.

Aranya could just about make out the Azure Dragoness perched atop Beran’s Dragonship. Zip had to hurry, before these Dragons delivered her into Thoralian’s vile paw. Doubtless he had more poison for her, a collar, a place where he could break into her mind and steal her secrets at his leisure.

The Amethyst Dragon rocked in the air, cocooned in so many nets she could see only fragments of the Dragonwing surrounding her, as though she saw the world through a fractured mirror. A mirror – yes! She could be a mirror of Izariela, if nothing else.

Fra’anior had told her to seek the onyx. But Izariela’s way was to seek the light. Her mother’s Dragon form was light. Suddenly, her insight crystallised.

Tiny wavelets of magic rippled over her scales, into her neck, setting her hearts a-quiver. Aranya looked along the length of her muzzle. Her hide was still pockmarked, but it was as white as the driven snows of Immadia, with just a tracing of amethyst around the edges of each scale. Her fire was pure and new. And there was Dragonsong in her hearts, welling from a place she had never known existed, an echo of what her cousin Lyriela was capable of with her music.

Karathion lurched. What the …

The Star power waxed rapidly, colouring Aranya’s world white, blinding her with a purity so intense, it burned like a star’s innermost fire.

Yeeeaaaah! The Red Dragon howled, releasing the net, but it was too late. The star-fire had incinerated all four of his paws, only the bone remaining, crumbling and charred. Molten metal boiled off Aranya’s scales. She shook herself free of the nets as though they were ropes of wet weed.

* * * *

“Catch her, you idiots!” bawled Thoralian.

The Yellow-White Dragon was half a mile below, but his roar carried over the clash of Dragonships and ground troops. Aranya realised that the fleets had finally engaged, largely because the Sylakian dirigibles had been scattered far and wide by her storm attack. Powerful mental strikes rocked her, but her focus on an image of Izariela kept Thoralian at bay. The other Dragons did not dare to touch her after what she had done to Karathion.

Her white flame guttered. Exhausted of magic, Aranya knew she still had her willpower to draw upon. Pumping her flight muscles as hard as she could, the Amethyst Dragon took off with the speed of a frightened bat.

Thoralian had other problems demanding his attention. He directed some airships and Dragons to support his ground troops, while barking out orders for his far-flung forces to reassemble. The well-disciplined Sylakian troops drew together, holding their lines and supporting each other. His Dragon-toting Dragonships moved to the front line. And a new Dragonwing emerged from the depths of his pit, Dragons too fat to fly well. They fanned out to engage Kylara’s combined ground forces, which had seized control of more than a third of the shipyard.

Aranya searched the skies for danger, fearful of the dark patches on her vision, light-headed because of the burning in her inadequate lungs. Quarrels buzzed past her head, startling her. Two bolts skittered off her scales, while another passed through her right wing membrane with a sharp tugging sensation. She could not see enough. How could she fight this battle?

Petal, over here, called Zuziana. I’ve got Lyriela and Jia-Llonya. Now what?

She skidded into a turn, almost slewing into the Azure Dragon. Sorry. Not seeing well. I … thanks, Zip.

At Zuziana’s mental touch, the scene leaped into focus. Her relatives rushed toward them, hot on Aranya’s tail, claws outstretched, fire flickering inside their nostrils. How many could be family? She had no idea.

Lyriela, any time now!

Those a-are my p-parents?

Lyriela! Aranya stifled her snarl. She had every right to feel intimidated. Aranya hoped Zip had her shield up, because Lyriela’s father was on the cusp of making an acid attack. His stomach gurgled horribly. Va’assia, claws hooked, angled in for an attack on the Azure Dragoness. Seconds separated the groups of Dragons from their clash.

That was when Lyriela stood up in the saddle to wave to the Dragons. Mom. Dad. It’s me, Lyriela. With a horrified shriek, she slipped and fell. Jia-Llonya, one position behind her in the saddle, shouted too as she snagged the edge of Lyriela’s trousers, but the fabric tore out of her fingers.

Mom! Lyriela bounced off Zuziana’s flank, wailing for help.

Aranya back-winged frantically, searching for Lyriela in the slipstream generated by Zip’s speed, but the mother Dragoness was faster by far. Shouldering past Aranya, she clasped her paws around Lyriela’s torso before the girl had a chance to fall more than a hundred feet.

Lyriela, baby, is it truly you? Ja’arrion, look, she’s perfect … the Red Dragoness howled at the sky, the note in her voice so poignant, it made every one of Aranya’s scales vibrate.

Ja’arrion pulled up so rapidly, he blocked two other Dragons and tangled up with them. Va’assia, my third heart, where’ve I been? Dragon-kin – there’s a battle! To me!

Suddenly, most of the Dragonwing were shaking themselves, gazing about in surprise, apologising or bugling the alarm or scrapping amongst themselves for wing-space. Aranya laughed at the sight, a healthy dose of relief mingled with admiration. Lyriela had tapped the power of a mother’s instinct to break Thoralian’s mental shackles. Bold, and brilliant!

Kill the Amethyst Dragon! Thoralian’s forceful voice intruded.

Only one Dragon started toward Aranya. Ja’arrion slapped him across the muzzle, open-clawed, and then spat a glob of acid accurately into the Red’s right eye. He fled, yowling.

Ja’arrion rounded on Aranya. What were you doing with my daughter?

Aranya faced down his thunder with a smile. Islands’ greetings … uncle.

What?

Surprise made him expectorate a fireball.

Ducking the blaze, Aranya said, I am Aranya, daughter of King Beran and Izariela of Ha’athior.

She may as well have slapped the Green Dragon across the muzzle with a gigantic trout. He shook his head like a hound drying its coat, his eyes filled with suspicion and wonder. You’re … who? My niece? You do have the look of Izariela about you … unexpectedly, he thrust his muzzle into her face, and breathed deeply. A deep sigh quivered his mighty frame. Aye. That’s my twin. How can this be?

You’ve been asleep for years, uncle, captured and held by Thoralian.

Fire surged into his eyes. Thoralian! However, Ja’arrion could not resist looking over at his mate. Aranya’s gaze followed his.

Lyriela had never appeared happier, coddled against a Red Dragon’s bosom, Va’assia crooning softly to her. Aranya wanted to be her so badly, it knotted up her Dragon hearts. Why not Izariela bending her muzzle over her daughter? Why did she have to be the one to settle for visions of a hopeless, longed-for future, when the reality slumbered icy-cold in an Immadian tomb – if slumber it was?

Her cousin had an understanding nod for Aranya. Dad, Mom, we’re in the middle of a battle here. Will you help us?

Va’assia’s belly-fires announced her ire. You speak? You can’t be our girl.

She’s a Shapeshifter, too, said Aranya.

The Red mother-Dragon’s eyes whirled with curiosity as she examined her captive. My darling, my petal, where have the years fled? You’re all grown up. That Thoralian! I’m going to kill him!

I can’t wing into battle without a Rider, Ja’arrion worried. I go feral.

Aranya began to shake her head in frustration, but a perfect solution made all three of her hearts skip and dance. Hurry to Beran’s flagship, my kin. There you’ll find two old Dragon Riders, Nak and Oyda. Won’t you take them into battle? They’ll fill you in on all the details. Thoralian is below –

That traitor! snarled Va’assia.

Then you know the enemy, said Aranya, launching into a highly compressed summary of events. It struck her that just as a mother’s instinct had broken Thoralian’s hold, so a mother’s fury would scorch him.

Half a battlefield away, part of her mind watched Sha’aldior as he and Ri’arion began their assault on Thoralian’s position. Perfect timing. Her gratitude rippled across the link between them. Strength to you, mighty Shadow Dragon. We’re coming.

Sha’aldior bellowed, CANNIBAL! YOU ARE MINE!

But, just a second later, her half-blind gaze whipped about. Roaring rajals, what was that?

Chapter 30: Thoralian’s Hour

As the armies on the ground and the airships in the sky convulsed in the paroxysms of war, the Shadow Dragon’s head rose in wonder. “They turned the Dragons to our side. Look. That one’s cuddling Lyriela.” To his surprise, the monstrous Shadow Dragon felt his hearts squeezing in his chest. “Beautiful,” he sniffled.

Ri’arion nodded. “Lyriela’s one smart girl, faking her fall. This changes the balance. What’s Beran signalling?”

“It’s about the Dragons,” said Ardan. “We’ve work to do, monk.”

“Aye.”

Mentally, the monk and the Shadow Dragon drew together. Thoralian. He was the target, the lynchpin of the Sylakian effort. He had to be stopped. Ri’arion fashioned a shield as Ardan took off, firing a couple of parting fireballs to blow holes in the Sylakian formations facing Kylara’s forces.

“Great Islands, is that Prince Ta’armion down there?” said Ri’arion, sending Ardan a mental picture of a blood-splattered, grinning Prince fighting at the forefront of a knot of female Western Isles warriors.

“He’s using a scimitar?” said Ardan.

“Half a scimitar, and his effectiveness doesn’t seem to be lacking.”

The Shadow Dragon puzzled over this. “Evidently, having a Dragoness for a wife does wonders for some men.”

As the Dragon powered upward, they quickly became ensnarled in the thick of the battle. Darron’s smaller fleet had run into stiff resistance from eight of the Dragon-carrying dirigibles. Thoralian glided into the heart of his forces, using them for shelter as he concentrated on controlling and positioning his minions. Rapid-fire, they exchanged thoughts, while they observed a Dragonwing assembling around Aranya. The monstrous Green took Nak on board, the Dragon Rider gesticulating and spouting a hundred words when one would do. Both Human and Dragon chuckled at this. They spied the tiny dot of Sapphire buzzing around Aranya’s head. King Beran’s dirigibles steadily drove a wedge into the Sylakian Dragonships, fighting with taut discipline as four Dragons from the now-friendly group winged over to assist them.

“Her Star Dragon power is remarkable,” said Ri’arion, enviously.

“I saw. So, we’re agreed?”

“Aye.”

Tilting on his wingtip, Ardan quickened his wingbeat. Summoning the fires. Shaping them. His neck stretched out, perfectly straight. The Nameless Man supplied him with a surprise infusion of power, his incredible brain calculating the precise confluence of Dragonships moving at different angles and velocities, feeding this data to the Shadow Dragon, who responded in perfect concord, trimming his wings ever so slightly, and a dip of two feet … he became a volcano, a glossy darkness merging into his Dragon fire as it erupted from his maw.

“GRRAAARGGH!” The discharge jolted Ardan.

A dark bolt of fire passed perfectly through a line of converging Dragonships, four explosions in succession enveloping three of Thoralian’s kin in the heat of hydrogen fires, and still there was enough to splash against the Yellow-White Dragon’s flank. Thoralian flinched.

Ardan accelerated along the path he had forged, raging a wordless challenge. Aranya! Remember her pain! Two more bolts departed his maw, almost bringing him to a standstill. Fire blasted against their shield. Ri’arion held firm, but as the smoke cleared, Ardan found himself surrounded by at least ten Dragons, all pounding him with shot after shot. They knew exactly what to do against a shield.

Ri’arion yelled, “Move!”

The Shadow Dragon imitated a flying boulder. Ha. The Princess of Remoy’s taunt had now turned into a useful reality. “Surprise!” he growled, sinking ten talons into the spine of a Red below him. The female screeched like a windroc.

Leaping away from his paralysed victim, Ardan surged through a cloud of smoke Ri’arion had somehow produced from his storehouse of tricks, and ambushed a Green. A mouthful of wing later, the crippled Green Dragon spiralled toward the ground.

“Watch the ice!”

A deluge of freezing rain collected against the shield, accompanied by a barrage of hailstones up to six inches in diameter. The Nameless Man groaned, forced under immense strain to extinguish their shield. The monk’s hands waved, bending the air about them, sending the flow of Thoralian’s hailstone attack into a flanking Dragonship, redirecting an incoming fireball into the maw of a Dragon opposite. Ardan smashed straight into the ensuing explosion, savaged his opponent, and broke away.

Then, a brilliant new power infused his being, cutting through the Yellow-White Dragon’s ice attack as though his hail and ice shards were pollen blown on a breeze. How had Ri’arion – no, not the monk. Aranya, the unique character of her clear, refining fire seething within him … had he drawn on her power, somehow, through their link? He must not drain Aranya; yet he sensed it was not so. The brighter the light, the stronger the shadow it cast.

Thoralian’s jaw dropped as the Shadow Dragon emerged from the chaos and smoke, a vengeful distillation of all that was dark and beautiful about the night.

Ardan roared, CANNIBAL! YOU ARE MINE!

The Sylakian froze, the panicked flutter of his flanks and wings clear to Ardan’s Dragon-sight.

Then, with a cruel smile, he lowered a talon to point at the sinkhole, directly beneath him. Release the drakes, he commanded.

* * * *

Nak waved his cane as though he intended to poke Thoralian in the eye and kill him. “We’ll clear you a path, Aranya. Stay tight, Dragons.”

Seated atop Ja’arrion, Oyda grinned with a ferocity that was all Dragon. She reached down to smack her mount on the shoulder. Thou, the fires of Fra’anior! “Fly strong and true, my beauty.”

Thundering his challenge, Ja’arrion launched his Dragonwing, fifteen strong, into battle.

Not to be outdone, Nak cracked his cane against Va’assia’s neck, crying, Let thy volcanic heart burn, o draconic song of the Islands! He stared stupidly at the splintered half left in his hand. Then, he yelled, “This sliver of wood has Thoralian’s name on it!”

Flying in the centre of the formation, Aranya shook her head. That was so Nak. She had never seen Oyda look so alive. Islands’ sakes, the old woman was waving a Fra’aniorian bow! But as they traversed the sky, Aranya suddenly imagined them as the King and Queen of all Dragon Riders. She blinked. Dragon tears? Now?

Her vision shimmered. With the sweep of her eyelids, an acidic tingling entered the orbs. Aranya blinked again, and the world swam into focus – imperfectly, but better than before. Mighty Dragon-challenges around her alerted Aranya to the world as it was, the lethal beauty of a Dragonwing slicing through Thoralian’s forces, laying them to waste, setting a course for the self-styled Emperor of the Island-World.

Thoralian rested on the wing, undaunted.

For a long moment, her universe consisted of her and Thoralian, seen through a narrowing tunnel of drakes. Aranya husbanded what little power she had left, praying it would be enough to sustain her. Fra’anior, if ever I needed your aid, now is the hour.

The Black Dragon was silent, but he watched. Why?

A cloud of red butterflies rose from the sinkhole. Hundreds. Thousands.

Zuziana, flying to her port side, gasped, Drakes! Danger, my friends!

Aranya gasped as her waking vision cleared, revealing the truth. Wicked, cruel animals spat out of the sinkhole as though a living eruption were in process, occluding the suns in their multitudes, and still they came. Their harsh, chittering chorus was a travesty of birdsong. Chilling. Alien. Greedy for the taste of Dragon blood.

Thoralian’s smile seemed especially meant for her. Arise, my darlings. Kill everything.

Clouds of drakes mobbed anything that moved – man or machine, Dragon or dirigible, they did not care. But their hatred burned most strongly against the Dragonkind. Suddenly, Thoralian’s forces over the sinkhole had to fight for their lives. Snarls of Dragons and drakes developed as if by magic. They tore engineers off catapults and exploded themselves together with the Dragonships they attacked with their fire. A hundred drakes piled on a Sylakian Red Dragon, shredding his wings in seconds. Onward and upward they teemed, overwhelming the fleets and the ground troops as though the Cloudlands themselves, turned crimson, poured over everything in a tide of destruction and death.

He’s mad! Aranya exclaimed, overcome by the spectacle.

Follow me! Ja’arrion roared. Lyriela, be strong. Va’assia, my fire-breathing kin, clear our path. The Star Dragon must face Thoralian and destroy him.

Champing jaws. Tearing claws. Spiked tails lashing into soldiers. Drakes dropped in their hundreds as the Dragonships responded, firing blindly into the mass. Still they streamed up from the caverns beneath Yorbik Island. The day turned dim. Dragons bellowing, thrashing and writhing on the ground as they tried to scrape off their attackers, Hammers cowering beneath their shields, Dragonships firing every weapon they could command, Sylakians and Immadians fighting side by side, all thoughts of their previous battle, ashes upon the Cloudlands.

The Shadow Dragon glided through it all, untouchable.

Upon Ja’arrion’s command, the Dragons opened their throats. Fire, acid and lightning streaked the sky, carving a tunnel through the swarming drakes which ended in the monstrous form of Thoralian. Aranya was surprised to see fire spurting from Lyriela’s mouth. How did she do that so easily? It had cost her many days and a burned throat before she produced so much as a puff of Dragon fire. Was everyone else a better Dragon than she was?

Sha’aldior! From below, the Shadow Dragon’s fire roared upward, passing not ten feet in front of their muzzles. He had come to their aid. The drakes closed in with a vengeance, turning their flight into an ugly brawl. Dragons fell, snarled up, fighting tooth and claw. Ja’arrion and Va’assia fired at a measured tempo, with the calm of long experience. Aranya readied her fireballs. Thoralian was not a good flyer, fattened by his preferred diet of Dragon meat.

She intended to roast him like a ralti sheep.

Zuziana! The Azure Dragoness vanished in a swarm of drakes. Lightning flashed between them, charring the attackers. She saw Va’assia flying headlong into the thickest pack of drakes yet. Another two Reds peeled off to help her.

Nak shouted, “Attack indirectly! Guard your mind!”

And then he too was gone as Ja’arrion had to swerve to avoid a Dragonship. Acid burned across her flight path. Aranya was alone. Her wings trimmed for the utmost speed. Wind whispering across her sleek scales. Power and grief coalescing in her belly, thunderheads swelling against her breastbone and up into her throat.

Thoralian opened his mouth and breathed out a stream of freezing air. Aranya jinked so hard she felt something tear in her right wing. The cold passed her by, numbing but not disabling. The Yellow-White Dragon gasped as a fireball engulfed him from below – Ardan! Now the Shadow Dragon stalked Thoralian, firing dark-flame fireballs at him, making his shield vibrate and glow white-hot as he and the Nameless Man flung all of their wiles into the fray.

Thoralian endured.

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Aranya joined the fray, striking his shield with such power that although it did not fail, she knocked Thoralian toward the ground. The direct attack would be her feint. Aranya knew she had to be wilier than ever. Could she close with him? Use the star-fire?

Her form shimmered at the thought.

Abruptly, Thoralian assaulted her mind. Image after image bombarded her. Pictures of herself, suffering, dying, being eaten by worms from the inside. Yolathion twisted up in the machine, so hoarse from screaming that he could hardly produce a whisper. Immadia being fired by a Dragonwing who slowly moved over the city, methodically setting each building alight. Pox. Wounds. Ulcers. Scars. Ugliness.

As her loathing blazed, so her Dragon changed colour, deepening into the Red range.

Yes, said Thoralian. Join me, Aranya. Swear loyalty to me and save your precious mother.

A touch of his mind set all the drakes in the immediate area at the Shadow Dragon’s throat. Ardan’s dark fire burned, but the sheer weight of their numbers drove him back, away from Aranya. Ri’arion and Ardan’s magic flared over and over again, cutting the drakes to pieces and burning them by the hundred, but still the creatures swarmed the Shadow Dragon, innumerable, forcing Ardan to break away to save his own hide.

Kill me if you dare, the Yellow-White Dragon mocked.

They circled each other, momentarily, as if the clear air were an arena set aside for their battle. The other sounds faded away. In her world, only Thoralian existed, and the horror he represented. His sallow eyes glistened with magic, drawing her in. Mocking. Hypnotising. Offering the price of her mother’s cure.

The Amethyst Dragon attacked with a throbbing howl, shame and rage mingled into a toxic brew. They grappled – no shields for Thoralian, now. He was bigger by far, and the cuff of his paw sent her spinning. Aranya darted toward his left wingtip. He countered with his ice-breath. Storm winds shielded her from that deadly blast. A blue fireball formed her riposte, but it was too powerful, torching a neat hole in his upraised wing membrane as it whizzed through and away.

Aranya wheeled around to his port flank too rapidly for the larger Dragon to follow. She peppered Thoralian with shots, but even her blue-hot fireballs steamed off his hide without causing any apparent harm. What? Was that a power of ice? Of course, she realised – water or ice being the quencher of fire, she was expending her power in a fruitless exercise. Aranya hunted for a weakness as the Yellow-White Dragon stalked her, wearing her down with attack after attack. Thoralian had responded in fear to her Star power before, being quick to throw her off balance with images of physical hideousness. She knew that her once-adamantine confidence had been shattered; the new Aranya was a more fragile being by far. If only she could be as Oyda, refined by suffering, conversely the stronger for it. How did anyone draw strength from brokenness?

Self-belief was not enough. It was an illusion, though a powerful one. This insight filled her with an unaccustomed stillness. What she needed was a simple, courageous decision. Make it so. All else could follow, if she simply decided. Reality could shape her belief, just as belief in her brokenness continued to shape her reality.

Thoralian harassed her, just a hundred feet separating the two Dragons as they circled over the sinkhole.

Unleashing her Storm-powered Dragon challenge, Aranya charged.

Staggered by the sound, or perhaps by a Dragoness less than a third of his size choosing to challenge him in head-to-head combat, Thoralian was slow to respond. Aranya skated over his rising bite and lashed out with her hind claws, slicing open the flight muscle atop his left shoulder and taking a long, trailing strip of his wing with her.

The Amethyst Dragon reversed direction rapidly, waving the flap of wing-membrane as her trophy. If it has to be one strip at a time …

You freak, you revolting whelp of a –

Aranya hissed, I’ll butcher you as I did Garthion, that yellow-bellied swamp leech you called a son.

“GRRAAARGGH!” Thoralian bellowed, making her pay for the insult with a blinding flurry of ice shards. Aranya tried to dodge, but his snaking neck tracked her flight path. The ice felt like knives, slicing into the deep pocks on her face, a distinct sensation of chipping away at her exposed cheekbone and tearing into her scarred flesh. She swivelled, suffering the ignominy of taking the attack on her hindquarters as she fled.

Drake! Aranya tangled briefly with an already wounded drake. She punched her way free, only to sense Thoralian right on her tail, rearing up to strike with all four paws. The Dragoness twisted violently beneath his assault, trading another section of his wing for a bite on her shoulder. Aranya broke away again, trying to gain space to reduce the burning in her lungs. She was in no condition to survive an extended battle with a Dragon of his power.

How could she change the odds?

Acid. Ja’arrion’s acid. Her slight transformation shivered through her body, weakening her reserves even further. Not good … Aranya worked her throat, concentrating on regurgitating the contents of the correct stomach.

He spluttered, You’re a Chameleon?

Thoralian had only just realised what she was capable of. Had he thought her transformation into a Star Dragon perfectly natural?

Aranya controlled the acid-spit just as she controlled her tiny fireballs, firing as rapidly as one of the new-technology crossbows. A neat line of green blobs stitched across his torso, splattered against his left secondary wing-strut. A ghastly sizzle resulted. Thoralian’s howl rose above the din of battle, but not for long. He collected himself. A violent quiver from muzzle to tail gave rise to a mist so cold, it clouded around his body and turned his breath to dust. The acid froze, and dropped off in a rain of green icicles.

So much for that idea.

Nak was right. The Yellow-White Dragon seemed impervious to direct attack – besides, even when she did succeed in a strike, she was too small to inflict serious damage. Aranya fell to trading feints with Thoralian, but as time ticked away, she was also becoming more and more concerned for her friends. They entered a period of standoff. The drakes left them plenty of leeway, perhaps at Thoralian’s command. He chased her. She ghosted away, racking her brains for something, anything, that she could use against him. Her friends trusted her to finish the job, but she was so weak now, so worn out …

Aranya risked a glance around her. Zip, battling, bloodied, diving into a melee of drakes to rescue Lyriela; her cousin carrying Jia-Llonya into battle, who in that blink of time shattered a drake’s wing-bone with her war-hammer. Ja’arrion sprayed his acid-mist in expanding circles, clearing his immediate airspace of two or three dozen drakes. The Shadow Dragon, seizing drakes with his invisible-hands power, hurling them to their doom twenty at a time. But she could not expect help any time soon. They were all too far away.

Suddenly, she remembered what she had done once, very long ago. Launching into another frontal attack, trying to dodge the blasts of cold he generated, Aranya somersaulted over Thoralian’s head, feeling his talons hook into and tear her wings as she passed overhead. So icy! Her breath misted in front of her nostrils. Her muscles had begun to cramp from the cold. Now, she breathed. Flaming swords extended from her talons – just an extension of her magic, shaped in a different way. White-hot. The Amethyst Dragon furled her wings and rolled, bringing her weapons down on Thoralian’s back. Strike!

With a roar, Thoralian arched in pain. Bloody, sizzling trenches paralleled his spine-spikes, thirty feet long. Roaring in feral delight, Aranya did not see his tail whipping upward.

A terrible force slammed into her muzzle.

She could have blacked out for only a few seconds. Aranya found herself clasped in Thoralian’s paws, close to his chest, swooping toward a rough landing. The Yellow-White Dragon drove her into the ground with the full weight of his bloated body, cracking her ribs and knocking the breath from her lungs. She was surprised her wings were not torn off by the impact.

With a despairing blast of Storm power, she knocked him off toward the sinkhole, a dark space just beyond her wingtip. That spent the last of her magic. Aranya, powerless and unable to rise, faced the monstrous Sylakian Dragon.

Make your oath to me, and I’ll call off the drakes, he panted.

Aranya willed her lungs to function, thinking herself unable to speak before she remembered that Dragonish telepathy did not require any breath. You’re mad. You’d kill everyone and everything.

There need be no more dying.

As if the war was her fault! But the accusation stung. He still wanted her. How could she turn this to her advantage?

Come to me. Great pincers gripped her mind, squeezing as if she had an Island balanced on her skull. Aranya writhed under the force of his coercion. YIELD TO ME!

I … will … not.

I see bone through your muzzle. You’re raddled, but that’s not the least of what I’ll do to you. Ice speared into her shoulder, twisting so viciously that it flipped Aranya over onto her back. Thoralian moved closer, dragging himself across the ground. I will brutalise you, body and soul. I will destroy your friends, your parents and your Island. The name of Aranya of Immadia will be the ashes of memory, lost forever.

Aranya groaned, You’ll never defeat me.

His hypnotic gaze drilled into her eyes. YIELD!

No!

A word she had dared to scream at an Ancient Dragon. Now, from the unknowable storehouses of her magical being, she unleashed a power seen so many times in her dreams. A buzzing sensation ran from the bones of her skull, down her spine, and galvanised every muscle of her body.

Crying, Fra’anior! Aranya sprang at her tormentor.

The Amethyst Dragon bowled Thoralian over with the force of her attack, rending with her claws, slashing with her fangs, battering him from every conceivable direction as though she were the great seven-headed Dragon himself. Thoralian scrambled backward, bleating in confusion, turning this way and that only to have scales torn off his muzzle, his wings chewed and holes punched into his hide by more talons than seemed possible for any single Dragon to possess. The Black Dragon’s strength blazed within her. She smashed his muzzle against a rock, flipped the larger Dragon over with a kick and fell upon his bloated torso, her terrible, Storm-heightened snarls making him quake.

Terror heightened Thoralian’s powers, too. A wedge of ice shot from his mouth, knocking Aranya aside. His ice-breath hissed over her, so wintry that Aranya felt as though her skin had shrunk about her body. The paralysing cold robbed her lungs of breath. No matter how much fire she produced, the Amethyst Dragon could not break free of his icy ambit. Her strength dwindled.

His paw crushed her windpipe; the bulk of his body rolled over her torso. She was cold, so cold, both from his touch and from the hatred consuming her.

“Aha!” roared Thoralian. “Submit to my power!”

Dimly amidst the freezing pain, Aranya recognised a new imperative. Ri’arion and Ardan had somehow contrived to dismiss some of the nearby drakes, breaking the cycle of bloodlust. The red predators began to flee in small but increasing numbers. Dragons emerged from beneath heaps of bodies, mutilated, bleeding, unable to fly. Dragonships slewed crazily through the sky. The ground troops eyed each other warily. But the bulk of the drakes remained aloft, intent on their terrible work. Even Ri’arion and Ardan’s powers could not reach that far.

None of that matters, said Thoralian, wheedling, probing for her weaknesses. Yield to me, lest the lineage of Star Dragons be broken. See? I know the secret Dragon lore. I’ve studied the ways of your ancestors and I know what needs to be done. Cease this pointless resistance, Aranya. If you come with me, you’ll stand a chance of living.

She could never serve him. Aranya did not understand why both Izariela and Thoralian were so concerned about her Star Dragon heritage, but she did know that to have that power fall into his paws, or the power of the First Egg, would spell the end of everything she held dear. She had to hold out. She had to deny him. However, Aranya wavered on the cusp of temptation. Anything to end the pain. Anything to stop the chill seeping through her body, the unbearable assault on her mind, the knowledge that she had nothing left with which to fight him. Surely, if she yielded now, she could find another time and place to bring Thoralian to his ruin?

Too broken, too exhausted even to think …

Thoralian’s foreclaw extended, resting delicately on the hide at the base of her neck, above her second heart. Do you know what it is to have the blood freeze in your veins and arteries, Aranya? Can you imagine that kind of pain?

The pain you caused my mother!

Despair turned to untainted, searing fury. The hatred drained away, subsumed into a storm of love for her mother. Aranya touched a fragile place of knowing, a potential hidden right inside the threshold of her soul.

She crystallised inward.

* * * *

A speck of starlight drifted between Thoralian’s paws. Soundlessly, it scoured the winds of the Island-World. All before it was insubstantial, as if matter itself had ceased to exist. It searched for what it knew not, for a purpose left far behind in a forgotten place, for a knowledge which had long since lost its meaning.

The beast’s stamping was nothing to that fragment of consciousness. The speck passed through his shadow. The ways of his soul-magic were laid bare before it, and the speck recoiled in horror. It fled toward the presence of one linked, forever, by chains of unbreakable magic.

A precious thread of memory became her lifeline. Sha’aldior? I’m lost.

A-Aranya? Where … I can’t see you. I’m so hurt, Aranya. Say the word and I’ll come to you.

I’m Aranya?

Princess of Immadia. You’re a Shapeshifter Dragon. A picture entered her mind. This is me. This was our promise, to which the twin suns bore witness.

Show me the path.

Here, my soul’s treasure. This is the way to life.

A candle-like flame flickered in her mind, growing to encompass her world. Sweet breath whooshed into her lungs, a cleansing agony. Aranya’s eyes snapped open.

Thoralian, directly across the sinkhole from her, whirled. How did you … he flung himself into the air, targeting her prone form.

The ground shook as if with an earthquake.

Aranya steeled herself to grapple with Thoralian as the low thunder increased. Her brain filled with images of smoke and chaos. From visions to misperceptions, now the impossibility of having moved over a thousand feet from Thoralian’s grasp without memory or apparent effort? The hard-packed soil beneath her body reverberated like a drum skin. Cawing, tearing at each other in their terror, the drakes began to scatter. They fled in every conceivable direction, including back down into the sinkhole from which they had emerged.

The Yellow-White Dragon’s wingbeat slowed as he searched the battlefield, his puzzlement clear.

Seeing that Thoralian was not attacking, Aranya tried to roll onto her paws. The sky shimmered at the advent of magic on a scale she had only imagined in the midst of her storm.

South of the shipyards, a paw rose to engulf the crown of a hill as easily as a man grasping a prekki-fruit in his fist. A flat, spatulate head lifted two thousand feet into the air, knocking aside several of King Beran’s dirigibles with casual disdain. It could as easily have swallowed them whole. An iridescent green tongue, longer than the biggest of Dragonships, tasted the air with several brief flicks before the creature’s muzzle oriented on the sinkhole.

A Land Dragon! Every scale on Aranya’s body threatened to lift off her back at the sight.

The serpentine body slithered between two hills, setting off an avalanche of rocks and trees. A single white orb dominated the middle of its forehead. Its gaze was like bathing beneath a torrent of magic, a stunning palette of colours and musical harmonies that teased the senses. But that eerie, reaming gaze passed over Thoralian – destroying her hope that it was him that the creature wanted – and lit upon the Amethyst Dragon instead. Animosity hammered her senses.

Aranya gasped, incapable of moving a muscle, as the creature sucked in a cavernous breath.

“TRAITOR!” The Land Dragon boomed, lunging forward.

Aranya scrambled aside, desperately, as a paw furnished with hundred-foot talons descended toward her, just as she might have swatted an insect. Her left wing hung at a useless angle. Whatever Thoralian had done to her shoulder, it would not bear her aloft. Soil and rock flew into the air as the Land Dragon’s talons gouged trenches where she had lain.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Thoralian whirling, scanning the battlefield with a cunning mien, spiralling away from the Shadow Dragon’s slow, laboured pursuit. Was this beast Thoralian’s ally? She could hardly imagine it. Thoralian wanted her alive, not smeared across the rocks.

Where could she hide from a Land Dragon, if she could not fly?

“FOUL TRAITOR!” Thunder, shaking the earth beneath her belly. Another swat, another frantic, fluttering leap. The Land Dragon’s outstretched talon – one of three pointing forward, and two shorter talons pointing backward, exactly akin to a Dragon’s foot – crushed the tip of her tail. “I’LL KILL YOU!”

Unnerved, the Amethyst Dragon hopped another sixty feet before flopping to the ground. The presence of a supreme, ancient creature stupefied her senses. The creature was so vast, the rear part of its body still lay somewhere behind the hills, while its shoulders abutted the sky. Aranya was far from measuring up to the monster’s ankle-bone. Despite the musty, damp overtones, its scent was unaccountably sweet and Dragon-like, yet redolent of a thousand mysteries. It drew breath, probably to destroy her with a deluge of fire.

Panting in desperation, Aranya flipped herself over the sinkhole’s edge.

Chapter 31: Ambush

Not for the first time in her life, Aranya fell through space.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the Land Dragon plunged into the hole after her, the thunder of its challenge chasing the Amethyst Dragon into the depths. “FLEE, YOU WORM!”

Tumbling into the sinkhole, Aranya’s first concern was to not plunge to her death. She tried to extend her lamed wing, but the numbness in her shoulder made flying impossible. Impulsively, she grasped one of the hawsers of the lift system, and tried to employ that as a brake. Her Human hands would have been shredded, but her tough Dragon hide suffered no friction burns.

She glanced upward. The gleaming white eye was just a few hundred feet above and closing the gap, the paws reaching out to pull the creature along, its claws penetrating the naked rock with ease. The Land Dragon moved with the elegance of a snake slipping into its burrow, only this creature filled the sinkhole in its entirety. An unexpected swipe knocked her off the hawser. Aranya tumbled through the air, falling through the roof of a cavern so vast that its farther reaches were lost in darkness. How deep underground was she? The cavern floor! With a trickle of her Storm power, Aranya somehow managed to cushion her landing. Despite that trick, her right hind leg collapsed beneath her. Flap! Scramble!

Aranya screamed as the Land Dragon’s five talons speared down around her, a perfect cage stronger than any metal. She tried to whirl, only to discover that she was pinned in place by her own hide. One talon had passed through her left wing, another had sliced shallowly through the muscle of her right flank, opening a gash twelve feet wide. A third trapped her hindquarters, while the remaining two talons formed a ‘V’ either side of her neck.

A soft sob of horror escaped her as she grasped her predicament. The talons were buried six feet deep in solid rock, turning her into an Amethyst Dragon skewer.

Holding that paw firmly in place, the Land Dragon slithered down the sinkhole, gathering its serpentine length into a mound that threatened to fill the cavern. The white orb did not spare her its spiteful, withering output. The creature laboured for breath for a few moments, its lungs heaving with a sound that Aranya recognised only too well from her own condition, before picking up the assault.

The Land Dragon snarled, “You lying little parasite! Any last regrets before I slice your puny head off your shoulders?”

Regrets were an excellent idea, Aranya deduced. Clearing her throat, it took her two tries before she managed, “Regrets? Only that I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“LIAR!”

No gentler than a Dragonship exploding inside her skull! Aranya clapped both forepaws over her ear-canals. Boulders dropped from the cavern roof at the force of the Land Dragon’s accusation. Lowering its head, the Land Dragon extended a single talon of its left forepaw and slid it with cold deliberation between the bars of Aranya’s cage, pinning her head and neck to the ground. At that size, the talon wasn’t terribly sharp. Aranya realised she was about to have her head sawed off by the equivalent of a super-sized blunt knife.

“Please, mighty Land Dragon. What have I done to offend you?”

Where was her magic, oh please, just a touch of Star Dragon fire to burn her way free … and while she tried to convince this mad giant to believe her, Thoralian had the freedom to kill and take over minds. Or would he flee, seeing his army in tatters?

“What have you done? You miserable cretin! Only, you gifted the First Egg to Shurgal and the Theadurial, commencing a hundred and fifty years of misery and imprisonment for my kind!”

What? Aranya echoed, “The First Egg?”

“You deny this knowledge?”

Suddenly, her mind served up the only possible explanation, although she did not understand it in the slightest. “You’re Leandrial!”

“Ah, so you do remember me.” The talon pressed down harder, apprising Aranya of her mistake. “Tell me, why should a Lesser Dragon lie? There was only purity in your hearts when you promised to return the Egg to me. YOU PROMISED!”

“Leandrial, you’ve captured the wrong – unh!” She choked beneath the terrible pressure. I must … speak.

Silence!

A whisper of wings came from the direction of the sinkhole. Aranya heard, “You let my friend go, you bully!” Zuziana? Her friend fluttered up to the Land Dragon’s eye, flying poorly, her wings apparently more holes than membrane. “Let her go! Haven’t enough Dragons died today?”

Perhaps the Land Dragon expected an attack, ludicrous as it was from an Azure Dragon whose wingspan was less than the breadth of her oval eye. Leandrial jerked backward, taking a vast breath which sucked Zip irresistibly into her left nostril. Then she sneezed, shooting the Azure Dragoness across the cavern in a spray of unmentionable proportions.

The Azure Dragon braked, dripping slime, and darted back toward Leandrial.

Leandrial snapped, “Be off with you, pest, or I will swat you as Pip over there deserves.”

“That’s Aranya. She’s called Aranya.”

“Are you a liar, too?”

“No, but –” Leandrial pursed her lips, and blew Zip across the cavern. The Azure Dragoness fluttered gamely, but ended up being plastered against the far wall. The Land Dragon spat a blue glob of spit at her. Glue attack, Aranya realised. She had never seen one before. Stuck like a fly in a spider’s web, Zuziana still yelled, “She’s not the Pygmy Dragon!”

“Be silent, before I glue your mouth shut.” Leandrial rounded on Aranya. “Now, you deceitful speck of filth, I shall crush you as you deserve.”

Please, Aranya pleaded, you’re letting Thoralian escape. He’s the one who wants the Egg. I’m not –

Ari hurt? Big Cloudland Dragon hurt my Ari?

Sapphire? To Aranya’s increasing bewilderment, the dragonet sped along the immense mound of Leandrial’s back, chirping and squeaking in evident distress. Leandrial shivered. The Land Dragon raised her head, her brow-ridge beetling as Sapphire landed on the point of her muzzle. Sapphire seemed mesmerised, no bigger than a mosquito perched on the Dragon’s nose.

They spoke too quietly for Aranya to overhear.

The Land Dragon’s eyelid shuttered momentarily, the magic changing structure into a new, searing harmony. Leandrial said, Oh? Is that so, little one? Oh …

Aranya did not wish to hold her breath any longer for an answer, but the pain and weariness enfolded her in equal measure. So much fighting. So much death, and for what? Thoralian lived, his drakes were free to roam the Island-World, and Leandrial had just proven Jia-Llonya’s ‘bite-of-Aranya’ theory. Bleak irony.

She asked, Sapphire? What’s she saying to you?

Ari good girl, squeaked Sapphire, making the word ‘geeurrl’ sound unfamiliar and exotic.

Leandrial said ponderously, “The dragonet says you have lived but seventeen cycles of the suns upon this Island-World. She says you are no egg-stealer. And that your colour – I do not understand this word – is not what I seek. I cannot fathom it. How can I avenge my people, as the Ancient Dragon demanded, if you are not the one? My magic does not lie.”

Suddenly, the Land Dragon subsided. Her talon lifted, freeing Aranya’s neck.

If she could just pluck a burning coal of understanding from amongst the embers of the battle, Aranya would have been delighted. Zip attacking a Land Dragon? Sapphire saving her life? Next, the Islands would soar off their foundations to do a merry dance beneath the five moons.

Inanely, Aranya said, “Fra’anior is bigger than you?”

“Bigger, and infinitely more powerful, little one,” said Leandrial, in a voice devoid of comfort. “He’s an Ancient Dragon. Do you not know such things?”

The talons retracted from the rock with a scale-prickling screech. The Amethyst Dragon groaned as her wing and side were freed.

“Rise,” said Leandrial, scooping Aranya carefully onto her paw before any protest could be made. “I have wronged you. And this little one, who dares to dispute with a Land Dragon?” She used one mighty talon as a spatula, scraping Zuziana free from the wall. “Brave fledgling.”

Aranya smiled at her friend as they huddled together on the Dragon’s paw, awed, broken, drenched in wonder. “You’re a mess. Been in a battle?”

“You’re not so pretty yourself,” said Zip, and then groaned. “Oh, great Islands, could I but cut out this tongue and toss it into a Cloudlands volcano!”

“It’s alright. Leandrial, Thoralian is still –”

“We shall surface, but I no longer sense his presence with us.”

Aranya groaned, but the Azure Dragon shouted, “Then it’s all your fault, you great, galumphing Island-biter!”

“Zip!” Aranya cried.

To be the object of Leandrial’s laughter was akin to drowning in a raging river. Aranya and Zuziana found themselves pressed up against her curled talons, their bodies pounded by each successive guffaw. Soon, however, the laughter ceased and Aranya knew that a darker truth had punctured the Land Dragon’s good humour. Thoralian would hunt for the First Egg. With that power, he could twist even Land Dragons to serve his will.

Uttering a soft word in a draconic tongue, Leandrial bathed them in magic. Healing magic, Aranya realised, gritting her fangs as feeling returned to her shoulder, and the large slice in her side drew back together with an uncomfortable stitching sensation.

Aranya said, “Thank you, Leandrial.”

Zuziana flexed her wings gingerly. “Thanks, but how am I ever going to get this glue off?”

Thoralian’s underground realm was more extensive than she had imagined. Glancing about, Aranya observed numerous secondary chambers and tunnels leading away from the main cavern. Some would have housed the drakes. Would there be other holding chambers for the Shapeshifters he had captured over the years? Other secrets to be plumbed?

There was no time for speculation. The Land Dragon closed her talons around the two Lesser Dragons, and surged into the long tunnel that led to the surface – what to Aranya or Zuziana was a sinkhole ten Dragons could have flown down together without the need to touch wings, but to her was a snug burrow. Sapphire darted between Leandrial’s talons to throw herself at Aranya, whining, crooning and generally making a happy fuss.

You brave creature! said Aranya. Did I see you with Zuziana, fighting the drakes?

She saved my hide, the Remoyan put in. Drakes don’t like their eyes being clawed out, and Sapphire was too quick to catch.

Sapphire celebrated Zip’s compliment with a spiralling triple somersault.

* * * *

The brilliant morning sky showcased a fading battle between the remnants of Thoralian’s fleet, who continued to give no quarter, and King Beran’s now-dominant forces. Ja’arrion and Va’assia, both battle-scarred and streaked with soot and golden blood, led a depleted Dragonwing against the Sylakian ground forces, which included half a dozen Red Dragons – the only other Dragons left alive.

Aranya gazed about in full knowledge that Thoralian had either fled or hidden himself, as the Land Dragon had suggested. Should she be relieved, or furious? His probable escape soured any sense of victory she might enjoy. In truth Thoralian would most likely have killed her; that knowledge was no comfort, for she had been prepared to die. A cowardly retreat was the one scenario no-one had considered.

With Thoralian went her hope for her mother’s recovery, another bitter blow.

Zip, never one to be cowed for long, looked about with an alert air. “Leandrial, you couldn’t help us tidy up here, could you?”

The Land Dragon hesitated. “What would you have me do, little one?”

“General Zuziana of Remoy,” said Aranya.

The Azure Dragoness favoured this sally with a scowl. “Attend closely while I outline the actions you can usefully take, Leandrial.”

The great white orb blinked, twice. “Are you always this impudent?”

She heard signals on King Beran’s flagship. Aranya’s belly cramped in shock. She sprang into the air, shouting, “No, Dad! Don’t shoot!”

The Immadian Dragonships hovering over the sinkhole let fly at Leandrial with every weapon they commanded. Most of the crossbow quarrels pinged off her hide, or plugged into it without doing the slightest damage. But those aimed at her eye were intercepted by Aranya, who flung herself on an intersecting trajectory. She stopped a brace of bolts with her shoulder and three with her flank. Aranya slumped on the Land Dragon’s muzzle; faintly, hearing the commands not to fire again.

She groaned, “Oh, that was ralti-stupid.”

“Indeed,” rumbled Leandrial, catching the Amethyst Dragon in her paw. “Their tiny darts could not penetrate my eyelid. But you are plucky, little one. I shan’t forget.”

“Lift me up to that Dragonship,” gasped Aranya. “I must speak to my Dad.”

* * * *

After the battle had subsided and Dragon-Aranya had spent three hours being patched and sewn up by Jia-Llonya, Va’assia and a team of medics, she limped over to the table where Chikkan had been working on Yolathion. The Amethyst Dragoness looked on curiously as he adjusted the devices – akin to large, complex splints – covering Yolathion’s limbs.

“These help straighten the bones,” said Chikkan.

“Really? It isn’t painful?”

Aranya glanced about, imagining that Thoralian might leap out from behind a bush at any moment. Where had he disappeared to, and how? He might still be lurking about in his Shifted form, using an army of thousands as cover while he spied on Aranya’s doings, but she doubted it.

Go lick your wounds, Thoralian. Because when I catch you again, and I have all my powers, you’re dead!

Chikkan explained, “The magic of your Dragon tears is healing him at a phenomenal rate, Princess Aranya. We can break a bone and it’ll knit in ten minutes. We hope that by making the right adjustments to these apparatuses I borrowed from your clever Immadian doctors, the bones will heal straight and true.”

She glanced idly at him, noting the gleam in his round eyes as he expounded on Yolathion’s treatment. Round eyes? Oh … great Islands!

The Amethyst Dragoness could not help the backward stumble that jostled a table behind her. The medics there growled at her, although no-one wanted to shout at a Dragon. She tried to respond casually, not to let him know that she knew.

“Oops,” she said. “Sorry, everyone, I’m obviously not recovered from the battle.”

Doctor Chikkan gazed quizzically at her. “Are you alright, Princess?”

Sha’aldior, help me, there’s a Chameleon Shifter …

He nodded slowly, almost sadly. Indeed there is, Star Dragon. Indeed there is.

I’m here … oh!

Aranya’s head jerked. Ardan? Another Ardan?

Two identical men came sprinting into the medical area. Two Ardans, both broad and muscular, dark and scarified, identical in every detail. They skidded to a halt, staring at each other. They snarled in concert. Which was the real Ardan? She wheezed unhappily, unable to tell them apart. Could she summon up his soul-fire magic to tell them apart?

When her eyes returned to Doctor Chikkan, it was to find a drawn arrow trained on her torso.

“Sorry, Princess,” he said. “We Chameleons always finish a job. Unlike your abduction at Fra’anior, this arrow will kill a Shapeshifter – the poison is specifically designed to attack the nervous system. There’s neither antidote nor chance of survival.”

“Kerliss?”

“He’s Kerliss,” said the Chameleon Shapeshifter, deliberately not addressing either man. “The one with the poisoned blade is, anyway. I’m Imbiss, whose brother you killed in Immadia.”

“Thoralian wants me alive. One of you could be Thoralian himself.”

The Chameleon laughed softly. “This is a family matter. We don’t care about Thoralian, only about you and the damage you will wreak if you ever reach Herimor.”

Aranya masked her confusion. What kind of reason was that? Revenge, she understood, but what significance did Herimor have in their thinking?

“Let Aranya go!” the Ardan to her left demanded. I’m the real Ardan.

I’m the real Ardan, the other mocked.

“Why wait until now?” Aranya stalled. “You’ve had dozens of opportunities to kill me since we left Sylakia.”

“Thoralian didn’t leave me any spare poisons when he left me in the dungeon.” Imbiss thrust out his jaw. “Because we needed you to kill the Shadow Dragon before he kills us all.”

“This is lunacy,” said the Ardan to her right. “Why imitate me?”

From her left, the other countered, “They wanted to use a copy of me to lure you away, Aranya, but you discovered Chikkan’s disguise before they could put their plan into operation.”

The Amethyst Dragon wanted to scream. They both sounded identical! Acted identical! Even smelled identical. But one of them had to be lying. Chikkan threatened her, because he knew that meant the real Ardan could not act to save her. They could not force her to slay the Shadow Dragon, however, until they revealed which of them was the true Ardan – and the soul-fire, flaring excitedly within her, was hardly a flaming arrow pointing at the true Ardan. She knew his nearness, knew through their link his fear for her …

While she hesitated, one of the Ardans drew his scimitar and charged the other, shouting, “I’ll die for Aranya if I have to!”

The two men fell to ferociously, setting off a minor panic in the medical area. Their blades smashed and sparked together. Aranya followed them closely, trying to discern some small detail that would assure her of which man was Ardan. The Chameleon’s imitation was flawless. The fighters seemed evenly matched in skill, at least, until she began to see one of them gaining the upper hand. Could she use her power of visions? Warily, Aranya reached within, all the while keeping a Dragon’s eye on Imbiss, who had not wavered an inch.

Suddenly, one of the men staggered and fell toward Imbiss’ feet. “Brother, he’s killed me.”

Blood poured from Ardan’s chest.

The other Ardan gave a cry of rage, leaping in with his scimitar upraised.

The instant Imbiss’ eyes flickered from Aranya to the unfolding drama, the Shadow Dragon transformed. His claw clipped the bow, causing the arrow to be shot in a high arc up and over Aranya’s back. “Fool,” laughed Ardan. “I wounded myself.”

Kerliss tried to use his scimitar on the Shadow Dragon, but his blow passed through the Dragon’s shifting, insubstantial shoulder. Ardan’s paw waved at the man’s torso. A dark, wispy presence seemed to tear from the Chameleon Shapeshifter’s chest, a ghostly form that screamed soundlessly at Ardan before fading into nothingness. Aranya blinked.

The Shadow Dragon gestured again, his solid talons punching through Imbiss’ chest.

“Aranya, are you alright?” The Shadow Dragon’s magic rippled. The Chameleon Shapeshifter slumped sideways, dead.

A soul-lost shiver ran the length of her body. The Chameleons’ faces and bodies transformed in death, changing rapidly into smaller, catlike men with curiously featureless features, as though their flesh were a type of pale clay waiting to be moulded. That was eerie, but not nearly as disconcerting as what she had just observed.

Had Ardan just ripped a man’s soul out of his body?

“Fine,” she said, feeling exactly the opposite.

His black eyes glittered like the facets of a diamond, all fierce magic and draconic disdain. “Next time you want me to save your life …”

“I mean it, Ardan. Thank you.”

Chapter 32: A Necessary Oath

THat evening, King Beran’s habitual after-dinner council assumed a markedly different character. His navigation cabin had been abandoned for a ground-level conference, insofar as that was possible with a Land Dragon in attendance. Beran and Ignathion stood on the gantry of his moored flagship in order to address Leandrial at her eye-level.

Aranya swivelled her neck gingerly to survey the battlefield one more time. The Sylakian troops, still several thousand strong, sat under guard beside the burned-out wreck of a meriatite engine factory. Seventy Dragonships were moored around the shipyards, while a further fifteen dirigibles, together with two Red Dragons, patrolled the skies. The dead lay in rows many tens long, or where they had fallen. Hundreds of windrocs soared as close as they dared, eyeballing the feast, but the patrolling Dragons kept them at bay.

Nearby, Ja’arrion overshadowed Lyriela, his bulk making his Dragon-daughter appear svelte and petite, although in her Dragon form, she was larger than either Aranya or Zip. Prince Ta’armion perched on her forepaw. As she watched, Va’assia joined them, fondly rubbing muzzles with her mate and her daughter. To their left, beside the wall of Leandrial’s elbow, Human-Ardan stood next to Kylara, Oyda and Commander Darron, conversing with them in low tones. Having seen Kylara being treated earlier in the medical area, Aranya knew the Warlord had lost two fingers on her right hand, and she sported an array of other less serious wounds.

Ardan had joked about one more scar on his chest. Aranya could not shake the image of the Chameleon Shapeshifter’s inner form screaming its defiance at him, before expiring.

Zuziana, changed to her Human form, waved to Aranya. “Come, sit with us.”

Classic Zip, leaning casually against Leandrial’s knuckle. Nobody else would dare to treat a Land Dragon like that.

“Go easy as you settle down,” Jia fussed.

Aranya said, “I can’t do anything else. I’m not moving for a week.”

The Remoyan Princess settled herself in her customary position against Aranya’s neck, saying, “Commander Darron lost Estalia today, and every ship of his command. He only survived because one of those Reds up there – Haragoz – literally plucked him out of a drake’s mouth.”

Of the fourteen Dragons who had aided her strike against Thoralian, seven still lived. One would never fly again. Aranya sighed heavily. “Jia, sit with us.”

“How are you feeling, Aranya?” asked Zip.

“Good. My shoulder’s sore, but what hurts the most is that we lost Thoralian.”

King Beran waved his arms for attention. “Now that we’re all here,” he said, “it’s confirmed. Thoralian slew an Immadian soldier and stole his uniform, and has not been seen since. He and at least three of his kin, escaped.” Groans greeted this news. “Nak is recovering. He lost his left foot to a drake, but swears he’ll use the right to boot the creatures properly in the future.” Laughter all round. “Yedior the Brown collapsed and sealed all of the tunnels leading to the drake hatcheries, so at least we don’t need to worry about that – only the several thousand that escaped. And he confirms there are ninety-eight Shapeshifter Dragons yet to be revived, sleeping in those caverns.”

“They’re all on our side,” Zip called out.

Beran frowned at her, saying, “Reviving them will be some task.” Just then, a soldier appeared at the King’s side to ask a question.

Aranya’s head jerked in horrified realisation. “Zip, where’s Ri’arion? I haven’t seen … he didn’t –”

“He’s fine, petal. He’s aloft on Haragoz, conducting some kind of Nameless Man magical search for Thoralian. And when he gets back, I’m going to have words with him for riding another Dragon.”

“He rode Ardan.”

Zip folded her arms stiffly. “I refuse to dignify that.”

“Is this about him leaving you in the middle of the battle?” Aranya earned a sniff for a reply. “Zip, you had me on your back.”

“That’s different.”

“Zip, why’re you so upset? It isn’t something I’ve done, is it?”

“No.”

Aranya blew hot air between her fangs. “Have it your way. I’m too tired to argue.”

King Beran called down, “Ja’arrion? Would you brief us?”

“Very well, o King. Va’assia and I have spoken with the Dragons. We are eleven, including these fledglings – Aranya, Zuziana and Lyriela.”

The Amethyst Dragon felt her belly-fires churn, even as Zip stiffened against her neck. A fledgling? How demeaning a description, after all she had suffered. As if feeling the force of her response, the Green Dragon’s gaze settled upon her.

Ja’arrion added, “That number includes Rezzior the Red and his mate Fydurial, who served Sylakia but now vow to serve us. We plan to stay here, working to revive these Shapeshifters, and hopefully, restoring them to full health. We will establish a Council of Dragon Elders to regulate and advise our kind. In time, we plan to return to the ancient Halls of the Dragons at Gi’shior Island.”

Ta’armion said, “Gi’shior is the ancient home of Dragons, and Ha’athior houses your Natal Cave. Fra’anior welcomes you.”

“As long as we don’t cause trouble?” asked Ja’arrion.

The Prince’s jaw twitched. “Fra’anior welcomes you gladly. We will negotiate the matter of Gi’ishior and learn from our histories, even as we forge our future together.”

“Won’t you first consult the King of Fra’anior in this?”

The Prince turned to look up at the Green Dragon. “I’m married to your daughter, aren’t I?”

I’ll negotiate with my Prince, said Lyriela, curling her paw about him with a mischievous air.

“It is time Fra’anior embraced all forms of its magic,” said the Prince, not without a shiver, “including addressing the status of the secret monasteries which follow the Path of the Dragon, and our magicians and Shapeshifters. I intend to outlaw the hunting of dragonets. You’re right. Not all Islanders long for the return of Dragons. But I have a few ideas, o Ja’arrion the Green, and my father is a reasonable man.”

“May it be so.” Ja’arrion nodded regally.

Listening to the Land Dragon’s respiration reminded Aranya of the sound of her own scarred lungs. Even now, she felt breathless. Are you unwell, great one?

I’m far from my natural realm, little one. Far above it. Even with the aid of the strange Human you call Nameless, I suffer from this thin, unpleasant air.

Then you must return to the Cloudlands.

Not without you, said Leandrial, in a far from comforting tone.

Me? I can’t go down there. It’s pure poison.

The Land Dragon growled, It is agreed. I will not leave without you and your oath, sworn in the name and on the grave of your Star Dragon mother.

Zuziana patted Aranya’s flank uneasily. Petal, hold the fires while I explain.

You’ve agreed something behind my back? Zip?

Aranya found her voice shaking with ire. Did everyone think she was an invalid, just because she had failed to defeat the Sylakian Emperor? Islands’ sakes, they had received the surrender of his forces, what little remained of them! Could it be because she looked beaten, as though she had been chewed up and spat out, several times over? Aye, she had failed. Now there were other, older Dragons who had their own plans, who saw her as a fledgling, and … she was no longer the centre of attention? Aranya chewed her lip unhappily. Please, let arrogance not be her motivation!

What desire did she have to lead the Dragons, anyway? What did she know? That path was the one taken by those who sought absolute power, the Thoralians of the Island-World. If being a Star Dragon meant seeking the light, as Izariela had taught her, then her path led another way. Aranya only wished she knew where. She had been powerful; now she was weak, and limited in what she could do. Living with that reality would be an adjustment – to use a perfectly Immadian understatement.

“Leandrial,” said King Beran. “Will you address us?”

In a voice that shook the earth, the Land Dragon said, “The legends of my kind tell of many First Eggs which hatched the Ancient Dragons. However, one Egg never hatched. For aeons, it lay in the Natal Cave, jealously guarded by the Black Dragon himself, Fra’anior, whose mate was Istariela, the Star Dragon. The Black Dragon grew exceedingly powerful in magic and great in stature amongst the Ancient Dragons, and though we know not the truth of the matter, we know that jealousy flourished and others plotted against him. Soon, there was war between the Ancient Dragons. The history is murky, but it is known that during that cataclysmic war, this potent First Egg came to be stolen by those Land Dragons who dwelled north of the Rift. Dragon rose against Dragon. The Land Dragons were wiped out, but at great cost – and the Egg was lost.”

“Millennia later, rumours arose among the Land Dragons south of the Rift that a First Egg had been found, resting deep in the fiery bowels of our world, where it had been guarded by ten thousand S’gulzzi – how would I describe them in your tongue? Creatures more spirit than flesh, similar to Dragons, who dwell in the unimaginable heat and pressure of our world’s core.”

“Under threat of retribution by the Ancient Dragons, our Elders appointed our mightiest and most cunning warrior, Shurgal, to retrieve the Egg and return it to its rightful place, that the balance of the harmonies might be restored. But Shurgal made a bargain with our most terrible enemies, the Theadurial, for the power he needed to complete this task, may his cowardice shrivel his soul! Shurgal retrieved the Egg, but bequeathed it to the Theadurial in exchange for immortality.”

Perhaps taking in the blank looks around her, or at least, detecting the reactions of her listeners, Leandrial explained, “Theadurial are intelligent creatures …”

Suddenly, a picture appeared in Aranya’s mind, and by the gasps around her, she knew that the others saw the same. The quality of the image was strange, as though viewed through smudged crysglass, but she saw a type of animal she had never imagined – an enormously elongated creature which appeared to be comprised of braided filaments, in consistency somehow both crystalline and metallic. It had many centipede-like appendages and cruel, hooked mandibles at both ends, with no apparent organs of sight.

“In its pupal form, the Theadurial enters the body through wound or orifice, typically of a sick or elderly Land Dragon,” said Leandrial. “It attaches to the spinal column. Once the mouthparts grow into the lower brain stem, the parasite is able to control the functions basic to life – heartbeat, breathing and nerve impulses. After it reaches maturity, the Theadurial takes over the higher brain functions. It replicates by laying eggs inside the Land Dragon’s brain, driving the host to insanity and death.”

Aranya shuddered.

“We used to be able to fight them, or eject them with our magic,” the Land Dragon added. “Now, by the First Egg’s power, they enter even healthy Dragons. They will wipe us out.”

For a long time, no-one spoke. Stars began to prickle beyond the Jade moon’s crescent, the sounds of night slowly taking precedence, as if the day’s events still lingered. The Amethyst Dragon looked over her companions, the Dragons and the Humans, all overshadowed by Leandrial’s vast bulk, her breath stirring the trees two hundred feet from her nostrils. How fey the night seemed. How far beyond the imagination of a Princess of Immadia, who had willingly bound herself into exile.

Her hearts ached for the Land Dragon, yet, what could she do?

Pitching her voice into the deepening twilight, Aranya asked, “What is this ‘balance of the harmonies’ you spoke of, Leandrial?”

Zip hissed at her.

Leandrial, however, seemed to appreciate the question. The wash of her magic thrilled Aranya through and through. “Has your egg-mother taught you nothing, little one? Maintaining the balance of the harmonies is a Star Dragon’s paramount duty. Perhaps you might best understand it thus: it describes the way the Island-World ought to be in all of its magical complexity – physically and spiritually, in its relations between its different creatures and realms, and in the powers that inhabit our world. The balance may be damaged or destroyed by our actions, just as Shurgal condemned my people to slavery under the Theadurial.”

An imbalance and a horror.

An idea popped into her mind. Aranya asked, “Is the Rift in balance?”

“An astute question!” Leandrial lowered her voice as its thunder echoed off the surrounding hills. “Sorry. We believe it is not, Aranya. Our sages believe that the Rift is the reason the Ancient Dragons chose to leave our world.”

“Magic is being wasted by the Rift-storm?”

“No, little one. Our sages say it is being sucked away by the maelstrom to somewhere beyond the rim wall, into a greater world beyond this Island-World.”

Aranya considered the strangeness of Leandrial’s beliefs. She had so many questions. How she wished to know more of her Star Dragon heritage! Even a Land Dragon knew more than her.

“That is of lesser importance,” said Leandrial, her voice growing deeper and quieter at the same time, reverberating through her listeners like a slow earth-tremor. “For two hundred of your years, I have sought to return the First Egg to its rightful place. The Theadurial grow ever stronger. Briefly, I even held the Egg in my paw.” She gazed down at the assembly, flexing her talons as though remembering what she had held. “Then, Shurgal came upon me in my weakness. While we battled, the Marshal of Herimor seized his chance and stole the Egg for himself. Only such a calamity could have united the tribes of the Land Dragons. At once, we attacked the Humans who lived above the Clouds. But the Marshal escaped with the aid of a dreadful power, taking with him thousands of Lesser Dragons as he levitated an entire Island out of our grasp and across the Rift.”

Ja’arrion put in, “The Marshall corrupted the First Egg’s power to summon a Shadow Dragon.”

“Who, me?” Every eye turned to Ardan, who squirmed.

“It was not a beast as you are, little one,” Leandrial told him. “It was a creature of otherworldly magic and otherworldly appetites. It fed upon the magic of Dragons. Like the Theadurial, it was a succubus, a parasite.”

The Western Isles warrior cast Aranya a dark, apprehensive glance. She knew he was thinking about the Chameleon Shapeshifter. She ducked her head rather than reveal her churning feelings to him. How could she trust Leandrial’s assessment, given what she had seen? Yet Dragon magic was many-faceted, often startling in its rules and manifestations. She, authoress of a thousand-league storm, ought to understand that better than most.

Could she trust her treacherous heart when it came to Ardan, or the Ancient Dragon’s even more treacherous will?

The Land Dragon continued, “Knowing all this, the Elders sent two dozen of our people, those who had never succumbed to the Theadurial, across the Rift, to pursue the Marshal and his beast. I alone survived that journey. Here, north of the Rift, I sensed a new power in the Island-World, a Lesser Dragon who had the power of the Ancients, the power to Command by magic. Her name was Pip. You call her the Pygmy Dragon. At Fra’anior, I saved Pip’s life. She promised friendship and help, and to summon me at the right time. But she was a traitor. She gave the First Egg to Shurgal instead. Using the Egg’s power, he escaped back over the Rift, leaving me stranded here in strange lands, which I have roamed for a hundred and fifty of your years, while my people suffered in unspeakable ways. I know this, because I have the power of visions, like you, Aranya. And they torment me.”

“You never tried to go back?”

Leandrial shivered at Aranya’s question. “Yes, I tried. Three times. But even a Land Dragon cannot cross the Rift on her own. This last time I was severely injured before I had to turn back. Then, the Black Dragon apprised me of your power and ordered me to hunt you, to set you on the right path – lest not we be mistaken, I thought you were the Pygmy Dragon traitor. I intended to destroy you.”

“We may have sensed that,” Zuziana put in.

“I did not understand,” said the Land Dragon, shaking her enormous muzzle. “You healed me with your magic near Jeradia, with the tears you shed into the Cloudlands. How did you know?”

“I … didn’t,” said Aranya, puzzled and amazed. “I do remember weeping my Dragon tears as I fled into the storm. What an impossible coincidence! But if it helped you, I’m glad I did, Leandrial.”

For the first time, Oyda spoke up. “Coincidence? In a Star Dragon’s life? This from the girl who, of all the places in the Island-World, chose to crash-land on my doorstep?”

“I didn’t choose!”

Oyda said, “Who guided you, then? Not me.”

Allowing her annoyance to curl between her fangs as Dragon fire, Aranya pressed, “So, Leandrial, are we to understand that Shurgal tracked you across the Rift and pinched the Egg behind your back?”

“YES!” The thunderclap of Leandrial’s fury rocked the moored Dragonships and triggered alarms on the Dragonships patrolling above. Beran quickly ordered his Signalman to signal the all-clear.

“I just don’t think Pip could have been a traitor.”

Now, a low, dangerous throbbing issued from the depths of Leandrial’s chest. “Do not test my patience, little one. You will travel with me to Herimor, where you will use your Star Dragon powers to restore the balance of the world. And I will have your oath, now.”

“I-I c-can’t, Leandrial.”

Suddenly, the Land Dragon’s paw darkened the sky above her. “YOU WHAT? THIS IS TREACHERY!”

Chapter 33: Family of Dragons

Aranya TREMBLED BENEATH the Land Dragon’s fury. Leandrial’s magic staggered her, pinning her in place while her paw hovered overhead, ready to slam down upon the Amethyst Dragon and end her life.

“I c-can’t p-promise the impossible,” she stammered. “Leandrial, please …”

The Land Dragon thundered at King Beran, “You gave your word, o King! Speak to your daughter, lest I terminate her life this instant!”

All was silent as Beran rushed down the rope ladder and ran over to Aranya. Leandrial’s paw did not budge an inch.

“Aranyi –”

It was just as she had feared. She said, “How could you make promises behind my back, Dad?”

“I promised you would help Leandrial,” he stated, unrepentant. “Thoralian has undoubtedly set off to find the First Egg. You said that he alone knows the secret of Izariela’s healing, and that if the First Egg ever fell into his hands, it would spell the end of our Island-World. Therefore, you must pursue him. What other choice do we have?”

“But … Dad, I’d help, but it isn’t physically possible.”

King Beran’s grey eyes turned wintry. “And why does Izariela’s daughter balk now, after all she has fought for, and suffered, and won?”

When he was angry with her, she became someone else’s daughter? Molten fury erupted into a scream, “Would you look at me? Look at what he did!”

Aranya had to pause to suck a whistling breath into her blighted lungs. “Look beyond the ugliness and see that I can’t even breathe properly, Dad! I haven’t the strength to battle Thoralian, leave aside the impossibility of crossing the Rift in the storms above it, or in the poisons below. I don’t have the strength to survive such a journey. He ruined my health, Dad. I’m not capable any more.”

Words of the wounded. She had not meant for them to emerge as raw and bleak as a winter storm over Immadia. Aranya hid her face between her paws, unable to bear their shock, their sympathetic glances.

“He’s crushed your spirit,” said Beran.

“Petal, don’t cry,” said Zip, stretching her arms around Aranya’s neck. “I’ll go with you. Ardan will. We’re ready to be your strong right paw.”

Aranya groaned, lifting her forepaws to draw both Zip and her father into her embrace.

“No.” A soft word, arising from Leandrial.

She raised her head. “Leandrial, don’t you see it has to be this way? I want to help. I’d do anything to stop him, and to get my mother back …”

“No,” repeated the Land Dragon, silencing Aranya with a touch of her power. “You cannot know what you are capable of, little one, because you have no heritage to teach you. A Star Dragon’s power lies in restoration. This is the meaning of the balance I spoke about. Your physical body is in imbalance. Your spirit is in disharmony. I can sense these things, just as I sense that your true form lies somewhere nearby, as if it were only lost or forgotten. Much as I’d love to be the one to supply your need, I cannot, because I’m not a Star Dragon.”

Aranya’s mouth popped open. “You’re saying …”

The white orb gleamed with power, a thrilling Dragonsong that whispered unimaginable winds into her soul. The multifaceted beauty of her music; the harmonies resonating in her bones, caressing her Dragon fires, in its communicative intricacy far outstripping any spoken language. Aranya listened with her entire being – humbled, exhilarated, soul-lost as a hope she had abandoned forever, began to effervesce within her hearts and veins.

The Amethyst Dragon’s entire body trembled as she realised aloud, “You’re saying a Star Dragon can learn not only to heal, but to restore in totality, and in the most infinitesimal detail of its elements, what was destroyed? This is the balance of the harmonies?”

Leandrial inclined her head. She placed her paw carefully on the ground beside Aranya.

Her excuses only made her the victim Thoralian had wanted her to be. Slowly, Aranya drew together from her Human and Dragon selves a kernel of resolve, willpower which burned like Dragon fire, pure and adamantine.

“You couldn’t teach me, Leandrial?”

“No, little one. I can teach you those few things I grasp about this power. Lacking the secret Star Dragon lore which should have been passed on from your mother, I cannot teach you its application, only what I understand to be true.”

Speechless now, stupefied as never before in her life, Aranya could only reason that she must not allow hope to take root. She’d only be disappointed when it turned out to be unattainable. But even a Star Dragon lacked the power to command her heart’s desires.

Aranya wanted so badly to believe the Land Dragon, she felt sick with longing. If she could be healed, what else might be possible – restoring Izariela, returning the First Egg to its rightful place, and might she even envisage a relationship and a marriage to the right man? Thou … oh, great Islands! Oh, thou, my soul …

Across from her, Ardan’s mental voice echoed her inner sobbing. I know, Aranya. It’s too marvellous to believe, isn’t it?

Just as quickly as hope had speared into her, so did despair. All she wanted were eyes the colour of night, but they were promised to another. Thunder crashed in the distance. King Beran gazed up to the skies, but he stepped forward to place his hand on Aranya’s neck. From the corner of her eye she saw her friends, and the Dragons, draw closer, but her eyes were for her father alone.

“Whatever happens, Sparky,” he said.

Her hearts swelled with love as she gazed down at her father. To Zip, Aranya whispered, “If you come with me to Herimor, my friend, what of Ri’arion?”

The Remoyan hung her head, looking as wretched as Aranya had ever seen her. “Even a Nameless Man cannot travel beneath the Cloudlands, Aranya. He plans to stay behind, to help build a new Dragon Rider school at Fra’anior.”

“No one can travel beneath –”

“You’re right. The toxins would kill us within minutes,” said Zip. “Ri’arion will teach us the arts of shielding and filtering the air that enters our lungs, and the arts of purging poisons from our bodies. We will experiment here, near Yorbik. It’ll take time, but we also need the time for healing before undertaking such an arduous journey.”

“And what of Kylara?” Aranya asked. “If Ardan accompanies us, what of her?”

Zuziana’s smile was utterly impenetrable. “You’re a silly petal sometimes, aren’t you? Kylara, Aranya says she can’t leave you behind.”

Dazed, forlorn, Aranya watched the Warlord of Yanga approach her with an air of unaccustomed diffidence. Strange, how her dislike of this woman had mellowed – perhaps matured was a better descriptor – as Aranya learned to judge less quickly, and to prize a person for who they truly were. Kylara would be good for Ardan, she thought, sadly. Far better than an Immadian Princess.

“Ardan and I have talked at length, Aranya,” she said, “and it’s a good thing I don’t have a scimitar in my hand when I say this.”

Oh, flying ralti sheep, how had she wronged the Warlord now?

Kylara dropped her voice to a whisper so low, even an Amethyst Dragon had to strain to hear her. “Aranya, I don’t love him –”

“N-N-No.” The breath stopped in her throat with a rattle. “No! You can’t mean it.”

Kylara’s peaceable smile said enough, but she repeated, “Aye. I don’t love Ardan, not in that most Island-shivering sense.”

Had Kylara grown a Dragon’s tail and walloped her over the head with it, Aranya could have been no less stunned.

“I … I don’t accept that,” she said, plaintively.

Kylara said, “You have to. I could never love a Dragon. The truth is, I’ve come to realise that I loved the idea of Ardan more than the man himself. Nor does he love me. In fact, I suspect he might love a certain, very magical someone else, and always has.”

Zip chucked Aranya beneath the chin. “Shut the trap, petal.”

Aranya snapped her jaw shut. “Kylara … Ardan? I don’t understand. Why are you allowing this?”

He drawled, “Because love is for fools. And though they are fools, Shadow Dragons don’t easily take ‘no’ for an answer, o jewel of Immadia.”

“I sense a conspiracy of monstrous proportions!” Aranya complained, not trusting herself to look at Ardan. How could she answer him now, when a storm filled her heart? Ambushed – first by Leandrial, then the Chameleons, and now by Kylara and Ardan, even Zip. Yet, she could not read another’s heart.

Nor could she make sense of this storm, not now, not when she was being battered from every side. Aranya fled in another direction. Turning to Jia-Llonya, she asked, “What of you, Jia?”

“Once Yolathion is healed, I will –”

As the Jeradian girl began to speak, a mighty roar sounded from the medical tents, followed by screams and the sound of crysglass smashing. Every eye, Shapeshifter, Human and Land Dragon, snapped toward the ruckus.

A huge shape struggled there, winged, mighty in size for a Lesser Dragon. His bellow was an abhorrent scream, a wordless declaration of insanity. The Dragon lifted off, belching fire at everything and nothing, the suns gleaming off his Brown Dragon hide. Yolathion! Flying with jerky, uncoordinated movements, he winged over the hills toward the east, twice firing fireballs which did not even appear to be aimed at the windrocs straying into his path.

What trepidation trembled her Dragon hearts as Aranya watched Yolathion disappear behind the hills. Feral, or insane? Had the torture snapped his mind? If so, the Yorbik Islanders were in terrible danger.

At once, Ja’arrion called, Yedior? Will you do as we discussed?

At once, Ja’arrion.

Yedior, who was also a Brown Dragon, winged rapidly over the shipyards, coming to a neat landing beside their council. His beautiful, turbulent yellow eyes regarded them all, and Aranya sensed a nobility in him, a largeness of spirit. He was a much younger Dragon than her uncle, but still over eighty feet in length, his hide a lustrous, dark brown tending to tan in the underparts. He began to step toward Jia-Llonya, before his paw arrested in mid-air.

Oh … what is this? Why do I – Ja’arrion? I feel so odd. Faint.

The Green Dragon rose to his feet, scanning the throng. He said, What has caused this feeling, Yedior?

Aranya had the sense that her uncle knew exactly what was happening, but chose to play along. A secretive smile curved Oyda’s lips. Aranya shivered delicately. How much magic thrilled the air? An inexplicable but familiar magic, one that tugged her back to the cave where she and Ardan had first met. One soul touching another. A power beyond magic, even.

Her. That one. His claw rose, moving beyond Jia-Llonya to point at Kylara. The Brown, huge as he was, gulped like a shy teenager. What power is this, Ja’arrion?

Ask her the question, Yedior.

Kylara stumbled forward as though impelled by an unheard command. Her mouth worked, but no words emerged.

Yedior sank to his knee in a deep bow, swinging his muzzle down toward the Western Isles warrior. “I’m supposed to take Jia-Llonya,” he protested, but his eyes were for Kylara alone. “Oh, by my mother’s egg! I, Yedior the Brown, beg, no, I entreat you … will you do me the honour, Kylara, of becoming my Dragon Rider?”

The Warlord seemed frozen somewhere between horror and awe. She blurted out, “I’ll sharpen my scimitar on your head if you give me any trouble,” and then clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling a shriek.

“That passes for ‘aye’ in the Western Isles,” said Ardan, dryly.

Next to Aranya, Zuziana shouted with laughter.

Kylara stumbled toward the Dragon in a daze, throwing her arms as far as she could reach around Yedior’s muzzle. “Of course, I’d want nothing more in the Island-World, you beautiful … you handsome oh, flying ralti sheep, you’re a Dragon!”

“Then let’s burn the heavens together, as Dragon and Rider!” cried Yedior.

Kylara and Yedior made moon-eyes at each other.

Ja’arrion put in, “That would be right now, Yedior. Take Jia-Llonya and Kylara, and go catch that Brown Dragon before he causes too much trouble.”

“Aye, Ja’arrion,” he and Kylara chorused.

More gently, the Green Dragon said to Jia-Llonya, “We can hope he is only feral, little one, and that your love will restore him to his senses.”

As the threesome rushed away to find weapons and supplies, Ardan winked at Aranya. “Never love a Dragon, eh? How long did that last? A whole minute?”

She shook her head, thinking that magic and love were a wondrous and confounding combination. What if her health could be restored, inwardly and outwardly? What if it could not? Did any of that matter if she and the Shadow Dragon were linked by the soul-fire? Stubbornness was not unknown to the Princess of Immadia, so did that mean she was only kicking back at the goads because this was the Black Dragon’s apparent scheme for her life, for which Yolathion had paid so dearly? She intended to have words with Fra’anior. Many words, perhaps harsh ones.

Leandrial rumbled, “You above-Clouders have the strangest cultural practices. Now, o Amethyst Dragon, what say you?”

Aranya gazed around the circle of faces, and then up at the Land Dragon. So many people she loved. So many who had sacrificed in awful yet ennobling ways to bring about Sylakia’s demise – or Thoralian’s, at least, the Shapeshifter Dragon who had oppressed and dominated Sylakia for over a hundred years, and conquered the Island-World north of the Rift. His power had been shattered. From this day on, a new order would rule the Island-World north of the Rift, with an authority rooted in the integrity of Shapeshifter Dragons like Ja’arrion, Va’assia and Yedior, the magic of a Nameless Man, and the goodwill of rulers like King Beran, and Prince Ta’armion and his Dragon-wife Lyriela.

“Seeing as you’ve all been plotting behind my back, Leandrial, I’ll make you that oath – if you still think you need it. Or you can just … ah, take my Dad as insurance.”

King Beran snorted unhappily. “I’ll miss you too, Aranya.”

* * * *

As the conference broke up, Ja’arrion caught Aranya’s attention with a gentle talon-tap upon her shoulder. Stay and speak with us, o daughter of my egg-sister.

We’ve so much to be thankful for, said his mate, Va’assia, overshadowing Aranya from the other flank. And many things to thank you for, not least a daughter to hold, and a niece to love.

I … Aranya sighed. I feel as though I’ve only completed half the job.

“You’re angry with me,” said the Green Dragon, switching to Island Standard for Prince Ta’armion’s benefit, as he and Lyriela paused to listen to the conversation. “I apologise for what I said about fledglings. After all, Star Dragons are renowned for powers and skills that belie their relatively small stature.”

“Thank you, uncle,” she said, allowing a smile to unbend her stiff lips. “I’m truly happy to have found so many kin, all alive.” The jealousy which had begun to fester, fell away. It was right, and good, to be among family after having feared for so long that she was the only Dragon left alive.

“No half-jobs around here,” said Va’assia, letting an enormous, spine-popping stretch run the length of her body, ending in her tail. “I’ve slept fifteen years; now I feel so alive, I could bounce off the moons!”

“You knew my mother. How big was she?” asked Aranya.

“My sister was seventy-seven feet long, nose-tip to tail,” said Ja’arrion. “Prettiest Dragon you ever saw. It’s uncanny, meeting you, Aranya. Only your colour helps remind me who I’m talking to.”

What’s bothering you, cousin? Lyriela asked. Is it Thoralian?

“It’s partly Thoralian,” said Aranya, helping the Prince follow her question. “Ja’arrion, am I right in understanding that all of the Dragons Thoralian captured are Shapeshifter Dragons, like us?”

The fire in his eyes clearly communicated that he understood where her question was leading. “Aye, Aranya, that appears to be correct – although we don’t recognise twenty-eight of them. Most were Shifters that came from Shapeshifter lineages like ours, or those which arose naturally through magical processes or chance, a mystery which no Dragon scholar has ever deciphered. And before you ask the question burning in your hearts, Aranya – no, I never knew my parents. I’m sorry.”

“But you are mighty,” said Va’assia, with a rumbling of her belly-fires that betrayed her feelings for her mate. “Among Green Dragons, his powers are legendary –”

“Perhaps so, if my magic returns,” he said, regarding her fondly over Aranya’s head. “I don’t believe I’ve recovered from whatever Thoralian and his Chameleons did to me. One of them took the form of Va’assia when he captured me in our bedchamber.” Thou, the fiery breath of my hearts.

She growled contentedly. Thou, my soul’s roosting-place.

“Ah, resting-place, don’t you mean?” asked the Amethyst Dragon.

The Red extended her wing over Aranya’s back in a motherly gesture. “Petal, most Dragons call their favourite cave, their roost – preferably a sandy, warm cave with room for two, and space to brood over a few eggs.”

Discomfited, Ja’arrion coughed out a plume of fire. “That’s too much detail for these youngsters! Aranya, I can only concur with your suspicions. The non-Shifting Dragons are still missing. We remain only two of the three great races of this Island-World.”

Imbalance, said Lyriela, at exactly the same moment as her husband said, “Imbalance.”

Lyriela’s shout of Dragonish laughter nearly knocked Ta’armion over. “Great leaping Islands!” he huffed, patting his ruffled hair back into place. “What did I say?”

The Dragoness nuzzled her husband fondly, making him stagger. Come fly away with me, my lovely little man.

Shoving her muzzle as hard as he could in return, the Prince laughed, “Alright, you overgrown jewel, I know you’re talking behind my back. Out with it.”

Watching their sweet interaction, Aranya recognised suddenly that harmonies came in many different guises, great and small, loud and soft. Who was she to judge? In playing her part in bringing Ta’armion and Lyriela together, she had fostered one kind of balance, a beautiful harmony of two lives. Perhaps she and Ardan could be another. One thread, Thoralian, had been lost, but the greater imbalance of his malevolent domination of the Island-World had shifted, she hoped, forever. Across the world the powers and balances shifted continuously, harmonies and disharmonies rising and falling, all contributing to a greater song which she was only beginning to appreciate.

If only Izariela could have guided her into this knowledge.

A great task remained if she wished to help the Land Dragons and restore all of the Dragonkind to their rightful place in the world. Aranya knew she had to learn how to listen, not with her ears, but with her soul.

May it be so, she whispered.

* * * *

Long after nightfall, when men snored and Dragons flew among the stars in their fiery dreams, the King of Immadia appeared at the end of Leandrial’s talons and picked his way down to where Aranya, Zuziana and the Shadow Dragon slept, all in their Dragon forms, nestled between the Land Dragon’s paws. Given that Iridith, Jade and Blue were all full, he had no need for a lantern. And with two Dragons keeping watch that night after the battle, he had little to fear.

“Sparky? I see your eye agleam. Couldn’t sleep?”

“No, Dad.”

“Me neither. I came to check up on you, not that you need it.” He chuckled in his beard. “Call me sentimental.”

Aranya said, “Dad, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to rescue Mom.”

“Now who’s being sentimental? I can top that.” Taking a deep breath, Beran set his hand upon Aranya’s muzzle. “When you said you were an enchantress, that day on top of Izariela’s Tower, and I counselled you to find a better path, I did not mean for you to fly off to Herimor. Or to become a Dragon. Oftentimes, I still think of you as my girl, seven summers old.” His hand clenched. “Thoralian hurt my little girl, I told myself. I lacked the power to stop him. I consoled myself that Yolathion had swept you off your feet, only to find it was a Shadow Dragon you loved.”

Lowering her voice, she breathed, “I’m not certain about him, Dad.”

“Is that so?”

Which, translated from Beran-speak, meant, ‘I’m your father and I know better.’ Aranya sighed. “Dad, being linked by soul-fire isn’t exactly the same as loving someone.”

“No, because everyone enjoys that chance!” he snapped. Aranya gasped at his outburst; Beran gave her a wry half-smile and said, “Sorry, Aranyi. That wasn’t the gentlest way of expressing how jealous I am that you share such a deep connection with Ardan, when I never had that opportunity with your mother. Forgive me?”

Aranya nuzzled his hand. “I was the insensitive one. Ah, can I ask you a different question?”

“Only one? You’re slowing down on confusing this old man.”

“Unfurl this scrolleaf. Who’s this?”

Beran unfurled the proffered scroll, a sketch of a Dragon’s head which Aranya had drawn during her captivity and Jia had snatched up and stuffed in her pocket when they escaped from the Tower of Sylakia. He glanced over it. “Nice self-portrait, Aranya. I love the detail. Very skilfully done.”

“You can have it,” said Aranya. “Hang it up in your navigation cabin.”

“Oh, this is supposed to console me when you fly off beneath the Cloudlands?” Beran snapped his fingers rudely. “Ralti sheep droppings to that, as you youngsters say. Now, I came to say that you stirred up a respectable storm today, Sparky. We’d all have preferred Thoralian’s head served on a platter, but Sylakia’s surrender is a decent second-best – oh, enough with the Immadian understatement. It’s an outstanding achievement! Island-shattering, stars singing in the heavens … when I’m back in Immadia, I’m going to tell your brothers that their big sister saved the world, and –”

“Ah, saving the world’s a little premature, Dad. Thoralian’s still out there and if he returns with the First Egg … anyways, you’re about to be knee-deep in Dragons. I don’t think you’ll be getting much rest.”

That was worth a chuckle.

King Beran lowered his voice. “You will come back, won’t you, Sparky?”

“Oh, Dad. Of course I will.”

She put a paw about his shoulders. Beran laid his head against her muzzle, just beneath the hole exposing her cheekbone. He said, “I can’t believe I never did this with Izariela. I never knew; never imagined.” He dashed a tear away rather fiercely. “Now, one last thing. Do you still need me to give the Black Dragon that kick in the fangs, as I promised?”

Aranya changed her mind as to what she had been planning. “I’d appreciate it if you helped, Dad.”

“Just tell me how.”

Patiently, over the course of the next hour, Aranya taught her father the mind-meld techniques Zuziana and Ri’arion had taught her. When they were linked, Beran’s mind resting at the edge of her consciousness, Aranya took a deep breath.

Fra’anior, I seek you.

As always, the vision of the Black Dragon came rapidly and forcefully upon her. Dark thunderclouds, storm winds, the seven-headed monster bellowing at her from the chaos of his cloud-citadel, You! You should be hiding beneath a rock, where you belong. Why haven’t you done my bidding? Who is that with you?

My father, King Beran of Immadia. He will serve as my witness.

So, a puny Lesser Dragon and an even punier Human King would counsel an Ancient Dragon?

Aranya bridled at his scorn. You disrespect us, Black Dragon.

Then earn my respect, hatchling! Do as I command.

She was aware of her father mentally shaking his head; Aranya soothed him with a touch of her mind. The Black Dragon drew closer, weighing heavier on the link between them, as if he sought a means to enter her soul. She needed to state her business quickly.

O mighty Black Dragon, do you know who I am?

The voice lowered to the pitch of an earthquake, contemptuous and biting. You’re a disobedient, rebellious hatchling without a shred of the shell-sense given the least of the Dragonkind; one who presumes to know better than the most powerful and ancient of all Dragons!

Having expected this response, Aranya mastered her anger. No, Fra’anior.

No? He thundered, Do you know any word other than ‘no’, you feckless little –

She cut him off sharply. This is me. Look closely.

A mental image of the Amethyst Dragon, filled in with all the detail her artistic mind could supply, winged its way over the unimaginable leagues of space, and perhaps time, to the mind of the Ancient Dragon. Silence rippled and deepened between them, pregnant and treacherous.

Or perhaps, if I assume this colour …

Within her, Beran gasped.

She hunkered down behind her mental defences as Ri’arion had taught her, layer upon suffocating layer of protection, fearful that Fra’anior’s response might destroy her mind.

The Black Dragon rasped, Impossible! Yet, you do not lie.

Aranya said, So, with respect, may I start to call you ‘grandfather’?

End of Book 2

You might want to consider reading The Pygmy Dragon and The Onyx Dragon before diving into the 3rd volume of the Shapeshifter Dragons series. This is due to the way that the two series and their characters are linked. Otherwise? Fly on!

Book 3: Song of the Storm Dragon

By Marc Secchia

The Storm is coming! The hegemony of Sylakia has been broken and freedom won, but at a shattering cost. Laid low by the vile Shapeshifter pox and Thoralian’s wiles, can Aranya rise again? For war sweeps Herimor at the touch of the Marshal’s evil claws, and he will stop at nothing to possess the ultimate power.

Now, the race is on to find the First Egg of the Ancient Dragons. Accompanied by her friends Zuziana and Ardan, and the magnificent Land Dragon Leandrial, the Star Dragoness must dive deep in her new quest. Cross the uncrossable Rift-Storm to Herimor. Stop Thoralian. Crush his ambitions. Only then will she be able to save her beloved Dragons.

Yet profound Dragon lore enshrouds her purposes. History beckons. What are the secrets of the powerful Dragonfriend and the tiny, lost Pygmy Dragoness? Why did the Dragons disappear? What became of the powerful Dragons of yore?

Arise, o Storm Dragoness! She is legend. She is the whisper of starlight upon Dragon scales. She is Aranya, and this is her song. The Song of the Storm Dragon.

Chapter 1: Oaths and Lessons

Aranya SURFACED FROM the terrace lake, gasping and blowing like a beached trout. She strained to fill her burning lungs with the fragrant, dry air drifting down from Yorbik Island’s sprawling coniferous forests. Squeezed beneath Iridith’s lowering bulk and the western horizon, the suns blazed like twin golden cauldrons, casting a gleam that burnished the waters for miles about into a vast, luminous copper lake. The buoyant gleam reflected from the skies above, producing a dome of metallic blue so radiant that a Dragon’s wings must shiver in awe.

Instead, the Amethyst Dragoness champed her fangs in frustration.

She could not cross the lake; could not complete a training course on which Ardan and Zuziana succeeded repeatedly, honing their underwater flying skills in preparation for their assault on the Rift. Her eyes lit dimly upon the surrounding beauty. Her breath was shallow and pained, her body ravaged inside and out by Thoralian’s deliberately induced Shapeshifter pox.

Shame at her debility filled Aranya with dull, mordant rage that made her picture a Green readying her acid for battle. Battle there had been, aye, and the wondrous discovery of her Aunt and Uncle, Va’assia the Red Shapeshifter Dragoness and Ja’arrion, a Green-Orange of surpassing power, also a Shapeshifter. She gritted her fangs until her gums hurt. Victory had been soured by Thoralian’s escape from her paw. Her mother Izariela still lay in poisoned stasis upon Immadia Island, in a chill tomb. Yet she lived somehow, magically, suspended between life and death.

Unbidden, her right forepaw clenched. Thou, shell-mother of my soul. For thee, shall I rise anew!

The waters rippled about her as though a bell’s vibrations rippled through the lake. The Immadian’s eyes popped wide; for a fractured second, her belly-fires flared lambent, and the Island-World’s splendour flowered before her astonished gaze. Then, the shadowy veil descended once more. Partial blindness. She was healing, but with excruciating slowness.

Had eternity’s white-fires breath just trembled her world?

Aranya! Azure wings flashed over the lake.

Aranya! A huge, smoky shadow traced Princess Zuziana’s flight as Ardan raced in hot pursuit, the final snap of each completed wingbeat coming within inches of snagging in the water, yet he retained perfect balance. The Shadow Dragon was a masterful flier, an enigma, perhaps an unknowable danger to all Dragons …

And her beloved.

Could she allow that word? Could she allow a scarified Western Isles warrior, who was also the monstrous, superb Shadow Dragon, sway in her heart? Aranya laughed hollowly. Was not the proud Princess of Immadia more scarred than he, in truth; did the greatest mutilation not lie within her? And if honesty were allowed free reign, might she not question if love left her a whisker of wiggle-room? He was unlike any man she had ever imagined walking out with. He was more – in every sense of the world, more. Warrior. Dragon of Shadow. Powerful, yet tender and true. She longed to know him deeply; to twine her life in his, but Aranya feared she was at her life’s lowest ebb. These dreams were worthless, a foolish indulgence. She must abandon hope, crush her desires, and move on.

When she had first met Zuziana of Remoy in the Tower of Sylakia, how aloof she must have seemed, a true ice-maiden of the frozen North. So arrogant of beauty and heritage. As truly as dragonets laid eggs, she had fought like a demented rajal with the petite Remoyan and had discovered in her, the finest of friends.

These two Dragons winged toward her now, kicking up a trail of spray that caused rainbows to dance over the lake. With all her hearts, she longed to see every detail of those smears of colour on her damaged retinae. She yearned to marvel at the sweep of Dragon wings across burnished waters, and to launch herself into an aerial dance, but she lacked the strength to lift her wings, as if trapped in liquescent spiderweb. Pathetic. Aranya was a fledgling, less than half Ardan’s size. A burned-out Star Dragoness. She had never felt less ‘Sparky’, her father’s nickname for her.

Ardan called, Helping paw, Aranya?

Back-winging sharply, her best friend who had earned the fond moniker ‘Zip’ folded her forelimbs across her chest and scowled at the Amethyst Dragoness, allowing a quarrelsome curl of fire to escape between her fangs. Overdid it again, you silly ralti sheep!

Huh, said Ardan, flexing his mountainous shoulders, this one’ll see sense the day Dragons fly backward around the Mystic Moon. Shall I hold her whilst you wallop her backside?

It’s a deal, smirked Zip.

Her moss-green backside? sniffed the Shadow Dragon.

Oh. By the fires of Fra’anior! Thinking about Green Dragons had skewed her colour, that peculiar, chameleon-like ability that struck haphazardly. Aranya tried to pout, but in her Dragoness-form, that expression dribbled fire between her pursed lips. Ugh.

She said, I don’t want to beg … but I can’t lift even a wingtip.

The Shadow Dragon drew himself up. Immadia’s pride shall not beg. Behold!

With that, the water mounded beneath Aranya, propelling her irresistibly upward. Ardan? No, as boiling white torrents sluiced off a mountain of grey-green Dragonflesh, she realised that Leandrial had broached beneath her. The Land Dragoness’ chuckles generated three-foot waves that raced off in every direction. Roaring rajals! At a shade over a mile and a half in length, Leandrial’s sheer physical size still struck her like a Dragon’s punch to the sternum. A Lesser Dragon could fly down this herbivore’s throat with ease. Leandrial’s single eye, a white orb in the middle of her forehead, was as wide as Aranya’s wingspan. Yet even she swam with freedom in the mighty terrace lakes of Yorbik, the largest unbroken landmass North of the Rift. In places, the lakes touched on twelve miles wide, encircling the entire Island.

You’re back, Leandrial? Aranya asked.

I have fed well, boomed the Land Dragoness, before modulating her telepathic Dragonish. How fares your training, little one?

Aranya, all forty-three feet of her, exhaled moodily.

Evidently sensing this movement, even though Aranya lay plastered to the crown of Leandrial’s flat, spatulate cranium and thus evaded her direct line of sight, the Dragoness said, We must trigger your innate sense of Balance. That is the key. Did your shoulder heal well? What of your other wounds?

Aye, those are good. Not the pox-scars, though. Not those hideous … she mentally banished her thoughts past the Moons. Far too depressing.

You possess magic enough for a mighty oath, little one. I felt the Islands quake.

Ardan asked, That wasn’t my digestion?

In the days of Hualiama Dragonfriend, Leandrial held forth, the proverb was, ‘Thrice spoken, once ordained.’ Thus was made plain the trifold power of the Dragonfriend’s oaths. Of all the high-dwelling Dragonkind, it was she who understood Land Dragons best, and she who fought for us. The Dragonfriend taught us the power of oaths. I believe it was she who first set about codifying Shapeshifter lore. You promised to rise anew. This oath-magic holds extraordinary, destiny-shaping power, Aranya. You must speak it, and breathe its soul-shivering fires, with care and forethought.

Aranya’s wings made a sucking, slurping noise as she finally managed to wrestle them back to her sides. The shoulder Thoralian had injured with a bolt of ice twinged, but limited flight was possible.

The Amethyst Dragoness raised her nostrils to the wind, tasting hardwood pollens and grit, and scenting spicy pine and the smoky tang of lake trout sizzling over an open fire. She searched deeper, pressing outward with all seven of her Dragon senses as Va’assia had been teaching her, and with the magical awareness of Harmony, Leandrial’s speciality. Her scales prickled, not uneasily, but with a sensation she could only describe as restlessness.

Come, let us hove to the far shore, said the mighty Dragoness, quoting an obscure ballad she had sung for their group several nights before.

Leandrial swam for the terrace lake’s inner shore with powerful thrusts of her four paws, and an undulating swimming motion she had taught the Lesser Dragons – up and down, and side-to-side movements were essential for negotiating the crushing pressures and super-dense air of the lower reaches beneath the permanent cloud layer. The water pressed ahead of her with a low, sucking roar. Aranya noticed how strenuously Leandrial’s lungs had to work in the atmosphere the Land Dragoness disparaged as ‘gaspingly thin’, a full league above the deathly Cloudlands. Seen from above, the Cloudlands were an endlessly variegated carpet of clouds spanning the horizons, lapping about the skirts of the Islands which Fra’anior and his Ancient Dragon-kin had formed and shaped and breathed into life, but beneath, the Land Dragoness had described a vast wilderness as varied and rich in flora and fauna as the above-Cloudlands world familiar to Aranya, Ardan and Zip.

Squinting ahead, Aranya made out familiar figures on the beach – a sparkling expanse of inexplicably turquoise mineral composition, which made the sand resemble a strip of noon sky touching the backing coniferous and hardwood forests. There, the King of Immadia had apparently appointed himself chief cook, supervised by the geriatric yet always spritely Dragon Rider Nak.

“Mind your wash, Leandrial,” she said aloud.

“My wash? Have I not bathed in your place of wide, clear waters?”

“No, the waves caused by your travelling body,” rumbled Ardan. “Your – what was the term?”

“Pressure surge,” said Zip, with a sassy flip of her wings.

The Shadow Dragon grumbled, “All of my thoughts are rolled up in lessons and scrolls. I hunger for action. When will we depart, o jewel of Immadia?”

He often emphasized their difference in station. Aranya wished he would desist. Perhaps a Western Isles warrior thought himself unworthy of royalty, but she had been taught differently, and felt differently. She held that man on the beach responsible for her upbringing. Aye, King Beran had done a semi-respectable job with her considering he had a fiery, empire-crushing, criminal Shapeshifter Princess for a daughter.

“Soon,” she whispered, knowing it in her bones.

Ardan gave her his quirky, ‘you’re being mystical’ half-smile and rolled his fire-eyes inexpertly at her. “Aye, Aranya? May it be.”

As the wind shifted to bring the scent of shore more strongly to her nostrils, her stomach voiced a guttural howl of anticipation. Beran’s chargrilled, herb-basted trout smelled scrumptious. Great leaping Islands, she was eating like a starving hatchling these days. Human-Aranya was embarrassed beyond words at the quantities of meat and fish her Dragoness seemed capable of packing away. Dragon-Aranya? Not so much. Snout to the feeding trough, lizard!

Ugh. The older Shapeshifters seemed to find her antics amusing, even adorable. Aranya was not in the mood. So, she barely tolerated meat. How was that a problem for the carnivorous fanged beast she had transformed into not so many months ago?

As Leandrial slowed abruptly, her belly scraping the lake-bottom, the Amethyst Dragoness slid down the bridge of the Land Dragoness’ nine-hundred-and-ten-foot muzzle with the grace of a wet rag sliding down the side of a bathtub. Groaning, she spread her wings and used the momentum to heave herself through the air to shore, before staggering to a nearby copse where the ever-practical Oyda was lacing Human-Zip into a simple, grass-green Yorbik gown.

“Eat, petal,” Oyda ordered at once. “Sate your hunger on that buck. Then you can relax and enjoy your father’s cooking. Where’d a man learn to cook like your sire? One of your peculiar, monogamy-grounded Immadian traditions?”

Aranya laughed, “Oyda! Honestly, equality of genders is not the evil you would style it. Besides, did I see you sharing Nak with any other woman? I’m not about to marry thirteen husbands, unlike Zip here.”

Zuziana snorted, “You know very well that Remoy’s tradition is one husband to many –”

“Naked wives!” yelled Nak, who had a Dragon’s hearing when it suited. Sharpening of the senses was a boon Dragon Riders enjoyed, along with vastly elongated lifespans. Oyda was one hundred and seventy-seven summers of age, Nak her senior by the better part of a decade. However, due to the attrition of conflict and war, few Riders reached such august stations in life.

Oyda scowled at him over the undergrowth. “Mind on the job, husband.”

“Ooh, my mind is consumed with far more alluring prospects,” he sneered, whirling his canes for emphasis. The King of Immadia snaffled one of his staked-out trout before it landed in the fire. “I’ve a hunch I fancy your haunches, Remoy!”

“I’ll show you haunches, Dragon Rider,” growled Ardan.

Aranya glanced up. Oh, mercy! Ardan strode over to the fires clad only in a Western Isles loincloth. Between Western Isles culture and the general lack of nudity taboos in Remoy … she folded up laughing as the brawny warrior struck a ludicrously come-hither pose in front of Nak, flexing his pectorals and displaying his right thigh to its best advantage.

In high falsetto, Ardan declaimed, “Come, thou handsome son of the dawn, shall we to Island together?”

Nak’s strangled squeak sounded like a Crescent Islands wild pig.

A Dragon-blush heated Aranya’s entire body from the inside, but Oyda only chuckled, “He has the measure of my Nak, alright. Eat up, petal.”

Aranya could not keep from goggling at the spectacle of a dark, muscular Western Isles warrior making ardent lip-smacking noises, hounding Nak around the cooking fires as the old man fled a-totter upon his canes, crying, “Fie! Away with thee, vile apparition! Cease this –” Ardan pinched Nak’s backside, raising a bloodcurdling shriek “– fie! Back, thou fiend of the nethermost, sulphurous hells! Desist!”

Men. Inappropriate, but hilarious.

Aranya sliced into the buck with her fangs and tried her best to bolt the meat without tasting too much blood. Aye, this victory over the Sylakian Empire was sweet relief. Ardan’s comical behaviour, the unbending of Zip’s darling, the ex-monk Ri’arion, the emergence of over a hundred Shapeshifter Dragons from their enforced hibernation – so much had changed, the very Islands threatened to stand upon their heads. The Island-World practically crawled with Dragonkind beneath a new dawn of freedom from Sylakia’s tyranny, yet Aranya knew this must be a far cry from the heyday of Lesser Dragons – the era of the mighty Dragonfriend, or even the days of the Pygmy Dragon, one hundred and fifty years before.

Roll up the scaly sleeves, Immadia! Work beckoned.

Suddenly, mid-transformation, she startled. That Dragonfriend would be … Aunt Hualiama. Aunt? She had an aunt who had to be – skanky windrocs, her head throbbed trying to work out the timescale – six hundred years old? Seven hundred? How, by any coinage of the impossible, did that make a drop of sense?

Wobbling inelegantly into her Shapeshifter form, Aranya slipped into her undergarments – Fra’anior’s finest lacework – trying not to snag the delicate cloth on her rough scars, or to catalogue the grotesque lumps and pockmarks that covered her body. Every breath wheezed in and out of her blighted lungs. Coldly irate, she wound a headscarf around her face, shrouding herself from the neck to above her exposed left cheekbone, and then she arranged a cloth across her forehead as well, leaving only her amethyst eyes uncovered. So conservative? No self-pity allowed, Immadia. Aye, she could not join the celebrations, yet, but that day would come – oh please, let it come!

For thee, mother, shall I rise anew!

Ill-starred oaths.

* * * *

With a contented belch, Nak waved the well-chewed remains of his trout in King Beran’s general direction. “I had my doubts about you, boy, but I find you are an adequate cook, besides being a passable ruler.”

The tall Immadian King’s teeth flashed in the firelight. “I had my doubts about you, granddad, but I thank you for doing an acceptable job of taking my rebellious, runaway daughter in hand.”

“Granddad?” snorted Nak. “Why, you snotty-nosed urchin, you do a disservice to the multiplicity of generations my fertile loins have spawned –”

“Urchin?” snorted Beran. “By my greying whiskers, your eyes grow dim, you senile old rajal.”

Speak, Aranya.

Her hands jerked, spilling half a goblet of fruity Yorbik red over Sapphire’s tail. The dragonet hissed in annoyance and abandoned Aranya’s lap to bathe in the lake, as fastidious as any cat.

Aranya inquired, Leandrial?

The gleaming white slit of the Land Dragoness’ eye widened, casting its natural radiance over the group gathered by the fire. Nak and Oyda sat beside her upon a low, flat boulder. To their left, Aranya’s eyes lit upon Lyriela, her cousin, perched decorously upon Prince Ta’armion’s knee, and Ja’arrion and Va’assia, in their Human forms, a striking couple of indeterminable middle years, both tall and graceful in the Fra’aniorian manner. Ja’arrion’s trim beard was shot with white, but his long dark hair flowed to shoulder length, framing a face gaunt from privation. Those harsh lines softened by the day. His eyes were amber-green, startlingly rajal-like in their depths, and much inclined to blazing with apparently natural bellicosity – but Aranya had observed that his manner masked a tender interior, particularly when he gazed upon Va’assia, his raven-haired wife. For all her self-confidence and physical beauty, Va’assia had seemed bent from the start upon shoehorning a fledgling Star Dragoness into her rightful place. Protocol. Aranya was heartily sick of her Aunt’s pedantic lectures.

King Beran had chosen to sit on a large log on the opposite side of the fire, with his long-time friend Commander Darron, to his left. He had a genial smile for Aranya beneath his bristly white beard. The man who had once been Immadia’s arch-enemy, First War-Hammer Ignathion of Jeradia, hulked to Beran’s right; a seven-foot, Dragon-built man who held his honour as sacrosanct. His son Yolathion was still on the loose as a feral Dragon. Beside Ignathion sat another Blue Dragoness Shapeshifter Aranya did not know well, Tuzimi of Erigar, a short but powerful brunette, who spoke in an accent so clipped Aranya imagined her Dragoness’ talons slicing the fat off every word. Her mate Shangur was one of the few Dragons they had discovered who was not a Shapeshifter. His Brown bulk formed a gleaming backdrop to the group on the log, while his blunt muzzle curved around to rest against Tuzimi’s knee.

Aranya, Ardan and Zip – the youngsters – completed the circle, sitting cross-legged on the sand between Shangur and Ri’arion, who stood behind Nak’s left shoulder.

“Father,” Aranya said formally, “I fear I’m holding everyone back here at Yorbik. I propose we decamp to Gi’ishior –”

“We’ve discussed this,” Va’assia interrupted. “Many of the Dragon-Shifters cannot fly as yet.”

The fire flared in concert with the surging of Aranya’s emotions. “Aunt Va’assia, I’ve been working with Leandrial on trying to sense Balance, and I’ve a feeling –”

“A feeling?” snorted Va’assia.

“What kind of feeling?” growled Beran.

“We need to –”

The Red Shapeshifter snapped, “Your elders have settled the matter, Aranya. To question is pointless. The appropriate protocol is –” Thunder cracked across the lake, drowning out her words. Va’assia snapped, “Restrain your powers, child. As I was saying –”

King Beran said flatly, “Kindly allow me to speak to my daughter as I see fit, Va’assia.”

“Her Elders have decided.”

“Her self-appointed Elders? Who are deciding for whom, exactly?” asked the King of Immadia, drawing an inappropriate chuckle from Nak.

“She’s a Shapeshifter Dragoness!” Va’assia insisted. “A little support here, Ja’arrion!”

The Red Shifter leaped into the fray with, “Dragons demand respect, Beran! You may not be used to our ways –”

“She gave the ruddy scales off her back to save your necks and mine!” Beran blazed. “Or have you already forgotten? What is it about you Dragons that you have to be so hidebound? We’ve barely thrown off the Sylakian yoke and you, you …”

Aranya had seldom seen her father so riled. She half-rose, saying, “Father –”

Va’assia shouted, “Be silent, child!”

A curl of her Aunt’s Dragon magic slipped free, staggering Beran with an unseen blow.

She saw crimson. BOOM! The fire exploded in concert with the anger that detonated in her head. Aranya was just beginning to scream a mighty Word, and the persons gathered around the fire to throw up their hands in self-defence, when Shadow whipped between them and dumped the entire conflagration into the lake, thirty feet away.

Ardan’s dark eyes fixed upon her. He and Ri’arion, who surfaced now from the water, must have acted as one – so quickly! Aranya lowered her hands slowly, shivering. If ever she needed proof of the volatility of her powers …

The dark warrior seemed undismayed. He drawled, “Just a suggestion. Why don’t we all listen to the Princess of Immadia?”

Aranya was too shocked to laugh. How did Ardan remain so cool under pressure? She really must snitch a few scrolls from his rack.

“Aye, before she blows us all up,” growled Nak. “Besides, if we are being so strict about protocol, I might just claim right of incipient fossilisation over this entire company.” Aiming his right cane at Leandrial’s eye, he said, “This living mountain claims right of physical power. My Oyda is foremost in wisdom. But I say, Aranya claims right –” the grizzled Dragon Rider paused dramatically “– right of heart.”

Nak. Beautiful Nak. She had no words.

Chapter 2: Farewell to Yorbik

ARANYA’s lilting words flowed over Ardan, but his attention was focussed inward. Fear. Choking fear clung to his heart like the linger-vines of his native Naphtha Cluster. He touched the ur-makka upon his wrist, mumbling the ancient formula of protection from evil spirits, and felt ashamed. He hated superstition. Now, he had transformed into a Shadow Dragon. Creature of night. Powers of Shadow. A Dragon who, in a fog of feral passion, had gaily trampled over every moral precious to him as he overpowered the young woman now addressing a council of her peers. She was not just any Dragon. Aye, he had dared to breathe soul-fires with a Star Dragoness.

His need had raged uncontrollable until exposed to the cold light of day; until riven in the crucible of regret. There had been an instant’s decision. Abdication. And now fate had torn the Princess of Immadia from him, and Ardan of Naphtha knew a new truth. His soul sang her song. His fires burned for one alone. Eternally.

Leandrial claimed the creature of old, the Nurguz which the ballads called the Shadow Dragon, and he, were not one and the same creature. Yet she had not seen the moment Ardan, consumed by the heat of battle and fear for his beloved, tore the living pith out of those Chameleon Shapeshifters. Ardan beseeched the heavens that what he had sensed was not the truth. Should any creature divide body from soul? That creature was he.

He was Shadow. No shadow deserved the love of starlight.

Inasmuch as they were physically dissimilar, his dark Western tones and stocky muscularity contrasting with a pale and slender, yet whipcord-strong Northern Princess; her artistic, passionate nature so unfamiliar to a man of his rough-hewn warrior sensibilities; her refined Immadian ethos at odds with the earthy, uncomplicated ways of the Western Isles; for him, the dichotomy went deeper. All that was dark and light of Dragon powers, applied to them both. Star and Shadow. Could he hope for complementarity of souls in light of this, the starkest of all contrasts?

And he accused her of mysticism? Ironic.

Did anyone suspect how gossamer-thin the margin had been between him containing the fire, and tearing into that vicious aunt of Aranya’s with claws of Shadow?

Quietly, but with conviction that wrapped her listeners in a subtle web of enchantment, Aranya laid out her intuition and the reasons they should proceed to Gi’ishior. She could continue to recuperate there. Ta’armion would secure the alliance of Fra’anior with the restored Dragonkind. Gaining access to Gi’ishior’s incomparable libraries of Dragon lore and history, they would inform and arm themselves regarding the First Egg and Thoralian’s powers, and research the esoteric and powerful branches of anti-toxin, filtering, healing and shielding capabilities they would require to survive the journey beneath the Cloudlands to the Rift, and beyond. She neatly summarised the benefits and historical significance of the Dragonkind resettling the Ancient Halls of the Dragons at Gi’ishior.

Beneath her elegant arguments, Ardan suspected guilt. Aranya believed her incapacity daily abetted Thoralian’s plans.

When Aranya indicated she had finished speaking, he said lightly, “In conclusion, Aranya and I are leaving Yorbik tomorrow at dawn, and if you disagree, you can all go talk –” he supplied a graphic Western Isles gesture “– with a windroc.”

So mild was his delivery, it took a very long breath for everyone to grasp the exact obscenity he had suggested. An act to make the leatheriest Sylakian soldier blush, Ardan congratulated himself.

Beneath her face-veil, Aranya’s jaw clearly dropped. An expression between shock, awe and respect – he hoped – brightened her magical eyes. The other Dragons’ reactions were more predictable. Va’assia acted outraged and Shangur snorted in amusement, while innocent Lyriela apparently mistook his meaning.

Darron laughed gruffly, “Kids, eh?”

“Kids,” echoed King Beran, eyeing Ardan with a flinty gaze that promised trouble.

“Immadian intricacies are enough to make a Land Dragon’s head hurt,” Ardan growled. “We Western Isles barbarians value brevity.”

Or, calculated provocation.

Nak said, “Well, that was anatomically infeasible, and as offensive as –”

“Nak!” snapped Oyda.

“– as a very fine allusion with which I shall not trouble young ears,” Nak ad-libbed smoothly, nodding in Zuziana’s direction.

Zip smiled sweetly, “I’ve two words for you, Nak. Polygamous libertarianism.”

Nak’s eyes misted over. “Ah, beauteous Remoy, thou art a tease most beguiling!” Then, he shook himself with the air of a wet, playful hound. “Very good. It’s a splendid idea, if done my way – to wit, I propose that Va’assia, Ri’arion and Prince Ta’armion appoint a mixed delegation to oversee matters at Fra’anior Cluster. Dragons, monks and Humans.”

“Monks are Human, too,” Ri’arion noted.

The old Dragon Rider just folded his arms, snorting, “Hmm.”

The day Nak succeeded in riling the Nameless Man was the day toads turned into princes, as they said – had once said – in Naphtha Cluster. Ardan rubbed his temples furiously. Before the Sylakians had exterminated his people.

Leandrial’s low rumble quaked the ground. “A short run beneath the Cloudlands would constitute an ideal test of the protective constructs we have designed. Pip’s ideas were excellent, but even she did not perfect the environmental factors. I’ve developed a number of theories which will help us to isolate the contamination’s exact nature.”

Theories, aye. Ardan valued Leandrial’s great learning, but her ability to pontificate for hours rubbed his scales the wrong way.

“I wish to bring one more matter before my respected elders,” Aranya said, managing to deliver her statement without resorting to sarcasm. Because only her eyes showed, the emotions, fires and passions that flashed in their extraordinary gemstone depths seemed accordingly magnified. “I don’t say this to build a personal platform. Unlike what you assume, I want you to grasp that I see Ardan and me playing a role in future governance, but not assuming overall leadership.”

Ardan’s eyebrows crawled as Shangur the Brown and Tuzimi, and Aranya’s Uncle and Aunt, all voiced dissenting growls. Dragons were all for power. He had observed the bickering, the settling of the pecking order, as those Dragons newly released from Thoralian’s thrall came to terms with their position and prospects, and the loss of mates, roosts and treasures. Aranya’s way was different. If he understood her in the smallest measure, Ardan knew that despite her apparent youth, the Amethyst Dragoness would wing her own flight across the Island-World and none of these would be able to stop her. His upper lip curled. They could try. They would, for they were Dragonkind; inclined to be the power, or to possess the power.

Thus, they were blind to a Star Dragoness’ purposes.

Aranya continued, “In this new order, we Shapeshifters, the so-called third race, have attained pre-eminence as a result of Sylakia’s depredations. Most Lesser Dragons remain lost – my regrets, noble Shangur. It is the Lesser Dragons who previously ruled Gi’ishior and boasted the great Elders of yore, Dragons such as Sapphurion the Blue, the Green Iridiana, and Kassik the Brown at the time of the Pygmy Dragon. One hundred and fifty years ago, we lost a huge proportion of the Lesser Dragons to the ravening beast, the Nurguz – a word which originates from a Dragonish dialect lost to memory.”

The shuffling of Va’assia’s feet clearly suggested impatience with a youngster recounting the histories. The Immadian Princess, however, seemed to have processed to another place, far from petty politicking. Was it this very transcendence which riled them most? Ardan made a mental scroll-mark. These Dragons must be handled well.

“If our mission to Herimor succeeds,” Aranya added, “there’s a distinct possibility that Lesser Dragons will return to Gi’ishior. We all know it’ll require a miracle. But for Balance to exist, I believe we require all three races to be present and accounted for, which includes Land Dragons. That is non-negotiable.”

“Aye,” Leandrial sighed, gusting hot, richly spiced air over the company.

Aranya pushed to her feet with evident discomfort. “Therefore, I declare my ancestry.”

This was a draconic tradition, one of Va’assia’s core teachings. She placed great emphasis on lineage, on the traits and powers that supposedly bred true through the generations.

Utter silence greeted the Immadian Princess as she firmed her spine laboriously. Here was another quality of the Immadian that snatched the breath from his lungs. She had strength of character like the roots of Islands, and an apparently inexhaustible well of that adamantine integrity so valued in Western Isles cultures. But even as these thoughts raced through his febrile mind, her gaze lit upon him and Ardan’s Dragon fires ignited in response. Oh! What unknowable intention stoked the fires of fate, raising his hackles – she was majestic! How did she command without word or gesture?

The slim girl declared, “I am Aranya of Immadia, Shapeshifter Princess, daughter of King Beran of Immadia and Queen Izariela of Ha’athior. King Beran is the son of King Torlan and Queen Ayana, of the line of the Immadian Kings of old. Izariela is the shell-sibling of Ja’arrion and Hualiama, and the shell-daughter of –” she paused as if seeking to gauge their reactions “– Istariela the Star Dragoness, by the Onyx Dragon, Fra’anior.”

Most of the Shapeshifters sprang to their feet, shouting furious accusations. Ja’arrion fainted outright. Oyda’s brilliant eyes danced for the girl who had crash-landed on her doorstep, while Nak cackled, “Strength to your arm, petal!”

“Blasphemy!” spluttered Va’assia.

Shangur bristled in a four-pawed battle-ready stance, his fires bubbling like an overheated furnace, but the Brown only regarded her belligerently, unspeaking.

Firming her chin, Aranya shouted, SILENCE!

Leandrial made a vast wheeze, but she was the only one capable of response to the sevenfold thunderclap that emerged from Aranya’s throat. What a roar! Thunder rolled over thunder, deeper and richer and more stirring than any storm he had ever heard. As she stood unbowed beneath a sky rent asunder by thousands of chains of branch lightning, her magnificent multi-coloured locks swirling about her slender frame with a life of their own, the thunder avalanched back over the group gathered at the lake shore, impossibly multiplied by the throats of a monumental presence from beyond:

SHE IS BORN! ARANYA, DAUGHTER OF STORM!

Now Aranya bent the knee, stiffly. Noble shell-sire. You honour us exceedingly.

THE HONOUR IS MINE, crashed the thunder. SPEAK THINE OATH ONCE MORE!

Ardan knew his life for but a mote compared to the fires of Fra’anior, but a curl of dark flame seemed to emanate from the stormy presence of the Ancient Dragon, to lodge in his breast. By shielded telepathy, the Great Dragon added, Thou too art mine, Sha’aldior, and mine fires regard thee as ardently as a father doth regard his shell-son. The whitest fires of mine hearts thrive in thy breast. Be strong, Sha’aldior! Be strong, for Aranya must lean upon thee.

Into the soft falling of his failing consciousness, Ardan heard Aranya cry:

For thee, shall I rise anew!

The heavens crashed down upon his head. All was white, and starlight.

* * * *

Nak rapped Ardan’s left forepaw with his cane. “Shrinking lily.”

“I do not faint often,” snarled the Shadow Dragon, looming over the old Dragon Rider.

Dragoness-Aranya elbowed his starboard flank. “Vacuous maiden.”

GRRRAAAAARRRGGH!!

Nak wriggled delightedly at Ardan’s throat-clearing exhibition, and then declaimed:

Arise in dark splendour, thou ancient Lord,

Brooding over thy Isles in majesty resplendent,

For dread foes hath arrayed themselves against thee …

“Anyways, ’tis a fine morning for poetry,” he broke off, giving Ardan another prod of his cane for good measure. “Touch of Annals of the Dragonfriend there, my lad. My Shimmerith had the sweetest voice you ever heard, but that Emblazon of Oyda’s – he was a fulminator like you, Ardan. Helps that I’m half deaf. Saves me from listening to your nonsensical babbling.”

As Nak blithely goaded the Shadow Dragon, Aranya flexed her major wing-joints and examined the leathery wing-membranes, particularly her still-tender left wing. Oyda had removed the rows of neat stitches two days before, leaving numerous long, puckered wound-scars to testify to how Thoralian had shredded the flight surface. Those scars should heal into near-invisibility, but the pox operated on a different level. Could a Shapeshifter’s spirit-form be scarred, she wondered? Leandrial seemed to think it both magically and existentially possible.

“Good, Zip and Ri’arion come at last,” said Ardan. “Seventy-one Dragons accompany them. Beran’s aboard Ja’arrion. I see fifty … no, fifty-four Dragonships cresting the horizon.”

Aranya appreciated his description. The mighty Dragonwing was a shifting blur of colours to her, and the Dragonship fleet a patch of brown fuzz against a pink-chased dawn sky. After her performance the previous evening, which had drawn an approving back-slap from Commander Darron, a quiet word of approval from her father, and the everlasting enmity of her dear aunt, they had hammered out a simple plan. Part of the Immadian Dragonship fleet would return north, taking the wounded soldiers home. A second group would fly directly for Remia, carrying the monks and soldiers of Fra’anior Cluster on a south-westerly run to their home Islands. A number of Dragons and monks elected to remain behind with the weaker Shapeshifters rescued from Thoralian’s caverns, to continue the hunt for the scattered fire-drakes of Herimor.

Meantime Leandrial, Aranya, Ardan and Zuziana would make an initial short foray along the under-Cloudlands ridge to Jendor Cluster, and there assess their progress before pushing South past Horness to Remia, Rolodia and finally, Fra’anior itself.

Simple. Potentially deadly, but simple.

Not half as soul-shivering as having the mighty Onyx Dragon smite the Islands with his thundering at her behest.

* * * *

The Azure Dragoness stiffened until she resembled a smallish, fixed-fin Dragonship in the air. Good for my personal growth, Ri’arion?

I spoke poorly, he replied.

What growth do you think I need, exactly? blazed Zuziana, hating how defensive she sounded.

Be not enraged with me, precious Remoy, he pleaded. Deserving I may be, but I will miss thee … this is a bitter yoke to bear. I sought only to clutch a green shoot of hope in my morass of despair. Truly – his mental voice cracked – I grieve …

Starchy monk, incapable of emotion? A pitiful misjudgement! And when was it that the rainbows of love had illuminated their lives? A curious sensation gripped Zuziana deep in the region of her third heart, as if a fiery paw kneaded her heart-muscle with gentle, ineffable talons. So this was why Dragons talked about the third heart being the seat of love.

Flexing her neck, she bent her gentlest gaze upon the monk seated above her shoulders. My anger blows but a brief squall. My grief mirrors yours.

Although, to taste such words on her tongue was to marvel at the fundamental distinction between her Dragon and Human selves, for her Human was rarely so formal, nor poetic. To her further surprise, all the fires of her draconic being bowed in an inexplicable direction – inward – in a reflection of the Shapeshifter transformation she was slowly becoming accustomed to. Zuziana focussed deeply. There, just at the very fringe of her awareness, she sensed … herself? What?

But this fleeting intuition evaporated as Ri’arion replied, “Good, they’re waiting for us. Leandrial’s enjoying her swim. Look, Zip.”

The Azure Dragoness furled her wings deftly, executing an elegant landing on the blue beach beside Ardan and Aranya. Finally, she was mastering a skill that other Dragons took for granted. She glanced at her best friend, who tilted her muzzle to hide the dreadful wound on her left cheek. The conflict with Sylakia had left them both scarred in body and spirit. Aranya had been the first to heal Zuziana at the Tower of Sylakia after Garthion’s brutal assault and torture; now, Zip had no gift to heal her friend. How, by any measure under moons or suns, could this be fair?

Privately, Aranya said, Hey, girlfriend. Nice to have you on board.

Girlfriend? That’s mighty Dragoness to you, peasant scum, Zip mock-snarled.

Why so melancholy, Zip? The Immadian’s insight seared past her subterfuge. Sorry. Zip-Zap, you’re the best friend I ever snaffled from beneath a tyrant’s nose. Don’t you ever forget –

Did you just read my mind?

I … don’t think so.

Zip grumbled, You’re a wonderful liar. Completely fooled me, there.

Aranya chuckled at this classic Immadian understatement. Your mental state was just very readable.

The nuances of your Dragonish betray you, fledgling, the Azure claimed, imitating Va’assia’s high-handed delivery with devastating accuracy. My cherished protocols demand that you shield your intent with context-indicators of the uttermost linguistic obfuscation.

To her delight, Aranya coughed up a small fireball of fiery mirth, bathing Zip’s flank in momentary heat.

“Ah, the sulphurous fires of friendship,” rumbled the Shadow Dragon.

Ri’arion said, “I see I can trust you to keep Zip hopping, Aranya?”

“A nibble of the wingtips here, a toasty fireball there – it’ll be my pleasure,” purred her so-called friend.

“Right then,” said the monk. “Let’s run over those shield-constructs one more time, girls. Pneumatic and olfactory elements, environment-sensitive responses …”

The Dragons groaned in concert. If only they could have taken the brilliant monk with them, but even Lesser Dragons survived the toxic Cloudlands only under duress; Humans far less so. They lacked the pathways of natural magical resistance and healing that made draconic physiques so resilient. Not for the first time, nor for less than the thousandth, Zip wondered if a magic-user as powerful and creative as the Nameless Man could perform such a feat.

Aranya was not the only one plucking thoughts out of minds, here. Her own ability stemmed from the mind-meld with Ri’arion which seemed over time to have drawn them into a deep understanding of each other’s thought-patterns. Twins sometimes completed each other’s sentences. She and her monk often completed thoughts and ideas. Therefore, she saw Ri’arion also harboured a deep-seated desire to essay exactly that risk. Perhaps after Fra’anior, she deciphered from the tenor of his thoughts, even though he tried to conceal his mental state from her so as not heighten her distress.

Sweet man. She could just nibble him for breakfast … ah, no. Not as a Dragoness, anyhow. Messy. But undoubtedly scrumptious …

“Say, Aranya,” Zip called, “what was that special Human shield we were working on?”

“Human shield?”

The Remoyan expounded, “The ‘anti forbidden monk-love’ shield, with additional ‘bash a prowling gentleman around the earhole’ refinements.”

“Aye,” said Aranya, with a snide peek at Ardan, “and I’ve perfected the ‘the bigger the rippling biceps, the harder they fall’ twist. Very effective. All flexing, posturing and broadly unspecified male swaggering generates an instant lightning bolt applied directly to the rump.”

Ardan and Ri’arion both made amused noises as Nak tripped over his canes laughing.

“I vote we work on the ‘lecherous old man attractor’,” Zip added, quietening Nak instantly.

The Dragonesses exchanged loaded glances.

“With a double infusion of Princess-petal power?” Aranya suggested. “Perfected that one months ago. Love at first growl. So beautiful, it makes grown Dragonesses weep through thousands of lines of melancholy poetry.”

“Oh, stop, stop!” Nak clutched his stomach. “Mercy, I beg of you!”

Crooking his fore-talon behind the Dragon Rider’s back, Ardan helped Nak sit up.

Nak wiped his eyes. “Now I know how you two beat the Sylakians.”

“Er … how?” chorused Zip and Aranya.

“Secrets,” he placed two fingers over his lips in the Jeradian fashion. “Feral Dragons could crush my bones –”

“I vote we work on the hallucinatory vision-modifier,” Zip proposed implacably.

Catching on, Aranya clarified, “Aye, the devious psychic shield that makes the object of every lascivious glance of a particular Dragon Rider bring to mind a week-old, maggot-ridden windroc’s corpse?”

“Hey!” Nak bleated in alarm. “That’s outright murder, that is.”

“Confess?” growled Zip.

“I’ll admit everything,” he quavered, “because it’s clear to me that you two monkey-nuts just turned up one day, and decided to snark the Sylakians out of their empire!”

* * * *

Aranya chortled all the way across to the western edge of Yorbik Island, where a retaining wall two hundred and fifty feet thick and one thousand feet tall held back a vast body of water. Ri’arion claimed that no engineer could work out exactly how that volume and weight of water would not simply crack apart the walls of a terrace lake, especially given the constant volcanic activity beneath many Islands. ‘Integrity like a terrace-lake wall’, was a renowned proverb of Archion Island.

This ability to fuse rock so perfectly was a prime exemplar of Ancient Dragon magic, Leandrial claimed, with her most pompously draconic know-it-all air. Much could be pinned on Fra’anior, Aranya suspected, her grand-sire, alias fiery old gramps – who, according to the ballads, had to curl up to fit inside the diameter of the eighteen-league wide caldera of Fra’anior Cluster. He of seven heads mantled in eternal storm, who had engaged in minor creative projects such as raising Islands and populating them with the creatures and peoples of his design.

Did those seven heads gather in conference? What if one head started an argument with the others? Did different heads specialise in different forms of magic, knowledge or perception? Or have different personalities? And how could His Island-Dwarfing Magnificence produce offspring a number of degrees of magnitude smaller than he? She had so many questions, some less momentous than others.

Fit into his paw-prints? Right. That would be the day the Moons turned purple.

Aranya shook her length gently, trying to ease the stiffness in her muscles and joints, also a consequence of the pox. Dragons were supposed to be supple masters of the airy realms, fully at home in their native element, whereas a certain Immadian had to be thrown off a cliff by her erstwhile boyfriend, Yolathion, in order to discover her inner Dragoness. Reflecting upon that incident, Aranya acknowledged the germ of her later breakup with Yolathion. At the crucial moment, he had failed to summon the will and integrity to stand up for right, or more simply, for Aranya. His hands had dropped her over the edge of the Last Walk. Even if he had later declared his regret – how foolish was she to ever have imagined loving or trusting the man who had tried to murder her? She saw this clearly now.

Still, she hoped Jia-Llonya and Kylara would track him down soon.

Dawn painted a partially overcast sky with tints of rose. The Jade and Blue Moons stood off her starboard flank, simultaneously in their crescent phase, a semi-annual coincidence. A heavy cloudbank almost obscured the north-eastern quadrant, signalling a weather-front strong enough to concern a Dragonship pilot; however, the winds should aid the fleet on the southward leg. Aranya saw enough to make out soldiers and monks lining the gantries of the Dragonships. They goggled, as did she, at the spectacle of a Land Dragoness gripping the terrace lake wall with her forepaws, her grey-green forequarters towering fifty times the height of a Lesser Dragon into the air, conversing with King Beran as his Dragonships proudly flying the royal purple of Immadia passed overhead.

Aranya and Ardan alighted on the terrace lake wall while Zuziana winged to the Dragonship fleet, where Ri’arion would join Ta’armion, Beran, Ignathion and the Shapeshifters in further discussions. No moment of the journey would be wasted, if she knew her father.

Oh, Dad …

Time was short. Abruptly, she sprang for the sky, startling the Shadow Dragon into a wing-flare. He did not follow; rather, the coal-black, gleaming Dragon assumed his customary four-square stance upon the lake wall as he dipped his muzzle to drink briefly. Aranya flew to Beran. What did he make of a daughter-Dragon’s approach? In her mind’s eye she was transported to that reunion atop Izariela’s Tower, remembering his shock and joy … what would it be like to see her mother return to life? To stand with Izariela atop that tower? She tried to gulp back a huge, hot mass of draconic emotions, but they stuck in her throat like cooling lava.

May it be, Fra’anior. May we rescue – restore? Resurrect? Bring Balance, to your lost shell-daughter?

“Aranyi?” called her father, leaning dangerously over the safety railing.

She gasped, “Uh … Dad? Sorry.” She veered away from the Dragonship before realising she had put them in no danger. “Far away –”

“With your mother, Aranyi?”

Her father knew her this well? She nodded, unspeaking.

“Aye. I know,” he said. “Your Dragoness’ eyes have a special colour when you think about Izariela. I’ve just realised now.”

“W-W-What?” she stammered. Floored. Flummoxed. Almost knocked out of the sky.

“Easy, Sparky,” he soothed as Aranya sieved the air inelegantly.

She darted forward to grasp the gantry just beside his boots, flapping her wings fast and close to her body to preclude her additional tonnage from unbalancing the Dragonship. She curved her head up to address her father nose to nose. He did not flinch. Beran’s famously steely gaze met the torrents of fire coursing through her orbs steadily, before he dipped his head to rest his forehead lightly against her muzzle, right between her eyes.

“You scared, Sparky?”

Again – mercy! She growled, “Dad!”

“Your mother always accused me of deep intuition,” he quipped. “I call it being observant. Usually, I’m terrified before a battle. Aye, scared stiffer than dried rajal meat. Mark my words, Sparky, it’s a battle you’re heading into – first against the mighty elements of the Cloudlands abyss and the Rift, then Herimor’s unknowns, another bite of Thoralian – hopefully fatal – and finally, what these Dragons identify as the greatest magical power in the Island-World, the First Egg. Windrocs’ teeth, girl, you’d better be shaking-your-scales-off scared, or I’d call my own daughter stupid.”

“Dad! Honestly?”

“Honesty,” he corrected. “Now. Remember when we saw that invasion force cresting the horizon near our beloved Immadia, and feared doom’s hammer loomed over our Isle?”

“The first time or the second, old man?”

He placed a hand flat upon her muzzle; despite her scale-armour, the sensitive nerves conducted every nuance of his touch to her ultra-responsive awareness. “Both. I grow weary of war. In my lifetime, I’ve many times been confronted by ostensibly hopeless situations. That’s when I think upon those I love. I keep the images I most treasure here, in my mind. Love has always brought me to a place of true courage – I don’t mean bravado, or false hope. Perhaps courage is another face of desperation, but I’ve found that allowing love to strip away the non-essentials produces the kind of mettle I’ve seen you demonstrate on numerous occasions, Aranyi. One’s foundations must be built on what is real and noble, and just and beautiful. That type of courage cannot fail – such as when you saved your enemy, Ignathion. When you extended Yolathion undeserved grace. When you returned to the Tower of Sylakia to kidnap your best friend – these actions shape character and soul – ah, I didn’t mean to slip into kingly lecturing mode. What were we talking about?”

Aranya whispered, “All I’ve ever tried to do is to fit into your boots, Dad.”

He glanced at his feet, his eyes glistening suspiciously. “By the mountains of Immadia, at least I picked a good pair today. Don’t bother with the rest of my wardrobe.”

She laughed, “Izariela. We spoke of her.”

“White,” he said promptly. “A white so pure it is almost transparent, like the suns-shine glistening off spiderweb, so effulgent, it is like … like words fail this weary King.”

“Like starlight,” she whispered. “Like the white-fires of creation’s very heart, so untainted …”

“Aye,” he whispered back.

Aranya could not begin to capture the sensation that gripped her third heart then – similar to love, but this was the core of a roaring furnace. It was a vision an artist sees in the mind, but must labour and sweat and struggle to bring to life upon the canvas. As she said her farewells, it was as if another person spoke for her, and another power that flexed her wings to catch the breeze.

Then, the Amethyst Dragoness free-fell into the void, where the Shadow Dragon twirled on his wingtip to meet her.

Chapter 3: Deeper

Leandrial surged SINUOUSLY over the terrace lake wall, mindful not to pierce the precious buttress with her mighty talons. Aranya thought the Lesser Dragons might pull ahead in uninhibited flight as they negotiated the increasingly steep gradient of Yorbik’s scrub-pocked slopes, especially where the final two miles dropped away in an eighty-three degree plunge into pristine cream clouds below. The Amethyst glided into formation with Ardan, taking advantage of his greater bulk for slipstreaming. Glancing back, she saw Leandrial briefly poised on the brink, teetering like a mountain perched on an impossibly tiny fulcrum. Then, the Land Dragoness poured onward in a mighty avalanche of Dragonflesh. As she began to run, Aranya gasped. Her weak eyes surely deceived her, for she’d wager Immadia’s crown jewels that nothing short of magic could pierce the basal rock with such ease. The great blades stabbed ninety feet deep as Leandrial ran on her talon-tips, giving the Dragoness-mountain the absurd air of a mincing dancer flutter-stepping across the largest stage in the Island-World; only, that stage tilted rapidly toward the vertical – and, mincing was what her talons did to solid rock.

Untold tonnes of Dragon power and presence poured downhill in pursuit. Given as her every running step spanned several thousand feet, the Land Dragoness had not the slightest trouble keeping up. Ardan and Zip immediately accelerated to maintain their lead, making her chuckle quietly. Dragons were not competitive, oh no. Never.

Dragon-Aranya shook the dust off her own wings.

Hardy brown cliff-goats roamed the upper slopes in huge numbers, while lower down, amidst the tough berry-bushes and tufty tan grasses, she spied several troops of miniature bright-bottom baboons, celebrated in many a ballad for the vibrant blue hues of their splendidly unattractive rear ends. Ardan blasted low over a vine-festooned outcropping, startling a black rajal into a mane-shaking rage.

Aranya’s Dragon-senses adjusted steadily to the increasing pressure as they descended several miles through the cool morning air, angling toward the southern fringe of the leagues-long shadow Yorbik Island cast over the Cloudlands. Her ear-canals creaked. Her secondarily eyelids, the transparent nictitating membranes, washed her eye-orbs several times to remove a sudden bespattering of airborne grit. A temperature inversion tingled her scales as she passed through a warmer layer that smelled of acrid pitch tinged with fresh windroc droppings, before they plunged unexpectedly into a chill airstream whipping around the Island’s base. Long, straggling strands of russet lowgrass fluttered and swayed just as a girl’s hair had once waved in the wind as she dropped off the Last Walk.

Her eyes squeezed shut at the visceral force of that memory. She recalled hearing her mother crying out, mid-fall, Freedom is flying, Aranyi! And the Black Dragon thundering, It is time!

Time for what? Could Fra’anior have known, from the impossible remoteness of his self-imposed exile, the fate of a girl tossed off a cliff? Could it be that the beacon of his magic had guided her from death to life? If so, she owed him everything.

But he was not Izariela.

Her flight was windsong over amethyst scales. Her heart, draconic in might. Her soul’s paean yearned for the farthest shores of her Island-World.

So Aranya plunged from the upper reaches to the undiscovered deeps, eyes shuttered, distantly heeding Ardan’s call to raise her shields as the Cloudlands rushed upward, enfolding a small Dragonwing of Lesser Dragons in its deathly embrace. Moisture and acidic particles washed into her nostrils. A faint rankness filtered through the particle shield, the awareness of environmental poisons present in the endless grey gloom her eyes opened upon. Ever descending. The madness of attempting the unthinkable. All history, all lore and wisdom, declared that this was death’s own realm, and to brave the abyss was an act of intentional suicide.

Yet Leandrial dwelled in these depths.

Softly smothering, the pressure crushed them inexorably to its bosom. Sounds became muted, carrying strangely through the dense air. Aranya coughed at an astringent whiff of sulphuric acid. Large bodies swished through the mist, investigating, but part of their shield-construct provided by the practical Tuzimi had been a magic dampening technique. Aranya had not been aware, but even Dragonflight left a discernible trail, the magical equivalent of a paw-print in the dust. Below-Cloudlands predators relied on smell, sight that employed sense-apparatuses foreign to her experience, and communication via techniques as esoteric as far-travelling waveform communications capable of traversing thousands of leagues, depending on ambient conditions. So much to keep straight in her head! How did Land Dragons produce all of the required shield-facets by instinct? According to Leandrial, the Pygmy Dragoness had possessed eidetic recall – lucky girl.

Aranya sighed at Ardan’s mental summons. Tormentor. Time to run through their checklist of all the disparate shield-elements.

After a further fifteen minutes of annoyance and adjustments, the Lesser Dragons broke through the four-mile thick permanent cloud layer and descended into the murky, swampy-like upper layers. Aranya peered about inquisitively, feeling as if she swam in a pot of tepid Jeradian tea, for the air was brown-tinged and torpid, so thick with contaminants, rotting plant matter and the excrement of the high-flying, lighter predators, that even Land Dragons shunned this region. Every movement felt languid, similar to their underwater training. Masses of grey Borers paddled past, long tubular creatures equipped with clumps of impractical, alary appendages on their midsections and either end of their bodies, and outward-pointing teeth that rotated at an infeasible speed to literally drill their way through bone and hide. They looked intrigued until they sensed Leandrial’s presence; then they jetted away at high speed.

Worse were the swarms of smaller predators, the wasps, mosquitoes and bats of this realm. They hunted in packs and shoals, in a variety of body shapes and motile systems sufficient to make the head spin.

Leandrial said drolly, Assume everything has teeth, suckers, harpoons, fang-grapnels or unfolding digestive parts, and hankers to eat you alive. Then you’ll understand the upper layers well enough, little ones.

Ardan sideslipped away from a Borer that was comfortably three times his length. These are the small ones?

Tiny, laughed the Land Dragoness. Watch this.

Her single eye brightened. Suddenly a brilliant white beam shot forth, hissing through the muck as it vaporised flesh and floating vegetable matter for a mile ahead and more. Aranya blinked. Not a predator in sight. They had hidden, camouflaged, fled. She began to wonder what could possibly threaten a creature the size of a Land Dragon, but then she recalled Leandrial’s description of the Theadurial, and shuddered. Magical parasites.

Leandrial explained, The eye-cannon is our primary offensive weapon. Properly attuned, Harmonic magic can be devastating. If you think my eye-cannon is powerful, you’ve seen nothing yet. The eye-cannons of the Shell-Clan are legendary, little ones. Provoke them at your peril.

Tell us about these Shell-Clan, Zip offered.

No request could have pleased Leandrial more. For the following hour, as they flew and ran down a long, boulder-strewn slope carpeted in luminous pink and violet fungal growths, she described the great class of Shell-Clan tribes, followed by the four-legged Runner Clan like her, who were divided into many subclasses – Mist-Runners, Welkin-Runners, Deep-Runners, Current-Runners and many more – and then the other major classes, called Stellates, Air-Breathers, Deep-Dwellers, Cognates, Living Springs, Drifters, Rock-Eaters and Fire-Sporters, and further rare classes and subclasses. These class and clan-names for Land Dragons were simplified designations which had developed to mask the complex dialectical differences between the Land Dragonish spoken in different parts of the Island-World. Furthermore, Leandrial explained, some types of Dragonkind were not a single organism, but organised themselves along the lines of hive-insects, many bodies sharing a single mind.

Meantime, the Lesser Dragons strained their wings to fly deeper beneath the Cloudlands, until at last the substrate’s character changed. Rock gave way to the disintegrated upper fringes of plant fronds and leaves, only these khaki leaves spanned distances of miles, and grew thousands of feet thick. After coursing over this softly rolling, spongy layer for a further half-hour, Leandrial picked a spot that seemed no different to any other, and began to quarry and tear her way through the dense organic matter into the middle layers below. Soon, her tail disappeared amongst geysers of ripped plant material.

The three Lesser Dragons sideslipped three hundred feet to evade the worst of the backwash and shared glances – follow immediately? Or wait?

After you, noble Gloom Dragon, said the Azure Dragoness, with an aerial bow in Ardan’s direction.

He chuckled indulgently. Says the little patch of summer skies?

Aranya’s fangs clacked near his tail. Oh! She burned as a clear tinge of green, the draconic colour of jealousy, washed over her gaze. To her surprise, however, the Shadow Dragon responded with a brightening of his eye-fires toward a brilliant yellow. He liked her jealousy! Now her belly-fires fulminated in confusion and further embarrassment, for she had betrayed desire for him whom she must deny. Groan. Flee! Yet a touch upon her wingtip stayed her.

Zip said firmly, I’d far rather this Aranya than the Queen of an ice-citadel. Hear me? Understood?

Thanks, Zip-Zip.

But all twenty of Ardan’s talons clenched at once. He trumpeted, I will not trifle with the Azure to gain your regard, Aranya! That is not the flight of my wings.

Aranya replied, No. You have never been a person of trifles, Ardan. Yet life pulses in your veins, and magic throughout your being. You are a man, a warrior and a mighty male Dragon. I refuse to constrain a Dragon who holds his integrity in such clear sight.

I am not without fault, he said.

Zip sniped, Fifty scrolls wouldn’t suffice to list your faults.

Are any faultless? Aranya knew the accelerated pulse of her hearts-beat must carry to the Shadow Dragon’s hearing. The very orientation of his body toward her bespoke fiery devotion.

Zuziana snorted, Private room for the Princess and his Lordship?

Then, a group of marauding Borers ambushed them out of the wash of Leandrial’s digging.

All the warning they had was a sudden change in pressure, because the visibility on that flank was so poor. Dozens of dull blue tentacles speared out of the murk, orienting on the companions. Tooth-edged suckers scraped and scrabbled against the pneumatic shields, finding no grip save upon the natural curvature of the ovoid, all-encompassing shield-constructs, but that was only a prelude to the real attack. With stunning speed, the piercing mouthparts followed, jabbing with shrieks of disruptive magic. Whee-drrr! Blam! Whee-drrr! The long, muscular tentacles laced around Ardan’s bubble in particular, before five or six purple mouth-orifices opened to expose the piercing – blades? Tongues? Aranya skittered away, while Zip spun into the path of a further trio of Borers.

Drrrr! Aranya shuddered as a rough drill-bit missed her right hind leg by the width of a Dragon’s scale. Roaring rajals, it had breached her shield so easily? Of course, she had forgotten – switching her shield to a repellent configuration, Aranya yelled, Change phase!

Ardan’s form flickered, swirling about in a maelstrom of half-seen flying talons, teeth and wings as he employed his Shadow powers to tear into the predators. Lightning crackled from Zuziana, but the Azure Dragoness yelped in pain as the shield turned her own lightning back on her. Aranya swooped at once, unleashing a volley of highly-charged blue fireballs. Pfft! Pfft – KAABOOM! The Dragons shook as the thick air conducted the concussion of her explosive attack to ears and bodies alike.

Thanks for cleaning up, Zip yelped, phasing her shield belatedly.

The Shadow Dragon corkscrewed past, dicing up tentacles with enraged swipes of his dark talons.

Aranya quipped, They’re very, very dead, Ardan.

GRR! His growl throbbed with aggravation. Who was hurt – freaking worms!

Suddenly, all was Dragon reactions and fighting as a further dozen of the beasts surrounded the companions, their drills screaming – Drrrr! Drrrr-rrr! Mouths agape, they hammered at the shields – bam! Bam! Bam-bam-bam! The Borers even fought each other, squealing and jostling to be the first to drill into Aranya’s tail or take a snap at Ardan’s flanks. She saw schools of sleek, shadowy shapes jetting toward them, clearly attracted by the green and gold blood drifting away from the conflict.

She had no intention of becoming a free snack.

Follow me! The Amethyst Dragoness cried, clearing the path with a barrage of fireballs. Oddly, the production of her power felt rough around the edges, as though the Shifter pox had affected even the operation of the magical pathways within her being. Lightning stuttered from her talons and throat. Not good. She darted down Leandrial’s burrow, aware of the Shadow Dragon in the background grimly sweeping Zuziana’s shield clear of tentacles which had wrapped entirely around her.

Drat those … they must fight smarter. Impervious shields were fine for beating back drills and boring mouthparts, but a liability if they could be snagged by tentacles. They needed something slippery, or malleable, more like soap …

Ardan charged up alongside Aranya on her starboard flank, nursing two holes the size of Aranya’s Dragon-fist in his upper left shoulder.

The Azure Dragoness fell into formation on her port side, grumbling, I lost a few scales and a good slice of pride. Do those hurt, Ardan?

Do you want the standard male answer, or the truth? He flexed the shoulder awkwardly. I’m a little sore.

Leandrial’s digging did not appear to have distinguished between flora and fauna. The vast, spatulate leaf-masses played host to a world of insects similar to those one might expect to find beneath a rotting log, only they were a hundred times larger – the bits left over, anyhow. Segments of worms and dismembered insect legs drifted past as they winged downward, taking care to avoid the predators which already teemed within this additional feast.

This would be the glorious ‘renewing of the layers’ Leandrial referred to? Zip chuckled, indicating the carnage with a wave of her right forepaw.

Land Dragons renew the layers by digging vital pathways, Aranya quoted.

I’ll bet you were the royal tutors’ favourite, Zip teased.

Ardan said, In all seriousness, you can see how this works. Without the ‘churn’, these plants grow wild and eventually consume all the resources in an area. The entire ecosystem is impacted. What we just flew through, that upper layer around Yorbik, is effectively a below-Cloudlands desert. Do you think this is a reason for the toxicity of the Cloudlands?

Based on the ancient Land Dragon migration, which left the North barren? Aranya puzzled aloud. Aye, this is all part of the grand, numinous Balance a Star Dragoness is supposed to breathe through her pores.

Zuziana shook her slim blue muzzle. I don’t know, Aranya. Leandrial theorises that the toxins originate in the Rift.

Leandrial’s tunnelling not only opened flows of air between the layers, but also exposed the innards of the tough leaves to the plant-eating hordes, which swarmed in vast numbers to gnaw at the frayed, trailing edges, or furiously dug new homes for their eggs. Within hours, the exposed surfaces would harden due to contact with the air, re-forming their natural protection. Already, Aranya felt a fresh current rushing upward as the higher-pressure air naturally flowed toward the areas of lower pressure. This current bore fresh scents and savours, a more mineral-rich tang and even pollens, she thought, which reminded her of the abundant scents of Ha’athior Island, her mother’s birthplace.

The ever-increasing pressure aided her impaired lungs, for admittedly, her semi-permeable shield was designed to supplement the ambient oxygen – Ardan’s excellent thinking.

Aranya looked ahead eagerly. Contrary to the dense, overarching layer of vegetation that separated the upper layer from the middle, the patch of glutinous air visible through Leandrial’s hole was a refreshingly bright blue, the by-product of bioluminescent bacteria present in the air. Poisonous bacteria, of course. But helpful.

Leandrial’s snout appeared upside-down before them, framed in blue. If you’ve finished fooling with the minnows up there, little ones, come visit the realm where the big Dragons play.

And with that, they emerged through the roof of a new world.

* * * *

Leandrial rumbled, “Welcome to the favoured realm of Land Dragons. We call this middle layer the air-ocean, although this place is shallows, a mere two miles depth constrained by the ridge upon which Yorbik, Jendor and Horness all stand.”

Zuziana looked around her with delight. Dragonets flipping somersaults! Ooh, and a little trepidation. The rich blue faded into the distance, as though they flew within the upper reaches of a great terrace lake. Now she appreciated Leandrial’s insistence on underwater training at Yorbik, because it was becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between flying and swimming. Even Leandrial appeared remarkably buoyant at this level, even agile, which was rather akin to saying an Island danced like a butterfly.

Plant matter drifted through the thick, viscous air, mostly not rooted in place, similarly to her native Remoy’s air-plants, but these giants employed flotation bubbles scattered along their stems. Fine-leafed green, yellow and purple fronds hung in curtains thousands of feet long, sporting a wide variety of what must be fruit or berries, in a Leandrial-sized assortment. Her dizzy mind catalogued crimson fruit shaped like chilli-peppers, waxy, oval purple colossi, and clusters of berries as big as Dragonships. In the middle distance, she saw gigantic herbivores contentedly munching their way through life, sporting jaws or mandibles capable of shovelling entire villages into their ever-hungry maws.

She giggled charily. Floating mountains!

“Here on the ridge there are few animals and insects,” Leandrial lectured, drawing a huff of amazement from Aranya. “Most of your North is like this now, following the great migration, with the upper and middle layers separated by jergoleaf, the highly invasive plants we burrowed through. We’ll see a greater diversity as we proceed South. The sea down to Fra’anior is shallow and uninteresting, I regret to report, but just beyond your mother-familial Island Cluster, Aranya, we shall encounter first a proper middle-lower and lower layer; then, Jeradia Cluster lies upon the brink of an impossible deep, so close, indeed, that there’s an ancient joke amongst Land Dragons about Fra’anior’s sneeze being enough to tip Jeradia over the edge. That should be a fascinating, and of course, very dangerous crossing.”

Zip rolled her fire-eyes, trying to recall the vertical ordering of the below-Cloudlands layers, so essential to correctly distinguishing between the different types of life, currents and classes of carnivores.

“Leandrial,” she asked, “where do the deeps come in? And what’s the difference between an impossible deep and a bottomless rift?”

Ardan made a grinding noise with his fangs, which Leandrial majestically ignored, explaining, “The middle layers lie one to two leagues beneath the opaque, permanent cloud-layer, so inimical to your kind and to your sight. Of course, this does not bother a mighty Land Dragon in the slightest. As I taught your little Pygmy friend, the middle layers are the realm of behemoths. Here dwell the great plant eaters and the mighty carnivores that prey upon them. As Lesser Dragonkind you will be beneath their notice unless you’re accidently snapped up for the smallest of morsels.”

Ardan wing-slapped Aranya’s rump. “Snack time.”

She yelped and tried to swat him back. “Shut the fangs, you floating morsel.”

Leandrial said, “For example, behold the breathing spiracle of a fine specimen of uha-êk-hulak, the Lesser Twelve-Segmented Flayer, I believe you’d call it in your tongue.”

“Where is this beast?” asked the Amethyst Dragoness.

“Over there,” Zip pointed with her foreclaw, feeling dispirited. Her friend could not see it, could she?

Leandrial swept forward with imperious ease, making the sinuous wriggling motion she had taught them at Yorbik. “Let’s wake it up.”

“Erm …” Ardan coughed.

“You should try to breathe and drink less unfiltered air down here,” the Land Dragoness admonished. “Already, toxins infiltrate your system. No mind, we shall run through a cleansing cycle at Horness. Aranya, touch his wounds. Furthermore, there are many vectors of infection which I shall cover in detail later. And, the bites of certain predators can be necrotic or neurotoxic, especially in Herimor.”

“Herimor sounds perfectly charming,” Zuziana put in.

“As charming as the song of my eye-cannon,” Leandrial joked unexpectedly, opening fire.

She deliberately blasted an area not far from that innocuous-looking spiracle, but close enough, evidently, to tickle the Flayer into motion. Zip rather wished Leandrial had not, because the creature that exploded out of the innocuous-looking ball of plant matter was very large and decidedly peeved, and clearly possessed an armoury fit to make any sane creature think twice about eyeballing it save from a few Islands’ distance. No fewer than six slavering mouths screamed at them, each capable of swallowing a Sylakian Dragonship sideways and equipped with a thicket of mandibles, saws, grapnels and inward-sloping fangs. The Flayer charged. Grapnels shot forth, aimed at the Land Dragoness’ leg and Ardan’s head. A stream of what appeared to be gas-powered fire streamed out behind, shooting the Flayer’s not inconsiderable tonnage at its intended victims faster than the Azure had ever imagined such a behemoth could move.

Zip’s wings whisked her away instantly to take refuge behind Leandrial, who appeared to wait so that they could truly appreciate its size and ferocity before opening up with her eye-cannon.

The Flayer took a goodly dint of killing. Shot after shot pounded the long, serpentine body and knocked the heads about like beans in a shaker, but the thing kept champing away at them long after it was apparently dead and both Aranya and Ardan had run out of fireballs. Leandrial calmly cleared a few mandibles locked around her right foreleg and forepaw, and turned to peer at a certain Azure Dragoness.

Zip mooched toward her companions.

“So, even a Land Dragon’s strength may be tested,” said Leandrial, apparently not in the mood for ruffling her companion’s scales. “There are creatures with which even I do not willingly tangle. As for Flayers? They haven’t much stamina. They’re best left alone, or you might simply flee.”

“I’d vote for fleeing,” said Aranya, leaking smoke from the corners of her mouth.

The Shadow Dragon stretched luxuriously. “I love a little light exercise in the morning, don’t you?”

Leandrial took a lazy swipe at the male Dragon, who dodged smartly. She chuckled, “Courage, little ones! Below the middle layer, typically underpinned by a more variegated and fertile vegetable layer, come the middle-lower and lower layers, at depths of two to four leagues. Those are … like your forests, perhaps.” She considered the Lesser Dragons with a jaundiced air. “Only, our forests may measure five miles tall, rather dwarfing Dragons of your inconsiderable stature.”

“Humph,” said Ardan, affecting a heroic, muscles-popping pose. “Do I look bigger like this?”

Zip and Aranya fell about laughing, while Leandrial blinked in bemusement, evidently failing to understand that they were tugging her tail. The Land Dragon huffed, “Well, if you don’t want to know –”

“Tell us more,” Aranya pleaded.

“Please,” begged Zip, managing to stifle a treacherous giggle as Leandrial’s naturally overbearing nature won out.

Dogmatically, Leandrial rumbled, “The putative deeps lie between four to five leagues below the clouds, while the impossible deeps dive down to seven leagues. This is the realm of the true deep-dwellers. Most life-forms feed on microscopic plant and animal life present in the air, called phytoplankton in the old Dragonish tongue. A Land Dragon of the Runner Clans would travel no deeper than five leagues, for the pressures are prohibitive. The draconic, insectoid, tershine and maxiocillic classes of animal life, to name but a few, are all adapted for living under such enormous pressures.”

Zip shared a startled glance with Aranya. What?

But the Land Dragoness continued, “Below seven leagues’ depth, even the lowest-dwelling of the Land Dragons seldom venture, and the air is so thick it behaves like liquid. I myself have several times dived to a depth close to six leagues, but that was under the extraordinary duress of crossing the Rift. I almost killed myself in the doing. Your Pygmy friend had an excellent joke –”

Zip put in, “Leandrial, may I point out that you’re the only one among us who has actually met this amazing Pygmy Dragon?”

“She was much like you,” the Land Dragoness conceded.

“Like Aranya?”

“No. She was a few sackweight of mischief.” Zip did not dare look. She could hear her best Dragon-friend fulminating clearly enough. “Aranya is more … stately.”

“Stately?” wheezed Aranya.

“Like a portly Dragonship,” Zip teased. “Flagship of the fleet. I – ouch! You shocked me.”

“Sorry. Lightning-mad,” said Aranya, managing to look regretful.

“Bah, so I’m monkey-mischief and she gets to be stately?” Zip muttered. “Let me guess. If I envision Pip’s personality correctly, the joke goes something like this: ‘By the five moons, why are they called impossible deeps when crossing them is indeed possible, and why is a bottomless rift called bottomless when it clearly has a bottom?’ Right?”

Leandrial’s eye-fires brightened. “Perfect paws, little one! That was exactly her complaint. To which I replied, ‘Why do you high-dwellers have to take everything so literally?’ ”

Ardan laughed, “Us, literal? You’re the ones with names like Shell-Clan and Flayer, Borer and … all that. All literal names, I mean.”

“Huh, so they are,” snorted Leandrial, visibly taken aback.

Aranya advised, “Ignore those two jokers, Leandrial. I would like to get to the bottom of this teaching about bottomless rifts, and the S’gulzzi.”

“Her mental process has clearly bottomed out,” suggested the Shadow Dragon.

“Making Aranya the butt of the joke?” Zip chortled, shielding and dodging at the same time, just in case. The Immadian Princess folded her forelegs with a longsuffering air.

Oh, Aranya. Zip could jerk her hawser all day long and never tire of the sport.

Then, the Amethyst Dragoness revealed one hundred gleaming daggers in her jaw, and declaimed, “Hear my royal judgement, o Zuziana of Remoy. For your deserved punishment I shall repeatedly kick your scaly butt all the way to Fra’anior, by which time, you shall be the one who is bottomless!”

Chapter 4: Up for Breath

ARDAN WISHED HIS lungs could have turned into shadow. By the time the foursome reached Jendor’s roots, two days at Dragon-speed, he was coughing and hacking so violently that flecks of golden blood speckled his shield. Aranya’s touch eased his symptoms, but her healing magic seemed fragile, delivered from a place of great desire but little capacity. Her wordless frustration accompanied by that determined jut of her chin, moved him more than his pugilistic Western Isles heritage would claim was right for a warrior. Had this not been his experience since first he met the incomparable Princess of Immadia?

Grief. Furthermore, Aranya did not know the meaning of ‘give up.’ Nor did the girl appear to possess a shred of phlegmatic Western Isles common sense. She was a burglar, a convicted criminal under Sylakian law and apparently, her tears turned people into Shapeshifter Dragons. Pure Aranya.

She tilted her chin. Down went an empire. What under suns did he think he was doing with this kind of girl?

Endlessly falling.

Ardan gritted his teeth. So they had learned that the bottomless rifts lay between seven and ten leagues’ depth and the fiery realm of the S’gulzzi, beneath that level even, deep inside byzantine cracks that penetrated the very heart-fires of the Island-World. The Theadurial, members of the maxiocillic class of magic-reliant parasites, were apparently able to survive even beneath that awful compression. They had learned that their clever shields were not half as clever as they had assumed. He, Zip and Aranya had travelled a mere two days beneath the Cloudlands and poisoned themselves thoroughly. Success!

Leandrial theorised that the Pygmy Dragoness had possessed natural resistance to poisons. Fine for a jungle girl. Rather less useful for three Lesser Dragons who intended to cross the uncrossable Rift. Zip and Aranya were starting to show signs of bite-and-growl every time Leandrial mentioned Pip, which was often, and always in the most effusive terms.

He was above jealousy, of course. And lies. Aye. Far above any lies, too.

What he was jealous of was their histories, or more accurately, the fact that his companions remembered their pasts. Not all had been good. Ardan remembered fire, fleeing, flying; just recently he had begun to dream that he had once had a smiling wife. Children? He did not know. He did not know what kind of man he had been, only that he had taken some manner of savage revenge upon the Sylakians; his next memory was that of waking beneath a prekki-fruit tree at the westernmost edge of the world.

It was the not knowing that hurt most.

Leandrial led the upward surge, lecturing them about decompression. Dragon bodies handled changes in pressure exceptionally well. Their physiques were built for feats of physical resilience, recovery and self-healing. Still, there were complex techniques involved in removing gas bubbles from the circulatory systems, tissues and organs, before one’s innards exploded. Literally.

The wonder of being a Dragon still left him agog. Flight. Dragon-sharp battle instincts. Nostrils that could sniff out prey from twenty miles, given a favourable breeze. His fantastically pliant, nerve-rich wing membranes captured every nuance of the wind’s buffeting, transferring the sensation to a mind that thrilled at the delicate play of airstreams and sifted the world’s scents with staggering sensitivity. No warrior had ever boasted such an awareness of his surrounds. Not to mention the side-set eyes that afforded him vision around a full three hundred degrees, and other Dragon senses that he was just beginning to grasp. His reaction-speed seemed almost prescient. He found himself magnifying the detail of a butterfly’s wings merely to appreciate their form – the draconic power of Harmony, Aranya teased him, clearly pleased by this admission.

Now, the Amethyst slept inside the pocket of Leandrial’s cheek. He and Zip enjoyed no such luxury. They did not want luxury. What they yearned for was clear, cool air and a chance to detoxify.

Free to go, crowed Leandrial, smashing through the final barrier leading to the upper layer. Shall I clear the path? I am certainly irritable enough.

Zip’s cheerful, irksome laughter tinkled upon Ardan’s ear-canals. He did not mind cheer. Unstoppable, irrepressible cheer? Grr. Unjustified cheer like Sapphire’s carolling at the top of her lungs just before dawn, waking one hundred Shapeshifters with piping descants and chirruping? GRR!

Fire away, thou mighty heart of a star’s truest fires! cried the Azure Dragoness.

On cue, heat bloomed in his fire-stomach and Ardan saw crimson. He wobbled in the swampy, polluted atmosphere, firing his own echo to Leandrial’s massive, judiciously-spaced cannonade. Pleasingly, he neatly fricasseed both ends of an amber-coloured Borer which had been prowling two hundred feet above with the air of a con-man scouting a busy marketplace for potential victims. Then, the song of Aranya’s mind soared unexpectedly and she burst out of Leandrial’s mouth, gaining a dozen wing-lengths’ lead before Ardan and Zip belatedly kicked off in pursuit.

Rascally Amethyst-eyes!

Feed well, Leandrial, called Aranya as she accelerated away.

Leandrial would travel northwest of Jendor to the edge of a current that swept northward into Immadior’s Sea, washing the eastern fringe of the Western Isles all the way North to Yar’ola. She had fed, but there were specific nutrients she required for her own healing, the outcome of spending too much time in the thin, dry air above the Cloudlands.

Ardan stretched his wings as he chased the Amethyst Dragoness upward through decreasing pressures and air densities, maintaining a narrow over Zuziana. His body vibrated unexpectedly as he burst through thermal inversions and twice, through foul, stagnant patches of air that left a greasy aftertaste on his tongue. He could not catch Aranya. Weak as she was, the streamlined shape of the Amethyst Dragoness remained stubbornly ahead of the labouring Shadow Dragon. Her tidy wing-stroke was ideal, slowly broadening as they rose through the opaque auburn clouds into thinner air, taking advantage of the decreasing friction. His eyes narrowed. Surely, a larger Dragon should be the more powerful flier? Unless she was cheating?

There’s a difference between cheating and being smart, Ardan, Aranya broke in waspishly.

Fine, instruct the bumpkin, he growled back. Ugh. First the mind-reading, now an apology that rubbed his scales backward?

Before he could unstick a few more reasonable words from his craw, Aranya shot back, Fine. Keep wallowing back there, you insensitive granite-brained lump of Dragonflesh!

The glint of her scales pulled ahead with infeasible ease. Ardan’s jaw cracked open, dribbling fire. Unholy freaking windrocs! No way a fledgling could out-fly him like this – at least, according to conventional wisdom. His lips curled contemptuously. Aye, because Aranya always heeded the accepted wisdom of Va’assia and her ilk, didn’t she? Accepted wisdom would have led her to grow grey of hair as a political pawn in the Tower of Sylakia –

GNNAAA-OOAARRR! he bayed in shock as Zuziana whipped past!

Slow-slug, she sang out.

Ardan’s eyeballs almost popped with the effort as he launched out of the lapping Cloudlands like a dark, vengeful spear, but no volcano of anger or jealousy could make him fly like those two wretched, tantalising females. Amethyst and Azure rippled up the sheer grey-stone cliffs of one of Jendor’s many Islands. One mile. Two. He ate their dust, falling further back by the second, and … his flanks convulsed with laughter. Oh, they were sneaks and he was so going to wrestle this secret out of their sassy little hides!

Time to hunt.

The Dragon summoned his Shadow power.

* * * *

Aranya and Zuziana dug into the saddlebags which the Azure Dragoness had transported from Yorbik, toting weapons, supplies, spare clothing and basic foodstuffs. Leandrial had instructed them to Shift, surmising by some fantastically convoluted draconic logic that Shapeshifters healed better from poisoning when their second-soul ‘rested’ in whatever mystical plane of existence they disappeared to after transformation.

“Did you see Ardan’s face?” chortled Zip. “Lace up the back for me, would you?”

Aranya whistled at the daringly-cut gown. “Keep this one for Ri’arion, would you? I don’t want Ardan entertaining any Remoyan notions.”

Zuziana swished the skirts about to show the slits cut to mid-thigh. “Causing her man occasional eyeball-strain is a healthy pastime for a girl. It’s necessary and more fun than a warren full of dragonets have in a year. Oof. Not so tight, you beastly northern icicle. Reminds me of the time you kissed Jia-Llonya. Yolathion almost, almost combusted right there on the dance-floor.”

Aranya propped her hands on her hips, hissing, “She kissed me. And, you weren’t there.”

“You made her – your uncontrolled Storm magic did, anyways. Since Nak described the incident well enough –”

“He also wasn’t there!”

“Monogamy is so –” Zip affected a huge yawn. “Where’s your imagination, Immadia?”

To her intense exasperation, Aranya blushed up a storm worthy of the name. Dragon-fire-blast that scamp! Between her and Nak, they seemed bent on opening her eyes to cultural practices that Immadians regarded as licentious and wholly immoral, not to mention embarrassing her within an inch of her life. She yanked the dress-ties crossly, making her fiery Dragoness-friend yelp again. As for showing leg above the ankle … well, maybe she could learn a trick or two from Remoy.

Besides, Ardan was clearly not the sharing sort. Scrummy like sweetbread, if only … was that real thunder or just Fra’anior warming up three or four throats? She stilled her reflexive shiver crossly. Aranya said, “What’s the bet Ardan tries to scare us in his Shadow form?”

“Payback? Aye. Males are so predictable. That shaped aerodynamic shield was cleverer than a certain seven-headed ancient ancestor, Aranya.”

“Not my idea. The all-powerful Pip strikes afresh. Although, Leandrial did concede that the idea originated further back, apparently from Shapeshifter lore penned by my illustrious Aunt.”

“Va’assia? No way.”

“Another Aunt, on my mother’s side. Take a guess, Remoy.”

The Zippy one wrinkled her nose, and rattled, “Help you with your skin creams? Peace? Don’t beat up the diminutive Remoyan troublemaker?” Aranya gave her a huge hug. “Double-oof with Jeradian sweetmeat on top! Can you please try to remember how strong you are?”

“Sorry.”

“Aunty, aunty whatshername …” Her vivid blue eyes, agleam with magic, narrowed as Zip slathered herbal ointment on the open wounds on Aranya’s face, chest and back. Aranya hissed through the stinging. She said, “Izariela and Ja’arrion … now, there would be a third egg in the clutch… unholy smoking volcanoes, Aranya! No. You don’t mean Hualiama, do you? The Hualiama?”

“I believe so.”

“Don’t give me that diffident Princess you dust off on random occasions,” sniffed the Remoyan. “Impressive lineage there, girl! You sure your paws are quite big enough?”

Aranya laughed at Zip’s droll humour, then shuddered. Thunder, again? That old, familiar tightness between her temples? No. Calm down, stormy girl …

Zuziana added, “So, let’s get you decent before Mister Murky-Paws drops by to scare us. And then, shall we indulge in a spot of deadly dressmaking, or how’s about a session of indiscriminately violent hair-brushing?”

“Ah …”

“Now listen here, Amethyst-eyes, or I will –”

“Or what? You’ll endeavour to beat me with a stave?”

She might be a foot shorter than an Immadian tree, but her fellow-Princess gave no quarter whatsoever. “All over again? With pleasure.” The Zippy one laughed uproariously at her own joke, before adding, “You and I once vowed to start a new fashion trend. We said we’d burn all headscarves. What say you, Immadia? It used to be that head coverings were simply decorative, but Oyda holds that they’re a symbol of Sylakian oppression. I’m not overly political, mind –”

“But you are radical.”

“Oh aye, I’m a raving royal rabble-rouser.” Zip shook out her chestnut curls. “Seducing monks, slapping Sylakian Dragonships about with impertinent flicks of my tail –”

LADIES!! Ardan thundered.

He scared away every bird and beast for a mile about, but Zip just smiled at Aranya. “Did you hear a dragonet squeak?”

“Mosquito,” said Aranya, waving in the general direction of the smoking, fuming, muscles-flexing monster blocking out the suns-shine ten feet above her head. Then, she feigned surprise – hand fluttering to the throat, wide eyes, the whole ralti sheep. “Oh, Islands’ greetings, Ardan. Took you long enough to turn up. Did you bring us a snack? Good boy, just pop it over there.”

The girls split their sides laughing as Ardan woke the Island to his thundering rage.

* * * *

“Look at that Dragon, lazing in the heat,” said Aranya, eying Human-Ardan with a playful air. He rested on a patch of grass in the full glare of the suns-shine, his head pillowed on a half-empty leather saddlebag. “Do you think he’s sleeping?”

Ardan cracked open an eye with exaggerated laziness. “I’m contemplating the mysteries of the universe.”

Zuziana waved the hairbrush at him. “Just a hint, Ardan. Those little yellow spots on the backs of your eyelids are not mysteries.”

“I’m … detoxifying,” he drawled.

Aranya ribbed, “Does the snoring help or hinder the process?”

They had moved a couple of hundred paces over to the south-western edge of the Island, where they expected to meet Leandrial in the morning. Here, a narrow dell delved back into a modest hill crowned with hardwood trees, and a petite waterfall burbled cheerfully over five rock steps, marking the dell’s entire extent, a mere two dozen paces for Human-Ardan. Just before the stream tumbled over the cliff edge, a thoughtful person had built a small rock barrier to hinder the flow. The excellent fit of the rocks proclaimed a fine hand at stonewalling, a skill of Jendor and Horness Clusters which was seen all over the Islands, where low stone walls divided fields and homes were built of stone with no use of mortar, just moss for chinking. Beside this small, clear pool, Aranya sat upon a warm boulder also enjoying the suns-shine, while Zuziana toiled over brushing out the wealth of her many-coloured strands – returning the favour Aranya had accorded her earlier.

Suddenly, she realised that Ardan’s black eyes were unshuttered, regarding her openly. He said:

A warrior came strolling by, beside the stream that day,

Full contented should he be, yet restless his heart lay,

And presently a vision most wondrous, did reward his wandering feet,

Quoth he, “Oh arrest my heart, shouldst I behold,

A sight so truly sweet.”

Aranya ducked her head, wishing to hide the ruin of her face.

Zuziana said, “Wondrous and wandering? I would have chosen, ‘a sight most fair’.”

“Is this a game?” asked the Princess of Immadia.

“A Southern game, perhaps,” said Ardan. “Remoy seems to know it.”

“I know it, o poet,” said Zip. With a positively Fra’aniorian twirl of her hand, she declaimed:

A-singing by the rippling brook, the sable warrior did spy …

Ardan put in, “A maiden?”

“Two maidens, most verily,” said Aranya, only to have her friends both laugh and wave her into silence. “A hulking Land Dragon? A snappily dressed monk?”

“Amateur,” Zip disparaged, softening her teasing with a smile. “Listen.”

A maiden fair, of lustrous hair …

Ardan and Zip quickly fell to bickering over the merits of their contributions at this point. Eventually Aranya was forced to rescue her hair from an irked Shapeshifter’s vigorous efforts with the brush. She set about burying the tubers Ardan had thoughtfully dug up for her in the sand beside the pool, before laying a small mound of twigs and dry firewood on top. With a flick of her fingers, she set the twigs alight, and was soon warming her hands beside a crackling blaze.

“Great, can I cook these steaks now?” asked Ardan, holding up the cuts he’d taken before tossing an entire giant banded forest deer down his capacious Dragon-maw.

Aranya pulled a face.

He goaded her, “Perhaps you’d like to go graze upwind meantime?”

She punched him on the shoulder with more force than she had intended, summarily flattening him to the accompaniment of a crack of nearby thunder. Oh, mercy … but Ardan was only pretending upset, pouting like a four year-old boy who had just been deprived of a sweet.

“I think Aranya channels her Dragon power when she’s angry, or upset,” Zip said mildly. “That’s the reason for the storm she carried from the Western Isles to Jeradia and Fra’anior.”

“And for a woman with a punch like a Dragon,” said Ardan, ruefully accepting Aranya’s proffered hand. “That’s the last time I offer you steak, you lunatic vegetarian!”

* * * *

They spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening working through Leandrial’s detoxifying exercises and discussing the failings of their shields, a depressingly lengthy list. To Zuziana’s amusement, Ardan kept rubbing his shoulder and casting Aranya dark glances until the Immadian squirmed like Sapphire chasing her own tail. With the weather closing in, the Western Isles warrior quickly strung up a thin leather sheet for shelter, but the squall that bustled overhead was a meek and unconvincing affair altogether – definitely not an Aranya, Daughter of Storm special.

Two hours after darkness, Aranya curled up on the sand and drifted off. Her breathing rasped heavily. Zip carefully pulled an Immadian cloak over her friend’s shoulders, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell, thinking that if they were going to carry clothing and supplies required by their Human forms beneath the Cloudlands, they should package them in airtight Dragonship cloth.

She sat with Ardan, niggling at the filtering problem.

“You can smell the contaminants,” Zuziana pointed out. “That means there’s particulate matter seeping through, or gases. Aranya thinks some of the poisons may behave in ways that defy ordinary draconic science – she’s calling that vector magical osmosis, even if the idea itched Va’assia like a scale-mite infestation. ‘Stick to proven science,’ indeed!”

“No surprises there,” grunted Ardan. “No surprise, either, that we’ve barely scratched the surface of shield theory, or that the great Blue Dragons of the past preferred to keep their secrets to themselves, rather than scribing them for future generations.”

“Ja’arrion said we should have access to Gi’ishior’s libraries.”

The dark warrior growled, “Aye. Apparently the Blues had their own happy little council of secrets, apart from the other Dragon colours. Dragons just don’t know how to help themselves, do they?”

“I’m not sure they expected to be wiped out in the northern third of the Island-World.”

“Aye. Zip, most Island-nations don’t plan on suffering genocide, either.”

“Sorry, Ardan. I didn’t mean –”

“No mind.” His thick, blunt fingers made a curt gesture. “Curse those Sylakian murderers to a Cloudlands hell!”

They both glanced over their shoulders at Aranya as she groaned in her sleep. She turned over restively. “She’s dreaming,” Zip said unnecessarily. She rose to adjust the cloak. A light shone beneath her friend’s closed eyelids, affirming that her magic was clearly alive even though she slept. When Aranya whimpered something about Garthion, she smoothed her friend’s hair back from her brow. Mercy, her skin was scalding! “It’s alright, Aranya. You’re safe here.”

Aranya mumbled a troubled, unintelligible phrase or two before settling again.

Returning to where Ardan sat on a flat boulder protruding above a mile’s drop, with the carelessness of a man who knew his Dragon form was available on command, she said, “Burning up. Aranya used to do that when we were captives in the Tower. She’d set the hangings or the bedclothes on fire when she was particularly distraught. Or Garthion. She burned him.”

“Good riddance,” Ardan said flatly. “He’s the one –”

“Aye,” said Zip, not wishing to remember.

“And they call Western Islanders barbaric?” He flicked a stone into the darkness.

Zip glanced toward the shelter once more. Sleeping. Good. She hoped Aranya knew the Remoyan would move Islands for her; some gifts were beyond words, and her gratitude daily burdened Zip’s heart. She pressed back against the warm rock, imbibing its warmth into her soul. If only she could have beaten Garthion herself. But she had been unable to rise due to a broken wing. And now, in a nightmarish twist of fate, Aranya had been laid low by Garthion’s father, the once-Supreme Commander of Sylakia. In the darkness, she gathered her right hand into a painfully tight fist. She wanted to spit. What had Ri’arion once said?

I say, curse the hand that writ such a tale of woe upon your flesh! I say, spirits of the Ancient Dragons, be roused against this evil and may the hand of the afflicter be forever afflicted!

Her body shook. Her eyes blazed so brightly, smoke curled off the surface of Ardan’s leather jerkin.

A bane upon the hand that scarred thee, Aranya of Immadia!

Her voice was small and private, but no less terrible than Ri’arion’s the day the Nameless Man beheld the mutilation Garthion had wrought upon her torso. The craggy, discoloured wilderness of scar tissue. Never able to nurse a babe again. As the oath-magic jolted Ardan to his feet, crying out, it seemed to Zuziana that for the first time, her oh-so-draconic lust for revenge had transmuted into its nobler brother, justice. Catharsis. Clarity that ran as a clear river through her mind. Oyda’s teachings about justice and honour; about the thorny, sometimes abstruse complications that accompanied the simple desire to do right …

“What did you just do?” Ardan hissed.

Unable to speak, Zuziana pushed the memory at him; the warrior’s breath seized in his throat. Tears welled. Salty wetness ran over the harshly scarified planes of his cheeks, bespeaking his anguish. As he loomed over her, Ardan’s tears dripped upon her chest, her neck, her face. He let them fall. She watched them fly and land, each droplet sizzling upon her skin as fire met inner fire, and Zuziana saw motes swimming dreamily in those drops, like Dragons swirling in battle, sucked away suddenly by a Command into a place of … rest.

Ardan said, I join my fire-life to this oath. For Aranya’s sake, let it be. Let it be! His fist punched the heavens. LET IT BE!

Even Thoralian must hear, and cower in whatever shabby burrow marked his resting-place this night, for such dread words had been spoken as would make the very stars pause in their eternal courses, and weep. Even he must sense the talon of death poised to terminate his contemptible existence.

Rising, Zuziana wound her fingers around Ardan’s strong right arm, and rested her head beside the knot of his bicep as they stood together, facing south. Strange, how Shadow could exhibit such strength, substance and soul.

No more words need be spoken.

* * * *

In the dead of night when spirits roamed abroad, Ardan jerked awake, his ribcage wracked with the pains of raw terror. What had he been dreaming? Such a roaring and belling of monstrous draconic voices, such a crackle of – his eyes shifted beyond their shelter. Fire? Fire in the clouds? But it was not yet dawn, his sleepy mind insisted. Out over the Cloudlands, it was raining fire!

What?

Aranya shot to her feet, bellowing in a voice that froze his marrow. “Fra’anior!”

He chased her. A girl could run off a cliff … shouting incoherently, her voice rousing the storm, her arms conducting those sulphurous fires of destruction raining from the burning clouds … he sprinted up the hill behind their small camp, chasing glints of amethyst magic in the darkness.

“Aranya! Aranya!”

Catching her upon the hill’s barren brow, he grabbed her arm, spinning her about.

“She betrayed me!”

“Uh …” Her wildfires swept over his world, her hair shooting a bonfire’s sparks into the night, golden and red, blue and white, silver and violet and lime-green.

Aranya’s left fist knotted in his clothing. The flexion of her biceps lifted him a foot off the ground; Ardan’s legs dangled as incredulously as his jaw. Her mouth opened in a crashing thunderclap: SHE BETRAYED ME!

“Who?” he blurted out. “Who betrayed – Aranya!”

Her knees crumpled. Too much power. Too much grief. Ardan, twisting to avoid landing atop the toppling girl, crumpled awkwardly upon his already bruised shoulder. He had eyes only for her; but Aranya’s head lolled. She was unconscious.

Rising, Ardan carefully scooped the girl up into his powerful arms. Sometimes she seemed so terribly frail, as though the next breath of wind would sweep her away. Then, she jerked a full-grown warrior off the ground with the strength of her arm, and he was no eight-sackweight stripling.

She was a Shapeshifter Dragoness. Enigma, ablaze. And, if he was not mistaken, the voice of the Great Onyx himself.

Who had betrayed whom?

Chapter 5: Mighty Mites

COMe morning, Three Dragons waited. Fretted. Sharpened their talons. Grumbled – well, some males grumbled like a Dragon with the worst infestation of scale-mites in history while Zip idly sharpened her talons on a handy granite boulder. So tough were a Dragon’s talons, she had already worn a substantial groove in the top of the boulder.

Aranya eyed Ardan, amused. “Ho, mighty Dragon of Shadow?”

Arrrrrrggghhh, was his irascible reply.

“Ho, you rock-gargling, throat-mangling excuse for a Brown Dragon –”

“I’m not Brown!”

“Sounded like a Brown playing tunnels and rocky hideouts,” she pointed out. Ardan’s quarter-smile implied he was listening. “Why do I seem to recall wrestling with you last night?”

In a reedy Nak-voice, the Shadow Dragon sneered, “Oh, peerless Immadia, would that I could wrestle at the pillow-rolls with thee!” Zip’s smoky snort only encouraged him; Dragoness-Aranya favoured this with a ferocious scowl. Thanks. And no small truth in that sally, either. He added, “In all seriousness, Aranya …”

Her teasing turned to puzzlement as Ardan described fire and brimstone raining from the heavens, and that strange declaration, ‘She betrayed me.’

Finally, Aranya managed, “Islands’ sakes, Ardan, I … I channelled Fra’anior’s presence? Literally burned the heavens? And then ran up a hill in my sleep, shouting – oh. Mercy!”

Ardan rolled his fire-eyes at the heavens, the Island, the far horizons.

A Dragon’s thoughts could clearly produce smoke, because Zip started ostentatiously clearing the air with sweeps of her wings, muttering, “Faugh! Where do you hail from, o Princess of Reeking Halitosis?”

Friends. Aranya didn’t know whether to wing-slap them or hug them. She settled for neither. “Sorry, but I just remembered something important. I know I clam up like Yorbik shell-snail when my brain’s working –”

“Allegedly.”

This time, Aranya did take a playful snap toward Zuziana’s nose. The Remoyan dodged smartly. “Working more than yours, Miss Purple Forked-Tongue. So, hear this. I was asking about my celebrated aunt – we had a bad connection, I guess you could say. Fra’anior kept fading into and out of existence, and I understood that six heads were fighting a battle while the seventh talked to me. Anyways, amidst his usual storm, lightning and general Lord-of-the-Universe awesomeness, the Great Dragon claimed that my Aunt Hualiama betrayed him. Then he vanished, came back for half a sentence about still loving his dancing hatchling … then I think I grabbed you, Ardan. Do I remember rightly?”

“Bruised my sensitive skin.” He rubbed his chest, pretending to pout.

Given that Ardan’s Dragon form was a hulking Black bruiser topping twenty-four feet at the shoulder, if he did not crouch upon his belly, Zip and Aranya developed instant attacks of the fiery hiccoughs that ended with the Amethyst Dragoness literally falling off the cliff. She drifted around in a lazy half-circle, fighting return attacks of burbling laughter.

Zip, peering a little anxiously over the edge, called, Hualiama betrayed the Onyx? How?

Haven’t a clue.

Don’t sound so ruddy cheerful, sniped Ardan, returned to inability to wait.

Alright, you explain how your ur-makka remains with you between transformations, and I’ll explain the mysteries of my crazy family, Aranya smiled back unconsciously, before remembering her disfigurement and dropping her head. I was hoping he’d be available for a session of question-the-Ancient-Dragon. Failing that …

The Azure groaned, No. Don’t make me, Aranya. You can’t make me!

Aye, Zippety-Zapper. I hereby sentence thee to a lifetime raiding Gi’ishior’s library.

They passed the hours until noon cleansing, working with Aranya’s healing powers to try to identify additional steps or techniques they could use to recover more quickly from the Cloudlands poisons, and indulging in an impromptu competition to hunt rock-hares blind. At noon they perceived Leandrial’s call from afar, and at once, launched themselves into the void.

From Jendor’s wilderness to Horness Cluster was a mere day and a half’s dip beneath the Cloudlands, which took them from overgrown, tumbling cliffs and ravines of foliage crowning cracked, uninhabitable peaks, to the broad pasturelands of a Cluster where, it was said, cattle outnumbered people a thousand to one. Needless to say, Ardan licked his chops and drooled his way across the Islands in search of a quiet place to settle, while more than a few herdsmen looked to the sky and blanched. Alarm gongs rang across the closely spaced Islands.

“Huh, they didn’t do this when my father turned up with his army,” Aranya complained.

“Must be Ardan,” Zip suggested.

Ardan’s grin displayed a great array of polished ivory-whites. “Watch this.”

He swooped!

“Ardan!” Aranya yelled crossly.

He was far too quick. Shadowing completely, he landed just in front of a fine specimen of four-horn suttock, a bovine which supplied the famously soft, tan leather of Horness.

Ardan unshadowed, muzzle low, eyeball to eyeball with the quadruped. “Boo!”

The suttock did not make so much as a low or a cry. It merely fell over sideways, dead before it struck the long, lush blue-green grass.

“Oh,” said the Shadow Dragon.

“Oh, you didn’t mean for this to happen?” Aranya cried, waving a wing toward herder, standing in stupefaction a hundred paces off as his herd stampeded to all points of the compass. “Oh, I’m ravenous and that’s incredibly convenient? Oh, I’m going to pay that poor cattle-herder for his loss?”

“Could you imagine a cleaner kill?” asked Ardan, not even slightly repentant. On the contrary, he preened like the worst of court flunkies. “My majestic Dragon-smile flummoxed that stupid ox –”

Aranya rolled her eyes. “Dragons. Come on, Zip.”

“Uh … maybe in your Human form?”

She was not sure which was more frightening, the Amethyst Dragoness or a tall Shapeshifter, clad in a simple Immadian dress, her unbound hair waving in a brisk breeze as she approached the herder.

He wrung his fur hat in both hands, his uncertain smile exposing far more gum than the few yellowing teeth he had left in his mouth. “Great lady?”

Aranya said, “I apologise for my companion’s actions. Can we offer redress for the animal?”

“Whass redress?” he mumbled.

“Payment.”

“Gold?” his dull eyes brightened slightly.

Catching a potent whiff of alcohol, Aranya coughed politely. Mercy, she was surprised he could stand upright. “Gold. Five Immadian drals,” she said.

Fairly soon, she learned that the beast was a favourite family pet, that the man had eleven children dressed in rags and they never had enough to eat. She learned of generational misfortune which had afflicted his ancestors since the first dawn brightened the Island-World … and as the story stretched even the bounds of the most brazen balladeer’s abilities in storytelling embroidery, she concluded he was as greedy as he was drunk.

Grr!

Ardan, could you be a little more shameless up there? she thought to him.

Shameless? No linguistic nuances were needed to communicate the immediate spike of his ire.

Of course, he read insult into her words. Aranya tried again. Could I request a properly revolting show of draconic gluttony? It would help me negotiate.

Ardan’s answering laughter was an exercise in arrogance. Aye! Aranya’s eyes widened as the Shadow Dragon set about his guzzling with a most amazing range of lip-smacking, gurgling and growling noises, liberally interspersed with exclamations of carnivorous satisfaction. “Oh, the intestines,” he warbled, slurping down a twenty-foot portion with pursed lips. Holding his meal aloft with one paw, he champed down and ripped off an entire haunch with a powerful flexion of his neck. “This meat is so rich –” grunt, slobber, slurp “– so tangy, so delicately set off by the flavour of this firm yet yielding haunch.” And then he produced a belch so prodigious, it knocked him five feet backward. “Oh, yes!” he thundered.

“Dragons don’t like parting with their gold,” Aranya advised, not quite stifling a giggle as Zip peered over her shoulder, purring like an overgrown rajal.

“No gold?” asked the fellow, sweating freely now.

“He might decide to devour your entire herd if you try to cheat him,” she suggested.

“Uh …”

“Dragons are stomachs on legs,” Zuziana said, eyeing the nearest animals while blowing overlapping smoke-rings from her nostrils. “I’m sooooo starved! I could eat – well, anything …”

The herder’s complexion had progressed to the colour of swamp-scum, suggesting that his recent binge disagreed violently with his current situation.

Aranya said, “How’s about two animals, three gold each? I’m sure I could convince these Dragons.”

With the gold having crossed his palm, she decided she had never seen a sot run so fast and so ably. Aranya laughed quietly in chorus with Zip. Right.

Ardan, I bought you two just in case one didn’t fill that Dragonship cargo-hold you call a stomach.

Only two?

Ugh. He had a large flap of hide stuck between his upper fangs. She said, Aye, only two, or I shall have to dub thee Mister Wobbles.

The Shadow Dragon launched skyward, performed an aerial backflip and landed perfectly atop a hapless suttock, crushing it with a devastating blow of his hind foot. Call me Mister Flattens, he said, and bugled until the meadows rang for his triumphant mirth.

Aranya sighed. “I guess I’ll leave money for another. Enjoy scraping up your pancake, Ardan.”

Zuziana fell over, hiccoughing fireballs of helpless merriment.

* * * *

Dragoness-Zuziana led the short flight to meet Leandrial south of Horness Cluster, after the Land Dragon had wasted a further two days searching for the precise blend of phosphates and metal sulphites she required to supplement her diet. She might find something at Fra’anior Cluster, she said, but Zip soon observed Leandrial was behaving in unfamiliar ways, appearing tired and snappish.

Having negotiated the world of upper-layer predators with relative ease, courtesy of improved unidirectional opacity-constructs and magic-dampening shielding, they joined the Land Dragon as she forced her way through a tougher, more substantial layer of decaying olive-green plant matter to arrive once more in the middle layer – the barrens, Leandrial called this area. So scarce was life in these parts, Zuziana imagined they swam through a vast, stagnant aquarium.

Leandrial said, “There’s a minor counter-current that runs from near Horness down between Rolodia and the Spits, almost duplicating the route we’d expect the Dragonships to take. We’ll use its force to help us travel, even if the detritus it carries will be … less than savoury, as you high-dwellers might style it.”

Less than savoury? A lead-coloured, sluggish flow greeted them, cutting a shallow channel along the base of a featureless, unvarying plain of greyish fungal matter. The footing was grey and sludgy. The air was greyish and only marginally less sludgy. Visibility was a mere thousand feet. And the air current was a morass of fungal and plant matter, with a few mouldering carcasses thrown in to enhance the general savour. Zip and Aranya chuckled over allusions to flying through pots of rancid Jeradian meat soup, and spent the days labouring on the mental and magical exercises Leandrial set them in order to improve their shielding and healing stamina. She, Ardan and Aranya tinkered constantly with the shields, making incremental but not Island-shattering improvements. None of them were natural scientists, but Aranya had her creative flair, Ardan the brutal practicality to test and discard or approve their experiments, and Zip, a double-dose of renowned Remoyan stubbornness. The Immadian suggested this was overcompensation for diminutive stature. The Remoyan countered that height was no guarantor of lofty thoughts.

Their bickering exasperated Leandrial, who was set upon beating the Dragonships to Fra’anior Cluster. She declared it a matter of draconic pride.

Four days later, it was abundantly clear to the Lesser Dragons that Leandrial was tiring badly. This was rather less clear to the Land Dragoness. Aranya pressed her on the matter until she and the Land Dragoness had their first flaming row. The Amethyst Dragoness stitched Leandrial’s flank with an injudicious fireball. Leandrial’s flame-wreathed right forepaw paw swatted Aranya like a fly, sending her tumbling – her shield-protection rang like a gong, but saved her from worse injury than a very sore head. Aranya roared back in, blasting away, only for Ardan to leap between the two.

Enough! he bellowed. He blinked in shock as an Aranya-special signature blue fireball engulfed his muzzle. Shadow! He slipped away from the conflagration, reappearing with a head-shaking snort of discontent. Right. We’re friends, remember?

Uh … serves you right for getting in my way, Aranya said stiffly.

Zip began, Aranya, honestly –

No, growled Leandrial. She’s right. I lack strength. I – I … curse this fate! I need rest. Between old age and mouldering away here in the North, a hundred and fifty years apart from my kindred …

To Zip’s astonishment, Aranya alighted on the flat bridge of Leandrial’s muzzle, directly in the firing-line of her eye-cannon. Eyeballing the Land Dragon with fierce and uncompromising mien, the Amethyst nevertheless said gently, Leandrial, you remind me of a particularly independent-minded Immadian Princess I happen to know. I had not pegged you for the type of crusty old bottom-dweller who would refuse help. You yourself related how the Pygmy Dragoness aided you, how you merged shields and drew upon her strength. I know we three are a poor substitute for the wondrous, all-capable Pip, but we are willing to try. I have healing power. Ardan has strength and Zuziana has experience with the mind-meld, besides being party to the Nameless Man’s teachings. Are we too small and incompetent to pass your muster, Leandrial?

The huge orb blinked once, very slowly. She said, I’ve wronged thee –

Not wronged so much as ignored, Zip corrected, then bit her lip. Oh …

Leandrial’s monstrous guffaws tossed Aranya right off her nose. You little ones! Oh, how you fill even the deathliest realm with life and chatter and energy. I wish I could show you my thought-memories of the Pygmy Dragon, but my mental wards have grown crusty and recalcitrant with age. Come. Aranya has the rights of it. We must join our strength, for thereby, even an old Dragoness might learn a trick or three.

Aranya swam gamely back to her flank. Since my magic seems useless to heal my own ailments, I’d rather chew upon a bigger morsel.

This time, Leandrial was wise to the Amethyst Dragoness’ goading. She said, Oh? Are you suggesting you’d like to meet a few of my scale-mites, Aranya? They’re about your size.

* * * *

Swimming down an opaque current while traversing an under-Cloudlands desert made Aranya feel less at a loss regarding her vision. No Dragon could see even halfway down Leandrial’s body in this murk. Even predators avoided the gloopy flow, which skirted Rolodia’s base, south of Noxia, and squeezed through the relatively narrow straits between Rolodia and the Spits in an ever-rumbling stream, before eventually swinging away a few points south of east toward Sylakia, where it petered out.

Ha. Did that make Sylakia the garbage-trap of the Island-World?

She should not be so mean as to feel vindicated.

Aranya worked for hour upon hour with Leandrial as they approached Rolodia. Although the Land Dragon was no healer, she had a keen sense of the inner workings of her body and a host of unfamiliar skills to teach. Aranya learned to trace the magical pathways of the Dragoness’ being at both the macroscopic and microscopic levels. Although she developed a pounding headache, she found the microscopic examination easier than understanding the myriad factors and organ functions that comprised a Dragon’s overall health. She could spend a lifetime on such study! To her delight, Zip and Ardan worked with her, discussing the calcification of arteries, the ossification of bone joints and the magical equivalent, simply called ‘encrustation’. Leandrial was not in good shape. Years of poor nutrition, ageing and isolation had contributed to a poor outlook, overall. She was even mentally fragile, she said, due to her solitary confinement.

“I don’t understand the metaphysical issues you were trying to explain, Leandrial,” Ardan said at one point, half a day short of Rolodia. They were looking forward to a break from swimming the low-dwelling equivalent of a sewage channel. “What’s the point of communal singing?”

“To share histories, lore and teachings,” said Leandrial.

Aranya glared at the Shadow Dragon as he scratched his scaly behind vigorously. Males.

Flying along fifty feet forward and starboard of the Dragoness’ eye, Ardan waved a talon in negation. “No, no. That’s the practical bit you and I love. What was the other part – balancing out imbalances? Shifting burdens?”

From the port flank, the Azure Dragoness said, “The Dragonish term was, ‘community-constructive-consecration’,” before she laughed, “I’m sure Leandrial was speaking a language I’m supposed to understand. But I don’t. The nuances – way, way beyond this little brain.”

Ardan said, “I understand building up a community. Many cultures do the same – sharing stories, moral tales and lore … but she’s saying it’s a spiritual exercise.”

Together, even the mightiest Dragons become more, Leandrial quoted.

“I wish our high-dwelling Dragonkind would take a leaf out of that scroll,” Zuziana groaned. “They’re so individualistic and grasping.”

“Ardan has a point,” said Aranya. “Leandrial, what if we became your community? Stop scratching your – Ardan! Sordid beast!”

“Scale-mites,” said Ardan, taking a parting dig beneath the base of his tail.

“Ugh. Go find a volcano and chargrill your rump,” she shot back. “Right. Indulge my fancies a moment. Leandrial, what might we do for you that would achieve the constructive-consideration?”

Community-constructive-consecration, Leandrial corrected. We’d sing the sagas together, little one. We’d join our magic and life – is this not community? The state of being-together?

“We sing?” Ardan said doubtfully. “I’m tone-deaf.”

“Your Dragon isn’t,” Zip pointed out.

One hundred feet of Shadow Dragon opened his mouth, fished for delicacies in the filthy airstream, and clicked his jaw shut again.

So Leandrial taught them the first hatchling-songs she remembered, and they sang their way to Rolodia Island in Land Dragon dialect – one of the more surreal experiences of Aranya’s life. Yet in the haunting harmonies and thrilling descants of Dragonsong, was there not something … more, which her avowedly non-mystical Shadow had touched upon?

If he scratched those mites again, she was so going to belt him. Ugh!

* * * *

Rolodia’s famously beautiful terrace lakes had once gleamed like great brass mirrors in the glorious light of a partially eclipsed suns-set. No longer. Only a partial half-moon of one lake had survived Sylakia’s depredations. Nevertheless, Zuziana’s hearts fluttered as if filled with swarms of butterflies. Dragonships. She saw Immadian and Jeradian Dragonships, captured Sylakian vessels flying the flags of Fra’anior and Immadia, and a tall, bearded monk standing on the gantry of King Beran’s flagship, dancing a very excitable, un-monk-like dance. Ri’arion!

She roared up beneath the Dragonship, crying, To me, my beloved!

Casting his not inconsiderable dignity to the winds, the monk hurled himself overboard. The beauty of his trust fired her hearts. Twenty Shapeshifter Dragons shepherding the Dragonship fleet immediately sprang toward him, but azure seared the early evening skies like a flash of lightning. Zuziana would not be beaten. She swooped for her man as he plunged toward the lake. His gaze locked with hers. Their minds touched and embraced. Furling her left wing, the Azure spiralled into a sublime catch that whipped him away a mere half-foot above the surface.

Lovely man. She dropped a Dragoness-kiss lightly on his lips.

He laughed, Serendipitous timing, o Zuziana. However, I must inform you that while I am over the five moons to see you safe and hale, you stink to the very heavens.

Then we shall bathe.

Whaaa – suns-warmed water crashed over them as the Azure Dragoness, shielding the monk from the impact with her cupped paws, slammed into the lake and disappeared beneath the surface. A school of lake trout shot away as they came to a sudden rest within a cosy bubble of air. He laughed, Crazy woman. Those eyes, as deep a blue as the bottom of the lake, made her belly-fires dance madly. I love thee so very dearly. Can we not fly to Remoy, beloved, and do business with thy father?

It’s my mothers you need to convince, she returned pertly.

You’ll have to teach me how to charm your … uh, mothers. I’ll have you know, waiting stinks worse than your under-Cloudlands reek.

Zip whirled her eye-fires in an expression she hoped communicated coquettish desire. Is waiting for permission so very hard, Ri’arion?

I thought I was the hidebound one, he admitted, colouring to the very top of his shaven head. I’m afraid for you, precious girl. Impatient, aye, and I fear that distance shall grow between our hearts even as the far horizons separate our beings. I’ve changed my mind. Upon pain of unspecified but undeniably terrible punishments, I hereby, summarily and forthwith, do forbid you from travelling to Herimor without me.

With a sad laugh, she touched his cheek with her knuckle, and lied, I shall obey your every command, Ri’arion, all the days we share beneath the suns.

* * * *

Ardan and Aranya walked arm-in-arm along a soft, white-sand beach by the effulgent glow of waxing Iridith and a full Blue Moon. Her father had flown Dragonback to Rolodia’s main town to negotiate with the leaders there. Ardan gazed at the woman who linked her elbow through his. Not so standoffish, was she, this complex woman? Not when pushed and shamed … he knew his blunt Western Isles ways hurt her. But how else could he express that he wished to be with her for the long haul, over all the Islands of the world?

So desperately hard for a woman to feel degraded and unlovely.

As a warrior, he had never contemplated the night’s splendour, as she did. What might an artist see? Perhaps she listened to the near-inaudible susurrus of waters rippling upon the beach, or did she consider how, just a stone’s throw to their left hand, the second layer of terrace-lake wall overshadowed the lake, squeezing this strip of beach and its fringing foliage into a narrow gap? His warrior-mind relentlessly catalogued the deployment of Dragonships half a mile away, some moored over the water for safety. He checked for the Dragon patrols above, all but invisible to the Human eye. He scanned their surrounds for – what? Rolodia had no snakes, no rajals, no marauding feral windrocs. Nothing nasty whatsoever. Just … the illusion of beauty, here in this miraculously untouched corner of the Isle. Aranya must drink in the beauty of moonlight upon –

“About your scale-mite infestation, Ardan,” she said.

He doubled up with laughter.

Those amethyst eyes flashed with anger as she pulled apart from him. “What? What did I say?”

“Nay, my backside does not itch in my Human form.”

“I’ll have a truthful answer, Ardan!”

“It was truthful,” he protested. “Mostly, my laughter stemmed from the minor discrepancy between me wondering how your creative soul sees the night, and you thinking about my … itches.”

He was quite certain she was smiling under that mouth-veil as she took his arm again with more than a hint of draconic possessiveness. “Are you quite certain you’re a tough, commanding Western Isles warrior, Sha’aldior? Tonight’s romantic walk is taken in the company of a dark, shadowy mystic, the mighty Shapeshifter Ardan?”

He pointed down the beach with his chin. “Chaperoned by your smoking-at-the-jowls Aunt and Uncle, in Human form?”

“Great. I didn’t spot them in this light.”

“Ardan, can I ask you a question?” Suddenly, she was turning over his right wrist, her slim fingers touching the ur-makka strapped there beneath a worn leather thong. The pox had even touched her knuckles, he observed, making them as gnarled as an arthritic old woman’s hands. “Remember how we talked about the ur-makka, how it survives your transformations? Kylara said that the ur-makka was an extension of the spirit-world, and that name-runes like these are given by the Ancient Dragons. Tell me, did all of your people wear the ur-makka?”

He said, “All, aye. But few would have a Dragonish rune in place of their name.”

“And how would that have come to be?”

“Usually, secret or spirit-names are given by the tribal shaman. The shaman in our culture is like a bard, a magician and a prophet rolled into one.”

“Good?”

He shook his head. “Not necessarily. The naming is a secret process. I could not tell you exactly, but the spirits are consulted, auguries spoken and the parents petition the gods for favourable attributes – strength, spirit, power and so on. The shaman creates the name-chip and secretes it inside the ur-makka, which is given to the child one lunar cycle after birth in a naming ceremony.”

She pondered this, her head bowed to show Ardan how she used a slim circlet of metal atop her head, almost a crown, to secure her face-veil, leaving her marvellous hair free to tumble down her back, covering her shoulders and back as she bent. He raised his left hand, playing with the still-magical link between them. No sparks erupted this time, but from a distance of twelve inches, her hair clearly yearned toward his hand, reflecting their oath-connection.

“Don’t,” she said, gathering her hair self-consciously to her side. The strands immediately swept toward him once more, making Ardan laugh softly.

He said, “Command the winds of fate, Immadia. I dare you.”

“Don’t tempt me. Ardan, do you think the archives of Gi’shior would tell us if there has ever been another Dragon like you?”

What connection could she possibly be contemplating between scale-mites and an ur-makka? Testily, he said, “Your relatives approach. Well is it said, we can choose our enemies but not our family.”

“Ardan!”

Now she admonished him? He did not understand this woman in the slightest.

“Islands’ greetings,” Va’assia and Ja’arrion chorused.

Aranya bowed formally, apparently a Fra’aniorian performance her etiquette classes had covered. Ardan bowed much more simply, just a nod of the head. He liked Ja’arrion, but Va’assia’s attitude … he could not respect her.

Straightaway, Aranya said, “Aunt, Uncle, do we have Dragon scientists among the Dragonwing capable of identifying the possible sources of a precise blend of phosphates and metal sulphites? I’m trying to heal Leandrial. Or would you know if this information is readily available at Gi’ishior?”

Ja’arrion shared a startled glance with his wife. “Beran did warn us you never stopped, niece.”

Aranya’s hand quivered in his, but she said evenly, “Surprised I’m looking to others’ needs rather than my own, Uncle?”

“You misjudge us, Aranya,” he replied, his gaze unwavering.

“I’m not sure I do,” she replied bitterly. “What have I done that you mistreat me so? Thoralian did not pause to ask the polite form of address before putting entire Islands to the sword! Nor did he care for hatchlings or Dragon Elders. Or is this some ill-concealed draconic jealousy? The mighty mite has too much power, therefore she must be suppressed?”

“Aranya,” Ja’arrion placated. Va’assia’s expression was a study in indignation.

Ardan’s ears registered nearby thunder once more. There. The unmistakable voice of Aranya’s turbulent emotions – but he focussed on the altercation.

She stormed, “You can barely wait for me to leave so that you can start building your precious new empire! If I have to return to take care of matters here, Uncle – if I have to return, know I will fight injustice, avarice and evil, no matter what form it takes!”

Va’assia exploded, “Are you threatening us? You dare –”

SILENCE!

Ja’arrion’s battle-roar washed over them, silencing even Ardan’s equally explosive rejoinder.

“I am sorry, but I must speak,” said her Uncle. “Aranya, there’s something you do not know. Something which you will find incredibly painful to hear. I hesitate …”

Her fingers tightened so forcefully on his hand that Ardan felt his bones grind together. But her grip suddenly eased, and Aranya’s poise shocked him as she replied, “I am overly forthright. Understand that I am distraught by this poison between us. I apologise. Whatever you have to say, Uncle, let the truth not remain hidden. I am ready.”

The Red Shapeshifter tried one more time. “Ja’arrion, we agreed …”

Her voice trailed off beneath the force of his gaze. For the first time, Ardan saw Va’assia yield the floor to another. Her quickening heartbeat carried easily to ears sharpened by Dragon insight. The older Shapeshifter was afraid!

Tightly, mind to mind, the Immadian said, Help me, Ardan …

I shall. His fingers tensed, as if by that tiny action he could suffuse her frame with strength.

Ja’arrion said, “Over these last days we have been approached by many of the Shapeshifters you rescued from the chambers beneath Yorbik, Aranya. With minor variations, they tell the same tale. One and all, they tell us they were betrayed by Izariela – as were we.”

The Amethyst Shapeshifter tore away.

Chapter 6: Volcanic Colours

ARanya’s desolate CRY rolled across the waters like thunder. Her uncontrolled Storm-eruption whipped tonnes of water hundreds of feet into the sky, where titanic bolts of amethyst forked lightning blasted the spray into steam. Momentarily, rainbows wreathed the play of lights over the lake.

When she turned, Ardan perceived how the dark-fires of grief ravaged her gaze.

He started toward her.

Addressing the air, Aranya whispered, “I will not stand idly by while these accusations are levelled against my mother.”

Her countenance was so terrible, Ardan’s legs decided, against the urging of his brain, to halt him in his tracks. Thunder voiced its ire nearby; her hair whipped violently about her slender frame.

Va’assia hissed aside to her husband, “This is why, Ja’arrion. Her power is raw and untutored –”

“So much the better!” he rapped.

“Better?” Aranya’s control took Ardan’s breath away. All that was Dragon within him screamed to transform, to shield, to fly into battle, but she mastered the inner storms with an evident, physical wrenching. “You mean, Uncle, that this truth is better?”

He bowed curtly. “I mean, trust is better than subterfuge. If I am any judge, then you are a woman rare enough to hear –”

“– wisdom that flies against the united decision of all the other Dragons,” Va’assia blurted out, suddenly fierce and proud. “Oh Ja’arrion, I have never loved you more!”

They kissed passionately.

Ardan heard Aranya’s teeth grinding; in four huge strides, he reached her side. What the volcanic hells, Aranya?

I believe my Aunt’s had an epiphany, she murmured.

How?

She shook her head, the tides of magic receding. Sullen drumrolls of thunder faded into the distance. To their further amazement, Va’assia broke away from her husband and tottered toward Aranya, arms outstretched, murmuring, “Petal, will you ever forgive me?”

With that, she forced the taller girl into what had to be the stiffest, most uncomfortable embrace in history.

* * * *

Lyriela, Aranya and Zuziana lay abed that evening in a warm, sandy hollow by the lakeside. Dragoness advantages, Aranya decided with a thin smile – no need to be cold when a curl of magic could heat the air around them. And no better place to sleep than between her cousin and her best friend, while the men disappeared to have a manly ‘conference’ with Beran, Ignathion, Ta’armion and Commander Darron. It seemed probable that a certain amount of Rolodian wine or ale, which had survived the destruction in underground vats and cellars, might lubricate their deep, philosophical discussions.

Lyriela said, I can’t believe my mother, Aranyi. To try to haze a hatchling into some kind of confession – it’s beyond stupidity. Did they imagine you’d betray your mother? Would you belie the battles and sacrifices you and Zuziana fought to win our freedom, and transform thereafter into some world-dominating evil genius with a mad plan to enslave all Shapeshifters and Lesser Dragons? It’s … I can’t grasp such foolishness. I can’t! My mother, lacking the courage of her own convictions – an apology, aye, that was more than owed you. But where was her integrity in all this? Her backbone?

Aranya sighed. I think she feels sorry for me.

It’s a perfect crockpot of draconic illogic, snorted Zip. Talk about misreading a situation!

Potential explanations abound, Lyriela growled, her telepathic communication seething and sparking like a bonfire.

Aranya reached out to touch her cousin’s arm. Peace. Don’t fret so. I don’t hate your mother, but I’m also not so blockheaded as to deny I’m not hurt.

Lyriela said, Chameleon Shapeshifters being the obvious candidate – only, they don’t believe those creatures ever existed! Not that they’d say so to your face, of course. Wouldn’t lie to a Star Dragoness, oh no. Poor Lyriela. She was more than steamed; she was humiliated. Or, they claim it was some Herimor glamour-trickery, which was a new idea at least. What more do you have to do to win their regard, Aranyi?

Do less, I suspect. Be less powerful. Less … starry.

The words you’re looking for are ‘less irritatingly unconventional,’ Zip interjected, which happens to be exactly why we love you so much. Burgled any impregnable towers lately? Assaulted any random Princes and forced them to go kidnap and marry their beloved in the middle of a war, dear Dragon-petal?

Lyriela blushed as she ventured, My kidnapping apparently satisfied the most rabid Fra’aniorian traditionalists.

An accolade that a certain headscarf-burning, tyrant-trashing Immadian reprobate is unlikely ever to earn, Zip teased. Buck up, Lyri. How is Ta’armion coping without you this evening?

The nuances of her Dragonish made the Fra’aniorian gasp. Zuziana!

I blame that wasp’s tongue on having seventeen siblings, Aranya said. Oh, is that a bat?

Sapphire, said Zip.

In a moment, the dragonet curled up against Aranya’s ribs. Ari sweetness, purred Sapphire, earning herself a scratch behind the spine-spikes. She burped a decidedly fishy gust of air. Yum. Trout tasty.

Images of a wild chase, of flying swiftly underwater in pursuit of the perfect dinner, cascaded through Aranya’s mind. Roaring rajals, the dragonet’s projection of her thoughts was crystal-clear. If only they could borrow Leandrial’s memories in that way, maybe they’d be able to trace what had happened to Pip and an entire Academy of Dragon Riders. Yet every Dragon appeared to possess at least some level of innate magical protection, which Leandrial referred to as ‘wards’, that safeguarded the mind from casual inspection or control. Still, a beast of Thoralian’s power could override or circumvent the mental strength of an adult Blue Dragon.

Interesting. Might this magical warding explain why she and Ardan struggled to duplicate the mind-meld which Zip and Ri’arion entered so readily?

The following morning at dawn, the Dragonship fleet upped anchor and beat southward toward Fra’anior. Obeying Leandrial’s call, Zip, Aranya and Ardan followed her down into the current once more, and with languid wingbeats, caught up with the undulating Land Dragon.

By way of greeting, Leandrial inquired, So, Aranya, what did you blow up this time?

* * * *

The current, reinvigorated and forceful, swept them from Rolodia past the dark legs of the Spits, a veritable forest of rock columns planted by the Ancient Dragons for purposes unknown. The terrain changed rapidly, growing craggier as the viscous winds dipped and swirled, knocking the Lesser Dragons about with increasing ebullience. Its song was a roar that varied with the terrain, like a boulder-tossed river, and a low whistling and hissing that grated on the ear. The foursome took to drowning out this noise with a commotion of their own, as they belted out Leandrial’s songs and learned new lore-sagas and historical ballads. The Dragoness always declared she felt better after a sing-song – drawing a predictable snigger from Zip – but Aranya’s internal, magic-enhanced examination soon convinced her of measurable improvements in Leandrial’s general functioning.

Zuziana blessed this prognosis by bellowing ‘funky monkey’ right in Aranya’s ear, following which they had to endure an hour-long digression on the peculiarities of Southern culture in order to satisfy their huge companion’s curiosity.

Soon, cracks began to appear in the black, igneous rock formations, but they were only a precursor to the majestic volcanic presence of Fra’anior Cluster, Leandrial told them. She pushed the quartet of Dragons hard. Training. Always training. She spoke little of what they might expect in the Rift, perhaps out of fear, the three Lesser Dragons speculated privately, but she waxed wistful regarding the nature of Herimor, with its peculiar migratory Island-Clusters, airborne Islands and many Clans of roving Land Dragons. If they imagined the Island-World as a great circle, she taught them, the Rift was a band which divided the northern third from a greater demesne to the South, a vast, ever-shifting wilderness of Islands. The Rift bowed southward and thinned slightly in the East, according to Land Dragon lore, which was where Aranya assumed Thoralian planned to make his crossing – although exactly how the Yellow-White Dragon planned to achieve the theoretically impossible was matter of debate. Logically, they concluded that there must be limited commerce with Herimor, for how else had Chameleon Shapeshifters come to cross the Rift?

Ardan and Zip bickered cheerfully over the wisdom of his destroying the Chameleons before they could be interrogated.

Aranya, thinking upon how upset Sapphire had been at her departure that morning, caught the Shadow Dragon scratching near his tail once more. Right. That was quite enough.

Islands’ sakes, Dragon! Can we stop with the mites? Scratching only makes it worse.

He made a face. I can’t tell you how bad this is.

Let me take a look.

There? Big as he was, the Shadow Dragon tucked in his tail with a woebegone look. It’s … not in the nicest place. I think I’m allergic –

Shy, Ardan?

He veered away skittishly, dodging a shred of floating emerald-coloured leaf that was longer than ten of him laid end to end. Stop. Paws off.

Paws off his backside? tittered Zip.

Aranya smiled, allowing fire to curl between her fangs. Shall I just burn them off for you, Ardan? Be a good boy and lift your tail.

Yiee! Ardan Shadowed, flickering away from the visible spectrum, before reappearing two hundred feet away with a distinctly sheepish air. Aranya, stop! Go away, you bad, bad Dragoness!

What fun! Aranya had never known Ardan to be panicky about anything. She chased him playfully this way and that before they came to a standoff over Leandrial’s back. She feinted. Ardan twitched violently. Fighting was a strange dance at this high pressure, each movement slower and dreamier than expected. Was there a pressure at which fireballs were no longer viable? Was that why Land Dragons fought with flaming talons? Aranya made another feint, watching the Shadow Dragon as narrowly as he watched her. She could catch him, being smaller and nimbler, but he would likely just Shadow his way out of trouble. Cheat!

Coyly, Aranya said, Perhaps I should examine you, Ardan – she unsheathed the three forward-pointing talons of her right forepaw with a purposeful air – with these!

Flexing her wings, she pursued the mightily muzzle-out-of-joint Dragon, aware of Zuziana almost folding herself in half, she was laughing so hard. The Amethyst was on the verge of firing a mischievous fireball with the intent of warming those unsavoury scale-mites, when an out-of-the-Cloudlands idea struck her with the force of one of Thoralian’s psychic blasts.

Mites Shifted! They travelled with a Shapeshifter.

Aranya stopped so sharply, she tangled up her wings and had to extricate herself, by which time Ardan was a quarter-mile downstream, just a dark blob at the extreme edge of her limited vision. Gathering her wits about her, Aranya hitched a ride in Leandrial’s slipstream. On second thoughts …

Leandrial, where can I find one of your scale-mites?

Finished playing, little one? the Land Dragoness said, sounding weary. What brain-knotting idea did you have now?

Would you call Zip and Ardan – oh, here they come.

Zuziana was clearly giving Ardan the sharp end of her tongue as her friends hovered against the current, waiting for Aranya to catch up.

Quickly, she rallied her troops. Refusing to explain, she bade them hunt. Leandrial’s scales were roughly triangular in shape, being smaller at the anchoring end, while overlapping longitudinally to provide optimal streamlining. The scales varied in size toward her eyes or armpits, but those on her back were up to thirty feet wide and three times that length. The armour was smooth and dense, yet lighter and more flexible than any of the Lesser Dragons had expected, while the overlap and fit was so perfect, Aranya could not insert so much as a talon-tip into the cracks between them. They had to rely on wedging open the end closest to Leandrial’s tail. Despite all the close fitting, when they found a mite, Zuziana recoiled.

Ardan, probably wishing to re-establish his maligned masculinity, reached in and snaffled the eight-foot monstrosity into his paw. It was flat and whitish all over, the same colour and consistency as a maggot, but furnished with the fat, stubby legs of a tick and a flat, disagreeable bulb for a head. Apparently, it did not much fancy being rousted from its warm, comfortable abode. It squealed and waved its legs ineffectually.

Charming critter, said Zip. Toss it, Ardan.

No, bring it up to the business end of this magnificent Land Dragon, Aranya ordered. Her friends’ expressions told her they were indulging another mad whim; playing along to see what breath of Island-World pollen moved her now.

“Right. Ardan, present mite.”

Leandrial found herself gazing at the scale-mite from a distance of a hundred feet, give or take. The Amethyst Dragoness drew herself up with a pompous air. “Behold, students, the common draconic scale-mite.”

“Glad that isn’t one of mine,” Ardan put in.

“Aye, imagine that monster crawling up your –”

“Zip, you vile guttersnipe,” Aranya snapped. “Concentrate, will you? Right. Scale-mites are a common parasite, afflicting all types of Dragons. Many scale-mites specialise in particular types of Dragons, or in particular regions of a Dragon’s body.” She leered at Ardan. “Don’t they?”

He squirmed.

“So, class. Who can explain to me why scale-mites are not cast off during a Shapeshifter’s transformation? This fine specimen of a darkly handsome Dragon being a case in point. Why, after Shifting, bathing and living in Human form, does he still display every evidence of a nasty infestation of the nether regions?”

Zip said, “Because he has the same problem in Human form? Just … smaller?”

Poor Ardan. His belly-fires howled the exact note of his mortification as he thundered, ZUZIANA OF REMOY!

Leandrial said, “Ah. How cunning you are, Aranya. The mites shift with the Shifter. Therefore, there is a link, either physical or magical. No, you argue that the link is magical. A mite is a parasite of Dragon magic. Correct so far?”

Aranya bowed. “Carry on, student.” To Zuziana, she added aside, “I’ve waited so long to say that to Leandrial.”

The Azure Dragoness clearly decided that laughing directly at an eye-cannon was ill-advised.

“Now, we ask ourselves, what does this have to do with Land Dragons?” The mighty Dragoness warmed to her task. “Aranya theorises that scale-mites parasitize the innate magic of Dragons. She says, ‘what is their diet?’ It was always assumed that mites lived on ambient nutrients or those lubricants secreted by a Dragon’s living hide for protection, repair and nutrition. However, by this we conclude only environment-related symbiosis.”

The Amethyst shook her head. “I think the relationship is parasitic, not symbiotic. Could you, without destroying Ardan’s paw, examine this mite’s physical makeup and tell me what you find?”

With a hum that indicated lively inquisitiveness, Leandrial bent to her analysis. Her eye brightened, beaming out so powerfully that Aranya began to see the outlines of Ardan’s bones within the talons clasping the wriggling scale-mite. For several long minutes, the Land Dragon cogitated away, muttering, Hmm, interesting. No. Trace metals, aye. What does the little one seek? AHA!

Her bellow shook them all.

Zip complained, “Alright, I’m deaf. Any Dragon who feels like enlightening us …”

Leandrial’s mouth curled in a massive Dragon-smile, showing her sharp triple row of incisors, and even a few premolars, which were great blocks of draconic tooth-matter ninety feet long and fifty wide. They grew constantly throughout a Land Dragon’s lifetime, for to lose the teeth would be to starve.

The behemoth said, “I find many trace metals and elements essential to good draconic health – antimony, magnesium, vanadium, thallium and silicon, to name but a few. Most importantly, I find my missing and very rare metal sulphites and phosphates in the very forms essential to my wellbeing. Aranya, this is an incredible discovery. A paw-stroke of genius.”

“A lucky guess, triggered by sniffing around her boyfriend’s backside,” Zip tittered.

“I’m sure Dragon scientists worked out this relationship aeons ago,” Aranya demurred, thumping Zip with a kick that would have flattened her friend’s Human form, but only made an Azure Dragoness giggle. “You do know what I’m going to suggest next, don’t you?”

Leandrial’s entire body stiffened. “I am exclusively vegetarian!”

“I know. But better a healthy, occasional meat-eater than a dead vegetarian, right?”

* * * *

From the south-westernmost corner of the Spits, the four Dragons cut across a deeply riven, rocky landscape, habitat for whole new classes of crawling and flying organisms, drawn to the warm vents of the plenteous underground volcanic activity. Yellowish smoke and poisonous gases drifted languidly around grey basaltic columns and across fractured, sooty black lava flats traversed by multi-jointed crustaceans, similar in body form to the freshwater crabs they had enjoyed at Yorbik, only, these creatures had pincers and mandibles fit to make a meal of a Dragon rather than the reverse. Even the Shadow Dragon flew respectfully around the larger denizens of this realm. Leandrial enjoyed a brief scrap with an aggressive giant lobster large enough – and foolish enough – to grasp her body in its pincers. The Dragoness flexed her neck and blasted away with her eye-cannon before indulging in a disrespectful dance on the twitching fragments of orange carapace that remained. Immediately, the under-Cloudlands equivalent of windrocs gathered; the long-legged spider-like scavengers and aggressive carnivores skittering and hopping across the rocks, leaping in vast, fixed-wing-assisted bounds, or flying with a rapid click-clicking of their bony wing appendages.

Leandrial showed them how life thrived around the smoking fumaroles, from the smallest bacteria to the myriad chains of creatures that depended or even thrived on the aerobic and anaerobic forms of life drifting up from the hellish volcanic activity below ground. She did not grumble at the diet the Lesser Dragons regularly foraged for from beneath her scales, but laughed uproariously when Zuziana and Aranya engaged in a full-blown battle with a scale-mite larger than either of them, extracted from the region of her right armpit. Tonnes of scale-mites disappeared down that cavernous maw. The Land Dragoness’ magic swelled enormously.

So did her lectures. A four-hour lecture on magical osmosis, the process by which she deduced scale-mites extracted essential nutrients from their hosts, brought the Dragons to the foot of Fra’anior’s mighty rampart, the greatest active volcano North of the Rift.

Here, the atmosphere was so dark as to be almost impenetrable. Leandrial’s eye-beam regularly speared through the particle-laden gloom to show the way; dank smears of soot ran down their pressure-shields, forcing the Lesser Dragons to learn to cycle their shaped aerodynamic constructs so that the dirt sloughed off to the rear. Flying became a chore rather than a joy. Pumice and whole boulders tumbled from above, knocking even shielded Dragons about like male cliff-goats playing at head-butting during mating season.

Ardan cleared Aranya’s back of a clinging grey rock-Borer. She returned the favour when he flew headlong into a school of bulbous brown creatures that resembled Dragonships, which had long, trailing tentacles that delivered a powerful electrical discharge. Eventually, five brawling, battling hours later, they broached the Cloudlands.

Leandrial pointed upward with one gigantic talon. “Fra’anior lies yonder. You will treat with the King?”

Aranya craned her neck, but could not clearly see the top of the volcanic rim, five miles above her head at this point. By the angle of the suns, she judged the time to be seven hours after noon. Perfect. She might catch the King at dinner.

“I hope to – how did you put it? I hope to buzz in his ear-canal before the others arrive.”

“Aye? Then buzz off, as your Zuziana likes to say,” returned the Land Dragon, with a smile that reminded Aranya of how she could swallow an entire village in a single bite. “I shall bathe in the caldera. If you need me, sing my name before the suns dip beneath the horizon tomorrow evening. Otherwise, I plan to head West for a day’s running to find a feeding ground which has served me well in decades past.”

Sometimes, she forgot how extraordinarily venerable Leandrial was – a mere matter of Aranya’s seventeen summers, plus four hundred and one more! Even Nak had gasped, and acted most put out. He rather enjoyed the privileges of age, which he took to mean ogling pretty girls, whacking anyone younger than him with his canes – bar Oyda, whom he still feared and doted upon after nigh one and a half centuries of marriage – and invariably demanding the most comfortable seat.

Aranya said, “I may need you to meet the King.”

“You may want Leandrial to intimidate him?” Zip clarified at once, with her cheekiest grin.

“No – oh, Zip. Aye, I wind up like a war-catapult at your slightest teasing. Ardan, maybe you should find a handy lava-flow as well? Just a suggestion.”

“A suggestion with bite,” he riposted. “See you around the Islands later, pretty-scales.”

Stinging! Aranya made a bland response and tried not to flee.

They were a further mile up-Island, beyond the level to which the fantastic tropical foliage of Fra’anior descended, when Zip burst out, “Sometimes he is just a stinking barbarian!”

“Zip, no. Don’t go there.”

“Sorry. Slipped out,” muttered the Remoyan, clearly seething. “I meant, in the way of men who are trying to be cheerful and funny, and just end up being insensitive.” When Aranya did not reply, she hissed, “Thanks for agreeing with me, best friend. Islands’ sakes!”

Enwrapped in a brittle silence, they winged upward. Aranya tried not to dwell upon Zuziana’s accusation as she took in, as best she could, the wondrous colours of her mother’s home Cluster, the volcano whereon, the balladeers claimed, ‘lived a clutch of volcano-grubbing madmen’ – a notable comedic effort introduced to her by the exceptionally fine voice of none other than Prince Ta’armion. She had to admit, more than a grain of truth lurked therein. Give her the solidity of mountainous Immadia over twenty-seven Islands quivering three and a half to nine miles above an active volcano, any day.

Undeniably, Fra’anior had excelled himself in sculpting the Cluster which bore his name. The cliffs were sheer, unrelieved majesty, the masterstrokes of mighty talons. The verdant Islands, even in the dry season heat, shimmered like precious emeralds far above the simmering caldera. As they gazed past the northernmost point of Fra’anior Island, Aranya’s poor vision identified at least five active secondary volcanoes. As quickly as Dragons flew, they soon surmounted the visible layers of volcanic gases and broke abruptly into a realm of heady scents and birdsong. Pollen hung so thickly in the air, it shivered like golden veils as their wings stirred the fragrant grains. The wash of their passage stirred waterfalls of trailing flower-vines, hundreds of feet long, with their bell-shaped blossoms expressed in subtle purples and vibrant, joyous pastels; birds darted into hiding, trilling with alarm, and a quintet of dragonets flashed out of the dense foliage to gawk at the newcomers.

Big, big so big! chuckled a pretty yellow dragonet.

Why you a mommy dragonet? chirped another.

Zuziana had a three-foot blue dragonet turning somersault after somersault around her head. She’s like me. She’s me! Whee!

Choking up in the face of this overwhelming feast for the senses, Aranya voiced a cry that began as a laugh and broke off as a sob. She had not laughed in so long. She feared to unleash a maelstrom of grief.

The dragonets fled at her forlorn bugle.

Zip’s left wing caressed her flank briefly. I know, girlfriend.

She saw little as they flew down the length of Fra’anior Island to the elegant boulevards of the capital city, hearing distantly that Zuziana had spotted the incoming Dragonship fleet perhaps four hours offshore; her friend noted dryly that she had witnessed Ardan warming his rump in a handy caldera-level lava flow, contorting his face as if he were working on a difficult problem.

Aranya groaned. “Zip, you can’t possibly see that from up here.”

“Every nuance of his posture communicates a severe case of constipation,” Zip added, pulling various faces as she pretended to strain. “Ooh, it’s a bad one.”

“Zip!”

“Can you imagine Leandrial? Wow, like oooooh, I’m trying to pass an Island here!”

“Zuziana of Remoy –”

“Wooo-eeee … blam!” she yelled, making a shrill whistling sound before smacking her left fist into her right forepaw. “And you thought those were earthquakes. Silly girl.”

Aranya’s wingbeat hitched as laughter attacked her belly with claws. Oh, Zip! A few minutes later, she quietly apologised for being angry with her friend earlier.

The two Dragonesses winged rapidly over the central wilderness of Fra’anior, angling for the city near the southern tip. They raced over an uninhabited region of tangled forests and deeply scored ravines, miles and miles of rajal country before cresting one last brace of fang-toothed purple peaks. The city of Fra’anior spread out before them.

Repair works were in full swing. The scorch-marks of Dragon fire were still clearly visible on the ground and on several buildings, including the Palace itself, but the fallen bodies and Dragonships had been cleared away.

“Well, we’ve been spotted now,” said Zip, pointing at a couple of Dragonships patrolling above the city, before her paw suddenly curled. “What was that? Did you feel –”

“Aye. I can’t … can you see anything, Zip? A Dragon?”

The Azure Dragoness scanned the Island alertly. “Do you mean Yolathion? Grief, there’s a million places he could be hiding around here. Nothing. Did you –”

“Almost certainly. Leandrial described this Dragon-sense as a kind of itching in the mind – actually, she said, ‘like the nostrils of your mind’. You scent a presence, your sixth sense makes the connection to a harmonic convergence of memory, scents, impressions and magical signatures, and –”

Zip said, “Oof. It’s all muddy Land Dragon-ese to me. Say, we could ask the local dragonets if they’ve seen a large, feral Brown Dragon – what do you think?”

“Great idea.” Aranya tried to scan the Islands as well. “I wonder where Jia-Llonya and Kylara might be? I’m sure Her Warrior-Chiefliness still wants to trim a few of my scales with her scimitar. And what was Kylara’s Dragon’s name? I don’t sense him.”

“Yedior the Brown – it makes sense. You knew Yolathion much better than Yedior,” the Azure pointed out. “So, where are we landing?”

“The Receiving Balcony on the Palace roof, of course,” said Aranya, waggling a brow-ridge at her friend. “Knowing how Remoyans love to make an entrance.”

“Remoyan Dragonesses,” came the jaunty reply.

A tilt of the wings, and two Dragonesses came screaming down onto the Palace roof, startling the living pith out of the blue-robed Royal Guards stationed there. Aranya grinned. Sweating, panicking guardsmen? Sometimes, being a Dragoness was far too much fun. Extending her four paws, she landed lightly on the talon-scored granite flagstone surface, absorbing the momentum of an Immadian Princess’ tonnage with her coiled thighs. Half a breath later, Her Fiery Lizard-Ship, the Princess of Remoy, alighted beside her and, being Zip, smiled – one hundred fangs and a mischievous puff of bluish, sulphurous smoke between those gleaming daggers – at the soldiers.

“Hi, boys!” Zip said brightly.

Some of the soldiers had their swords half-drawn, most were trying to decide if refuge behind their ceremonial shields bespoke cowardice. Or perhaps, a hasty retreat might be in order?

Identifying the Guard Captain by his highly embellished shield-boss, Aranya turned to him and said, “Captain, we would like to transform. Do you mind ordering your men to turn around?”

“Turn?” he barked.

“Around,” said Aranya, making a small circle with her fore-talon. “We’re Shapeshifters. Girls. Princesses, actually.”

“Turn our backs upon Dragons?” The Captain seemed to have one mode of communication, the parade-ground bark. “Are you mad, lady … uh, Dragon? Dragoness?”

“I might be if you insult me again,” Aranya cooed.

“You’re totally awesome and splendid, noble Dragoness,” spluttered another soldier, evidently cognizant of the value of his hide. What a nice young man!

“Observe, Aranya. This is how it’s done,” said Zip. Whirling toward her friend’s starboard flank, she transformed.

Aranya caught the saddlebags with a reflexive snap of her paws. “Zuziana!”

The highborn Princess of Remoy jiggled her trim derriere in the Captain’s general direction. “Now would you turn around, Captain?”

“About face!” he howled, spinning on his boot-heel with alacrity.

A second later, the girl and her Dragoness were surrounded by the backs of tall Fra’aniorian Royal Guards, not one of whom, despite their tan skin-tone, had necks and ears that were not burning red. Aranya stared about her with a degree of consternation. Well. Effective.

Remoyan exhibitionist, she snorted.

“Come on, slow-slug,” said Zip, unbuckling one of the bags. “The King’s waiting.”

“The King is at dinner, lady,” said the Captain, in a strangled whine.

“Good. Send a man to inform him –”

“– to request his good pleasure,” Aranya interrupted, transforming. To a man, the soldiers flinched at the whoosh of air that accompanied her radical change in size.

“Anyways, just do what she said.” Zip prodded Aranya in the ribs, making her yelp. “I am Zuziana, Princess of Remoy and my very under-dressed companion is Aranya, Princess of Immadia. We visited not long ago to battle with Thoralian, and furthermore, Aranya is the cousin of Prince Ta’armion’s new bride, Lyriela of Ha’athior. Do you have all that straight, you charming man? I do love men in uniform. So very … leopard.”

“Shameless,” Aranya hissed.

“Aye, my Lady!” rapped the Captain, dispatching one of his men immediately. Aranya noticed the man snuck a glance as she tugged an under-shift over her head. She failed to ignore his hiss of shock.

Rapidly, the Princesses adjusted outfits and Aranya fitted her veil. Then, the stiff-backed Captain conducted them inside the Palace to meet King Cha’arlla.

Softly, en route through the gorgeous, art-decorated corridors of Fra’anior’s Palace, reputed to be the richest Court in the Island-World, Zip said to Aranya, “What are you scheming at, rushing here before your Dad arrives? He’ll have your hide for usurping the negotiations. In case you hadn’t noticed in any of your seventeen ill-behaved years, your Dad does like to be the one doing the upstaging. Rebels alike, the two of you. Shameful behaviour for a royal family.”

Aranya said, “Immadians may be regarded as traditionalists, but you’ll soon discover that wilfulness as thick as the Island-World is wide runs in our makeup.”

“Ooh, can I have that on a scroll, signed with the royal seal?”

She winked at Zuziana. “Only if you play along.”

“Aranya, what – I don’t like that gleam in your eye. Petal –”

“I’ve never been less a petal,” said the tall Immadian, marching into the royal banqueting hall with her head held high.

Time to show the King her most volcanic colours.

Chapter 7: O Fra’anior!

The herald sang out a formal announcement as Remoy and Immadia processed into the sumptuous dining hall. Five steps along a plush rug led to the green marble expanse of the floor and a round jalkwood dining table, hand-carved from a monolithic piece of gorgeous, deep-toned wood. They swept into the best, most formal Fra’aniorian bows they knew, including fourteen genuflections of the head, hand-twirls, a pirouette of respect and a range of dance-steps. Keeping a perfectly straight face, Zuziana linked arms with Aranya and did a little toe-tapping Remoyan jig to finish up.

Aranya resolved to spank the Dragoness for that later.

One servant per chair helped the royals and the Councillors rise from their seats without raising so much as a squeak of wood upon the polished floor. Then, it was formal greetings and exchanges of thanks and congratulations for winning the war; expressions of gratitude for liberating Fra’anior from the Sylakian yoke answered by Aranya’s thanks for troops, Dragonships and warrior-monks; congratulations on the royal wedding and felicitations for the future balanced with the King’s thanks for Aranya intervening on his son’s behalf … so it went on for ten or fifteen minutes, with the Queen and the King’s seven violet-robed Councillors looking on, evidently wondering beneath their beards what two Shapeshifter Dragonesses meant by their impromptu visit.

All the while, Aranya watched King Cha’arlla’s eyes. Friendly, aye, but there was a cloudy guardedness to those violet depths. Good. He would do well to watch his step around a woman he’d had drugged, kidnapped and presented to his son for purchase!

Finally, the King said, “And how may Fra’anior serve Immadia and Remoy this day?”

In court-speak, that meant, ‘state your business’. Most courtiers would now launch into a flattering, veiled dance around to the topic of their choice.

Aranya drew a deep breath. “O King, without disrespect to the long association between Immadia and Fra’anior and our kinship, I wish to speak frankly to you, your gracious Queen and your Council, before the balance of our delegation arrives on Fra’aniorian shores.”

He bowed floridly. “Frankness is a breath of refreshing perfume in this Court.”

Hearing the implied, ‘You’re young and naïve and I can’t wait to dance verbal rings around you’, Aranya swallowed back a draconic surge of ire. Mercy! She snuffed out a fiery whirlwind beneath the table before anyone noticed it. Were her powers growing uncontrollable again? What did this presage?

“O King, my family and I intend to re-establish the dwelling-place of Dragons at the Halls of the Dragons at Gi’ishior,” Aranya stated flatly. “To that end, seventy-two Shapeshifter Dragons fly to your shores and will arrive within three to four hours.”

Several of the Councillors gasped. The King’s shoulders stiffened. But he nodded. “Continue.”

“I request that you and your Councillors work out how Fra’anior Cluster will become a lawfully free zone for Humans, Dragons and Shapeshifters alike, given the historical interrelationship of Human and Dragon rule of certain of these Islands – although not for the last one hundred and fifty years, I’ll grant. There will be fairness and full co-operation in use of the airspace, local resources and so on. I suggest that you demand return payment in the form of protection of your shores by the Dragons, access to and use of draconic mining techniques and sciences – I’m sure you can think of many advantageous and profitable avenues. I can certainly think of some less advantageous avenues should we not be able to reach agreement on these matters. We are family, after all.”

Above the rising murmuring of his Councillors, the King growled, “Princess of Immadia, you are asking me to give up how many Islands, exactly?”

“I’ve not finished yet.” Aranya locked eyes with him. “You will outlaw the hunting of dragonets.”

He waved his hand. “Trivial.”

She countered, “Essential. Dragonets are intelligent, speaking members of the Dragonish race and deserve to be treated as such. Further, you will declare the monasteries following the Path of the Dragon Warrior legal and therefore, you will take steps to integrate them into Fra’aniorian life – given as they saved this city and helped liberate us all from the Sylakian Empire.”

King Cha’arlla quietened his livid Councillors with a stiffly upraised hand. All pretence of politeness tossed into the nearest volcano, he snarled, “Anything more, Immadia?”

Aranya wondered if she had overstepped her reach, but the inner storm-pressure drove her on. Perhaps landing a massive Dragonwing, suggesting the King summarily divide his Island-Cluster and reminding the Council of their status as a conquered territory all at once, had not been the most diplomatic approach. Then again, she was a Dragoness. They had better remember it, her stony expression suggested.

Softly but clearly, Zip said, “I’m not sure King Cha’arlla asked for or deserved quite that brand of frankness, my friend.”

The fires were too strong in her; storm-winds of magic, soughing through her being. Aranya swallowed again. “O King, finally, I ask that you devote Fra’anior to the cause of advancing the return of the Dragon and Shapeshifter races to the Island-World North of the Rift, so that the balance of magic may be restored, to the benefit of all.”

At once, the man she knew as Ma’arkon, the Chief Councillor, exploded, “The hells I’m listening to some chit of a girl standing in our own banqueting hall, threatening us! King Cha’arlla –”

“Aye!” shouted another Councillor. “Or what, girl? Or what? These are preposterous demands. Preposterous, I tell you!”

She could have said many things. She was a Star Dragoness, descendent of the Great Onyx himself. She had right of conquest, even of Fra’anior Cluster. As Lyriela’s cousin, there were family ties. She had to protect her kind …

Aranya forced all of that away. She growled, “I speak with the fire that is within me. Now let cooler heads intervene, before my rash tongue burns us all. Zu –”

“I agree with everything Aranya said,” Zuziana said, in a voice like rough-cut granite. “As one who knows Aranya of Immadia and all she stands for, o King, I declare that no-one has achieved more, or suffered more, in the service of your freedom and mine. If only for the sake of her sufferings, we should give ear to her words.”

The silence that greeted Zip’s statement seemed formed of the peerless blades of Immadian forked daggers. Aranya’s heart fluttered in her throat. Zuziana! By sheer presence, she arrested them. By the force of her anguish, she commanded their respect. Never had she imagined the diminutive Princess could be the proverbial Dragoness in the room, but here she stood, eclipsing Kings and seasoned rulers.

Zip said, “My appeal is simple. O King and Queen, and honoured Councillors, I believe that Aranya’s vision, which lies within your grasp, represents an opportunity to rise up and shape the future of our Island-World. This is not a once-in-a-generation opportunity. Not even once in a lifetime. This is a seminal moment in the history of the three great races. I beseech you to listen not only to the fire of her words, but to the song of her heart. Aranya is a Dragoness, as am I. Dragonesses nurture and protect with a fierce and fiery love. They are creatures as proud and wise and noble as all of you gathered here.”

“Fra’anior has always been the luminary in Human-Dragon relations,” the Remoyan added. “Having been brought low, the Dragonkind have now returned and a critical choice is now thrust upon you. I appeal to you to act wisely, with future generations in mind. We are not here to threaten, but I must point out that we are both Shapeshifter Dragonesses. I therefore advise –”

“King, o King Cha’arlla!” the herald burst back into the hall, ashen-faced. “There’s a monster in the caldera!”

The King raised an eyebrow. “What? Gather your wits, man!”

“It’s a Dragon, sire! A Dragon the size of an Island! And it’s coming –”

“Silence!” King Cha’arlla whirled upon Aranya and Zip. “What treachery is this, you adder-tongued –” He pulled up with an effort. “Now the fire is mine. Speak.”

Aranya raised her hands, sighing, “Mercy. Perfect timing. Well, I suppose if we’d really wanted to threaten you, we’d have started differently. O King, that so-called monster in the caldera is our friend Leandrial, a venerable Dragoness who is helping us track down Thoralian, the former Supreme Commander of Sylakia.”

The Fra’aniorians just stared at her.

“Shall we take a Dragonship and go meet Leandrial?” Aranya suggested. “She’s a Land Dragoness of the illustrious Welkin-Runner Clan, who measures about a mile and a half long, and is possibly the oldest living creature in the Island-World.”

More blank stares.

Zip clapped her hands sharply, making everyone jump. “Snip-snap! Listen, Land Dragons are real, the Shapeshifters are coming, and the future governance of this Island-World will be decided here on this Island. Can we shake our boots, people?” She paused to eye up the table. “Actually, belay that. I’m hungry. Permission to grab a bite, o King?”

Just when everyone glanced at each other and started to relax, she deadpanned, “Pun intended, of course.”

* * * *

Sitting alone on her balcony, Aranya moodily stroked Sapphire’s neck as she gazed over the caldera, unable to sleep. From where she sat on her west-facing balcony, she enjoyed a panoramic view over the city’s slate rooftops to the ruddy canyon of half-light beyond, the radiance of the great volcano. Even at night, birdsong played over the city. Ardan had just left her to rejoin the negotiations, which, despite her worst efforts at dunking them repeatedly in an exploding volcano, were reportedly proceeding well. Zip was also in attendance, accompanying Ri’arion as he represented the monks.

Aranya had excused herself, pleading tiredness. If only. More a case of damage limitation; of retreating from a place of wild inner storms and the rash words they had sparked. She sighed heavily, saying aloud in Dragonish, Oh, Sapphire. I’m not much of a negotiator, am I? Saved by the Zippy one.

Sapphire purred happily and squirmed about in Aranya’s lap, presenting her belly for a scratch. More, Ari. More.

Aranya sallies into battle and returns … chastened.

Thankfully, if she read between the leaves of Ardan’s report, everyone else in that room had been far more gracious than Aranya and her flurry of verbal daggers. Whatever had bitten her?

At least we still have each other, Sapphire. You should fly to Ha’athior. Visit your warren.

Warren far. Ari here, murmured the dragonet.

Sapphire, you’ll need to stay at Fra’anior while we travel on to Jeradia. Sadness infused her words with the heaviness of molten lead. I’ll miss you awfully, little one.

Ari here. No Ha’athior, insisted the dragonet.

But you’ll have to, Sapphire, my darling – what?

To her chagrin, Aranya voiced a squeak of shock as Sapphire went from three-quarters asleep to a stiffly-coiled position around her neck, holding her windpipe ransom with the unsheathed claws of an uncompromising left forepaw! The dragonet shifted, her claws pricking Aranya’s shoulders through the thin dress that was all the ever-tropical temperatures of Fra’anior Cluster demanded, until her fully open fire-eyes stared directly into Aranya’s from a distance of but three inches. Crimson, jade and amber whirled in those depths.

The dragonet said, Ari need Sapphire.

Always, petal. But you can’t survive the Cloudlands. I’m – aah, can we treat the neck gently?

Aranya felt a warm trickle of blood reach her left clavicle as she held very, very still. What mood was this? Was Sapphire feral? Aggravated? Dangerous?

Sapphire love Ari. No leave.

I love you too, Sapphire. But we need to be realistic – mercy! Stow the daggers. You win. Maybe the dragonet should have conducted the negotiations. She was certainly insistent in a way she had never known Sapphire to be in the past.

Growing up, her baby.

Oddly, Ardan also reported faster and freer negotiations than anyone had expected, making King Beran scratch his beard mightily; apparently, neither King Cha’arlla nor his Councillors had divulged her earlier outburst! Had her flaming honesty contrariwise turned out a good result? Madness! Or were they holding back a strategic game-piece for later play? Ta’armion said many Fra’aniorians loved a strategy game called ‘Exploding Volcanoes’. How typical of her mother’s people!

Perhaps she should tell Beran – after the negotiations were done. Or now, before they ambushed him with his daughter’s poor behaviour? Mercy, she felt nauseous …

Sapphire’s eye-colour softened toward apricot. Ari promise?

Oh no.

How could she? Yet she must. Her headache flared again, a magic-induced migraine.

Gripped by a compulsion no less peculiar than the dragonet’s, Aranya whispered, Upon my oath, Sapphire.

Now, how by Fra’anior’s breath would she convince her companions this was right?

* * * *

Following the semi-planned meeting of King Cha’arlla, accompanied by his coterie of tall advisors robed in their risible, eye-watering violet, with Leandrial, Ardan returned to his Human form and threw himself into negotiations. Aranya excused herself with a weak appeal to exhaustion; when he briefed her later, she seemed tired and taciturn, unwilling to share her burdens. There must be many; none more so than the meddling of her shell-grandfather, the mighty Fra’anior. She deserved rest. Perhaps she needed time to process the horrors she had seen and experienced. He tended to her immediate needs before returning to the all-night negotiations.

Behind a warrior’s calm exterior, his mind seethed. Leave it to a practical man to accomplish the necessary. He and the Immadian King were of a mind. When Cha’arlla called for his Councillors to withdraw for a private discussion, he immediately fell to plotting with Ignathion and Beran.

Thereafter, events proceeded with gratifying speed. Before dawn, Ri’arion and Zuziana vanished to the secret monasteries to convey the King’s invitation to seal a pact so fresh, the ink practically dripped off the scrolleaf. He searched for Yolathion, but found no trace of the Brown Dragon or of the Riders hunting him. Aranya sent Sapphire to make enquiries of the local dragonets, and the Shapeshifters and monks descended on Gi’ishior in force. Almost immediately, two men and four Dragons died in booby-traps both magical and mechanical. With those parting gifts of treasure hunters and unknown Dragons dealt with, the great libraries of the Halls of the Dragons buzzed with activity as one hundred and eighty monks and over fifty Dragons scoured the lore and histories for information, which emerged with frustrating reluctance over the course of the following days.

Ardan grumbled his frustration to all and sundry.

* * * *

As a dawn of tempestuous volcanic majesty broke over Fra’anior Cluster, five days after their arrival, Beran appeared to join Ardan and Aranya as they broke their fast on her balcony. “Hey, Sparky.”

Aranya chuckled musically. “Security let you in?”

“And me,” said Nak.

“You’re no trouble at all, old man,” said Ardan, rising to offer Nak his stool.

He almost fell as his wrenched knee caved in. Training at hand-to-hand combat with the Nameless Man had become a ritual humiliation; he, Aranya and Zip had been hard at it since Ri’arion had suggested he teach them ‘essential skills’ at Yorbik. Ardan was far too proud to admit how fervently he wished he had never acceded to the monk’s invitation. Necessary? Aye. Wise? Dragon or none, he felt as if he had been wrestling ten rajals as large as the black cats wandering the Palace grounds below – taller than a man at the shoulder – every time he fought that warrior monk. Aranya had fared no better. She nursed a sprained right rotator cuff and a purpling eye.

“Bah, youngsters,” snorted the elderly Dragon Rider. “Not stopping, petal.” He nodded at Ardan. “Definitely not a petal. Just you perk up those pointy ears, Aranya. All that kafuffle up at Gi’ishior – they’re scrimmaging over scraps. Yesterday’s leftovers. Oyda and I agree all they’re going to find is dust and sneezes.”

“Useful dust,” King Beran put in, stooping to hug Aranya. She winced. “Plenty of scientific and historical dust. How was your trip to Ha’athior yesterday?”

The veil crinkled as she wrinkled her nose. Ardan was learning to read these signs.

Aranya said, “Aunt Va’assia and Uncle Ja’arrion were perfect hosts, thank you for disparaging them with your tone, o Robber-King of Immadia. Sapphire discovered a legend of another Dragon library at Ha’athior, dating back to the era of the Dragonfriend. Our merry clan of Shifters are intrigued. What did you mean about dust?”

Beran began, “Well, the Dragonfriend –”

Nak interrupted, “Speaking of which – off!” Ardan yelped as Nak belted him with a cane, before pinching his seat. The Dragon Rider sniffed, “Just you treat my petal better than all the treasures of Gi’ishior, you great, galumphing lug.” Turning to Beran, he added, “Usurping my storytelling, you muddy-kneed whippersnapper? My Shimmerith – oh, what a beauty she was – would’ve chewed your ears off for such insolence. Now, where was I?”

Ardan slipped around the small table, which held a pitcher of cool water and a basket of breads and unfamiliar fruits for their breakfast, to stand beside Aranya’s right shoulder. To his surprise, her hand found his. A tingling spread up his arm.

Enchantress, he thought to her.

Sha’aldior, I cannot – she began to reply, but Nak was being his excitable, voluble self.

“Stop that private chit-chat and listen, you rude pair of white-crested lovebirds,” he snapped. “One. Ri’arion warns of disaffected monks and Humans banding together to act against the return of Dragons to these Isles. Be alert.”

Sometimes, Nak’s mind wandered, but this morning, he was utterly lucid. Aranya’s fingers tightened; the skies grumbled nearby. Aye. Trouble in the air, or he was no Dragon.

“Two. The Nameless Man has named, or not named, or whatever those mystical wind-breaking monks do in their spare time, his successor. Falling over the Isles for your delightful friend – ah, beauteous Remoy – was apparently a touch naughty on his part. Not quite vow-breaking or forbidden, but Ri’arion’s been demoted to chief skirt-chaser as a result. Three. This bride-snatching King and my incomparable Oyda and I, have been talking. We want you, Aranya, to have a good old sniff around Gi’ishior. See what that pretty dust-wrangler of yours turns up. What this impudent pup was about to say, is that one of the monks found reference to a legend that the Dragonfriend grew up in one of the roosts there. She was raised by Dragons.”

“What?” Ardan and Aranya chorused.

“No time. They’ll brief you at Gi’ishior. Four. Your tame Land Dragon’s due back tomorrow. You ride her down to Jeradia –”

Aranya scowled across the table at him. “Nak, you don’t just ride a Land Dragon.”

“You shut those luscious lips and attend old Nak’s words. Why, I pulled you off a cliff, I did. Taught you how to fly. Practically wiped your beautiful bottom …” His eyes glazed over. “Ooh, aye!”

The Princess tossed a sweetbread at him. “Catch. Eat. What about Jeradia, Nak?”

Nak seemed disappointed to be woken from his despicable daydream. Roaring rajals! Ardan suppressed a forceful urge to rush around the table and throttle the old man.

The Dragon Rider scratched his beard. “Aye, Jeradia. Oyda and I agree that the last memories we have before that Pygmy scamp and her mind-tweaking Herimor Shapeshifter boyfriend scrambled our wits, as you allege, is that of beating the hells away from Jeradia as Marshal Re’akka – that was the beast’s name – descended upon the Academy volcano with all the armies of his Dragon Assassins and the power of the First Egg, and my Pip, oh my beautiful, lost Pip –” he paused to dash away his tears “– oh mercy, how the years have flown. Oh, I weep, Aranya … I weep for all that was lost. There were thousands of Dragons, my petal. Dragons to fill the skies, oh, and when they gathered there was such magic as would make your very bone-marrow tingle and dance. When they rose in their thousands above that Jeradian volcano to do battle, oh, it was a sight! What a sight! Their wings were a storm; their Dragon-rage shivered the very Moons. Flashes of dark wings, I see, and an Island floated across the Rift! And I don’t remember. I don’t … forgive me … remember …”

He wept, rubbing his face with his sleeve. Aranya stepped around the small, hand-carved wooden table to clasp Nak in her arms. “It’s alright, Nak. We’ll work this out.”

“Isn’t!” he sniffled. “We let Leandrial read our brains, Oyda and I did! That reckless, irresponsible mite pickled us good and proper, addled our scales backward, and added such a bastion-ward as made that Land Dragoness’ hackles rise! Can’t get a sparrow’s burp out of us, petal. Nothing. It’s all secreted in here.” He tapped his head. “But my heart’s true. Have I told thee how truly I adore thee, Immadia?”

“Often,” Aranya smiled, sneaking a glance at Ardan. He unclenched his fists, hoping she did not read his jealousy. He had no right to be jealous of her love for this old man, even if the odd murderous urge crossed his mind.

She prompted, “Tell us what happened, Nak. What about Pip?”

“Well, I’ve worked it out, see? Old as these Islands, I am, but I’ve still got all my wits, aye. Haven’t I?” Grasping Aranya’s hands in his own, Nak said earnestly, “She pinched the volcano, see?”

“She – who? Did … what the hells?” spluttered Ardan.

“Pip?” asked Aranya. “Pip pinched a volcano? Nak. Now, be straight with me. You’re saying –”

“I am, Immadia. One moment the Dragon Rider Academy was there. Then, it was gone. Poof. Thousands of people and Dragons, buildings, stores, a whole lake … and a volcano!” His voice rose querulously. “How else do you defeat the undefeatable Nurguz, that unstoppable, magic-guzzling beast? You must go to Jeradia, petal. See the place and jog Leandrial’s memories, because she’s as senile as me. That’s where Shurgal defeated Leandrial and stole the Egg. That old Island-chewer will tell you that they’ll find nothing at Gi’ishior because all the good lore was compiled by Hualiama and left at the Academy. That’s why you need to go to Herimor and get the Egg. Understand?”

Aranya looked baffled by the spillage of Nak’s chaotic thoughts, but her mind clearly flew to the Moons. Ardan joined her, bending upon one knee before the old Dragon Rider. He rumbled, “Nak, I’m a bit slower than these two Immadians. Help me understand. You’re claiming Pip stole the First Egg? Or the volcano? Leandrial said Pip betrayed –”

“Nonsense!” Nak’s thwacked Ardan’s knee with the accuracy of a born swordsman, growling, “Use your wits, my boy. I know you claim to possess a few – debatable, if you ask me. If the Academy volcano had blown up, the Jeradian histories would record the explosion. If it had slid under the Cloudlands, Leandrial would have found the debris. It’s clearly not where it used to be. Eliminate all the possibilities and then whatever’s left, however crazy it seems –”

“Crazy’s the word,” Ardan agreed, earning himself a swift clip across the earhole this time.

“Don’t you sass me, boy!” Nak cried. “Doesn’t anybody understand what I’m saying? Am I speaking the ancient language of stars?”

Aranya said, slowly, “I do. You’re saying Pip stole the volcano. Ergo, the volcano is inside the Egg.”

“Genius!” Nak screamed.

Ardan wiped spittle off his jaw. “Lunacy! Rajals dancing around the Mystic Moon. How do you even …”

Beran just plucked hairs from his beard, dumbfounded.

Aranya breathed, “No. It’s a talon-stroke of genius. It Balances, Ardan. It … oh, please don’t look at me like that. It feels right. Nak, once again I declare, you are the master.”

“Master? Not I.” The old Rider hung his head. “Is now when I confess this was Oyda’s idea? Mostly. I did add a few important bits …”

She kissed his cheek affectionately. “In honour of which I, Aranya, Princess of Immadia, do forevermore dub thee Nak the Incomparable.”

Everyone pretended not to notice as he dabbed his leaky eyes.

Chapter 8: Visions of Dragons

Flying across the caldera with Ta’armion riding Lyriela, and Sapphire, Ardan and her father upon her back, Aranya turned her Dragoness-head to regard Ardan. “Have you accepted the truth yet?”

“No!”

Ardan folded his stalwart arms across his chest and stared at her from those black-in-black eyes. Mmm. Aranya remembered how he had held her, that first day they met, and blushed up a petite firestorm in her belly. He might be a Dragon-powerful warrior, but he also possessed startling grace and gentleness. Not now, of course. Not when he was being Ardan the granite-headed Shadow Dragon.

Worse still, when he was right and she was being stubborn.

He grunted, “Why head to Jeradia when a Dragon matching Thoralian’s description was spotted leaving Sylakian shores fourteen days ago, headed for the Crescent Isles? What will we find at Jeradia – memories? Crazy theories which are impossible by any known law of science, draconic or Human?”

“I see, Ardan,” she purred, making his scowl deepen.

He growled, “Entire volcanoes do not disappear into eggs, nor do floating Islands, together with thousands of Dragons – no, I don’t care if that neatly parcels in a Helyon silk bow how you think the Lesser Dragons vanished from the North!”

In a sepulchral voice, she intoned, “You fail to grasp how inconceivably vast are the powers of the First Egg of the Ancient Dragons, o Ardan –”

“Aargh! I can’t argue with you.”

“The sooner you learn that, my boy, the better,” King Beran put in, clapping his left hand upon Ardan’s shoulder.

“Alright,” Ardan challenged, “assuming for a second all of this moons-madness is real, what happened to the Pygmy Dragoness? Where did she vanish to like the mists of dawn?”

“Inside the Egg.”

“Why would she put herself inside, if she couldn’t just climb out again? Which she clearly hasn’t or, I’d wager, history might read somewhat differently.”

“I don’t know,” Aranya admitted.

“Assuming she’s stuck inside together with thousands of Dragons and a whole freaking volcano –”

“And the floating Island,” Beran put in.

“How big is that benighted Egg?” Ardan waved his hands angrily. “Don’t answer that! How do you plan to get her out again? Ask sweetly? And how will we move an egg that size back over the uncrossable Rift? And what if you release thousands of enemy Dragons, those Night-Red Assassins lurking in Leandrial’s memories? Have you paused to think this through? Clearly not. Aranya, this is crazy!”

She whirled her eye-fires at him. “I agree.”

“Aargh!”

“I agree with that, too.”

Beran put in, “Aranya, will Oyda be alright?”

“I checked her as best I know how. It was a bowel irritation,” she said. “I relieved the inflammation. I’ve had Ja’arrion swear upon his own wings he’ll send a healer-Dragon to Oyda every day while we’re away. I couldn’t stand … I know she’s very old, Dad. But if this was the last time I saw her …” She gulped. “I know Shadow-britches over there thinks I’m being maudlin –”

“No, I don’t. I love your heart best of all.”

Ardan bit his lip and looked away across the caldera, clearly embarrassed and even defiant; Aranya could not quite stifle a quiver of delight that rippled through her wings and body, bouncing her about on the volcanic thermals. Lovely man. He wore his heart as openly as one of his tattoos, only he would not admit it to anyone, least of all to himself. She had tried to convince herself that he saw only a disfigured woman. O foolish, treacherous heart!

Grief and gratitude stuffed her throat so intensely, she could barely breathe. Aranya thought to him, Sha’aldior, know that I appreciate … all this, with my very soul. Yet it can never be –

It can.

How? You’d have a broken, stunted travesty; this half-blind wretch? You deserve better.

He snapped, What’s blind is your heart, Aranya! In time, you will learn to see. Then, his mind shuttered away behind an impenetrable barrier.

She whispered, You must find another. I declare, you are free.

Ardan pointedly examined the horizon.

Learn to see … what? He must find another to love. Aranya saw his pain, and did not understand. She had no choice! All they could ever be, was friends – the oldest cliché under the twin suns. Time would show him the way; he was the one who must learn not to stoke his fires for her, who refused to accept her brokenness. Did he not compare her to sleek, beautiful Lyriela, with her perfect scales, and cringe? In concert with her mood, thunder crackled around the caldera. Sapphire, who had been riding the Amethyst Dragoness’ left shoulder with her muzzle open, tasting the wind, flipped over and settled in Ardan’s lap for the first time. Dark thunderheads rose to occlude the suns.

She was Storm. Storms cleansed the soul.

Rain good, Ari, Sapphire chirped.

Conceivably. King Cha’arlla had mentioned a severe drought lasting four months. Aranya tasted the moisture on the breeze as Sapphire might. One of Fra’anior’s legendary monikers was ‘Storm Dragon’. If she could be as great as just a few scales off his paws … that would be a trick. Aranya could not detect any conscious effort on her part, but the storm continued to build as she winged five points west of true North across the great caldera, angling for where she knew Gi’ishior Island to be from the maps. Hot air caressed her scales from below, the thermals inconstant and tricky, forcing her to concentrate on her flying form as she tried to smooth the ride for her Riders.

“Don’t hurry, Sparky,” Beran said. “We’re in for a dousing no matter what, it seems. Oho. Do I detect a hint of Azure disappearing around that volcano, Ardan?”

“Aye. And Ri’arion, I think.” His voice was pure gravel. Aching.

The breeze soon picked up to a squally westerly, flinging Aranya sideways as she adjusted. She checked Lyriela’s wing-orientation and stamina, and helped her cousin set up a shield. Then, with a resounding crack of thunder the Black Dragon himself would have appreciated, the heavens opened and steel curtains of tropical rain crashed down everywhere except upon her Riders. Blessed, life-bringing liquid cascaded off her sleek amethyst flanks and outspread wings, while her secondary membranes set to work, flicking rapidly to clear her eyes.

“Honestly, Sparky, your shields are this good?” laughed Beran, still dry and a little dusty.

“Need a shower, Sting-King Dad?”

“I think we should cool his kingly brow,” Ardan suggested.

“At once, Rider Ardan.”

The King of Immadia laughed happily, turning his face to the heavens to drink in the water sheeting down his care-lined face and over his white-shot beard. He was in no danger, Aranya reminded herself, strapped in place on a worn, double-seat fledgling-sized saddle Ardan had filched from the old stores at Ya’arriol Island. Apparently there had been a Dragon Rider presence there once, at one of the secret monasteries.

With visibility reduced to mere tens of feet, the Amethyst Dragoness maintained her heading, trusting herself to cover the forty or so remaining miles to Gi’ishior without flying slap into a mountainside. How did Dragons navigate in blind conditions? She’d have to ask Ja’arrion or Nak. Ugh – inexperienced fledgling! Blind navigation would be essential beneath the Cloudlands, however … the rain abruptly doubled in intensity, great fat drops whacking her sensitive wing-membranes and rebounding off her nose. Hail! That wasn’t the plan. Aranya shielded her Riders and wings as hailstones the size of Fra’aniorian grapes pinged off her scaly length. Fra’aniorian storms were legendary, dangerous even to Dragons, she suddenly remembered – from which ballad? To her relief the hail grew no more powerful, but the storm endured for half an hour more, tossing her about with seething abandon until she felt as a hatchling chastised by Fra’anior.

This is my choice, grandfather, she thought acidly. Had you wished otherwise, you could have changed my fate.

Shift the blame to Fra’anior. Aye, Aranya? What a show of maturity …

The Dragonfriend had once dwelled upon these Islands. What would she have been like? Had she fought storms like this one, with her Tourmaline Dragon, Grandion?

Preoccupied with drawing a detailed mental picture of a tall, elegant Fra’aniorian Shapeshifter, Aranya suddenly broke free from the stinging hail and rain. Right before her startled eyes, perfectly framed between departing battlements of fuliginous cloud as though a fortress peeled aside its fortifications for the admission of majesty, stood the Island of Gi’ishior. A single, slender secondary volcanic cone, it perched upon the caldera’s northern rampart with curiously organic elegance, as though positioned above a Dragonship’s air sack to provide an exhaust funnel. The dormant peak was delicately and uniformly robed in lush, avocado-green foliage.

Yet a waking vision transported her. The creak of a Dragonship’s running-ropes. A strange sail configuration to port and starboard, as if the vessel sported wings. Aranya watched small, deft hands of an unfamiliar golden-tan cast adjust ailerons to scud her around the volcano’s western periphery. Her heart thudded in her throat – many Dragons spiralled in the skies above the rim. Attack! A trio of Orange Dragons sizzled past, one launching a fireball across her nose, thundering, Turn back!

Aranya’s body juddered.

Peace, cousin Aranya, Lyriela’s melodious voice soothed. Where were you?

Uh … I … her muzzle rose. She rasped a couple of deep breaths. Steady! Only two Dragons patrolled the skies, as best she could tell. Where had the rest – recognising the vision for what it had been, she relaxed. Odd. A solo Dragonship? Not many of those about, these days.

Aranya trimmed her wings to descend quickly toward a terrace lake that skirted the volcano to the western and northern quadrants, the waters serene and apparently unruffled by the storm they had just passed through. Famously, this lake contained giant whiskered carp capable of sating the most voracious Dragon’s appetite. When she mentioned this to Ardan, he enthused, “Now you tell me! They’ve languished untouched for a century and more!” Grinning rather dourly, Aranya stretched her wings, easing her way up the lake in the hope that no more visions would seize her unawares. Despite obsidian shores, the lake waters were so translucent that she could see clear to the bottom, a depth of perhaps four or five hundred feet. Silvery scales winked …

Hunger!

Aranya! Lyriela yelped, pulling her back timeously.

Uh …

Her cousin asked, Are you a bit – forgive me, Aranya – unstable of mind?

No. How she burned! That surge of silent, mutinous fury carried her through a cavern mouth into a wide tunnel that led to a realm of glorious light. She inhaled sharply. Oh, Emburion! It’s amazing!

What by the creepiest shadows of carrion birds stalking fresh kill, was that? Aranya blinked. Ardan, I … garnet, tourmaline and quartzite crystal formations winked light into her weak eyes, lining the volcano walls between the darker, shadowy entrances of Dragon roosts and, she assumed, chambers and quarters, storage and laboratories, and all the paraphernalia of a once-thriving Dragon city. Even the small portion of wall caught by the rising twin suns’ rays gleamed as resplendent as freshly polished Dragon scales.

Dragons everywhere! Sunning themselves and chatting and diving and training hatchlings … this place was alive!

No. She shook her muzzle, resisting the urge to rub her eyes. Not so many. Just a couple of Dragons, both Blues, apparently cleaning the crystals with storm winds and puffs of fire.

A great cavern stood before her. The partly-ajar, gorgeously fashioned metal doors had to measure two hundred feet tall and double that width, framing the sacred meeting-hall of the Dragon Elders. Yet she recoiled from that place. Shadows loomed over her, massive, menacing, a fiery dance ending in collapse … trapped beneath a Dragon’s paw! Battle-challenges reverberated in her mind. A voice of Storm split the ruinous raging of talon and fang.

Suddenly, her Human struggled against the unbreakable grip of a Blue Dragon of unparalleled stature. The Blue snarled, “Prove the worth of your oath.”

Never had she faced such a congregation of Dragons. In her tiny Human form – Dragoness-Aranya perceived this as from a distance – she saw Reds and Yellows and the mighty Blue stalking her, and her very living pith was gripped with such fear as would stop a Dragon’s hearts, yet there was fire within her, such a beautiful, incendiary tracery of white-fires that her vision cleared to an excruciating clarity which pierced even the inner places of Gi’ishior itself. Her lungs inflated of their own accord as if seeking to draw in all the magic of the Island-World. A great Word swelled in her burning throat.

Such a Word! Aranya’s mortal soul quaked, but the magic could not be denied. Opening her muzzle, she gave herself over to the power of Storm.

BEZALDIOR!!

* * * *

Her soul had travelled the universe’s darkest night.

Ari? Fragrant Ari?

She stirred at the oddity of Sapphire’s anxious trill. Unnh … frag …

“By my wings, who cracked the volcano? What’s Aranya doing lying there? Danger? Is there danger?” Tuzimi shouted, her acid tones making agonising, flaming colours burst through Aranya’s head. “Someone? Anyone – a report!”

Aranya found herself lying half-submerged at the edge of the lake, her muzzle propped up on a smallish, flat boulder. No, a spar of tourmaline. Tourmaline was his colour. Scales of gemstone … windroc droppings to that! She needed to be here, in the now.

She raised her head, and whacked her aching skull against the keel-bone of Ardan’s massive, deep chest. “Oh! My Islands …”

Had he dragged her to shore? The wrecked saddle-harness lying four feet from her left eye suggested as much. Now he stood straddling her prone, throbbing body, his stalwart stance preventing anyone from approaching – no, here came Human-Zip on the run, and she was not about to let a mere Shadow Dragon stand in her way. Aranya gazed further, taking in a brittle, weather-blasted wooden dock and at least forty or fifty Dragons looking on with uniformly grumpy, unimpressed expressions. King Beran stood nearby, deep in conversation with Ja’arrion and two other Shifters, all in Human form; as one, they turned to regard her with furrowed brows as Zip sang out:

“Aranya! Petal, don’t you love to make an entrance? You triggered the earthquake, didn’t you?”

Oh, great lashings of windroc spit …

To her further disbelief, Va’assia hop-flapped down to her level, demanding that Ardan yield to the healers. Two younger, matched female Blues, Tyziti and Zyriti – Aranya wondered how anyone told them apart, for even the similarity of their names did not help – immediately fell to fussing over her. They checked beneath her eyelids, commented on the tenor of her eye-fires, bade her flex both wingtips and extend her tongue, and examined her length with an almost unbearable prickling of magic.

That was when Aranya realised – she could see! Gingerly, she tilted her muzzle and gazed skyward. Her right eye focussed beautifully on the crescent Jade moon … her fires soughed, and Aranya wept. A great, thick tear exuded from beneath the fire-orb of each eye. Odd, she thought hazily. How did a Dragon cry if she had no tear-ducts?

“Quick, catch those,” Zip ordered the bemused healer-Dragonesses. “They’ve great healing value. We’ll need to find a gourd to store them.”

Sight! Oh, she had forgotten how beautiful was the Island-World seen in sharp edges and colours and detail! A touch to her muzzle confirmed that her wounds were still present, but her eyesight was clearer and keener than ever before. Had the white-fires somehow burned the darkness from her vision? She could not wait to share this tremendous news with her friends. A yearning so sweet flooded her veins, that Aranya shivered and gathered her paws beneath her.

“I’m fine,” she said, swaying on her paws. Oops. Zuziana’s expression of alarm told her that was a lie; Ardan’s solicitous paw steadied her weight with ease. “Stop fussing.”

“Oh, petal,” Zip sighed.

“Don’t suppose you’d have another Word to fix this mess?” Ja’arrion boomed irately. “You collapsed tunnels and roosts, damaged the library, cracked the rim itself, we’ve a lake’s flow into the underground store-rooms – quite the day’s work, shell-niece. Whatever possessed you to summon your Word of Storm?”

Aranya inquired, “Why’re you saying ‘Word’ like that?”

By the mountains of Immadia, walking made her feel as if she were swaying on a Dragonship’s gantry at the height of a storm. She drank sparingly from the lake waters to disguise her confusion, but no more than two seconds later, Zuziana splashed knee-deep into the water beside her. The petite Remoyan grabbed the Amethyst Dragoness by the eye-ridge and a handy skull-spike, and pulled her close to gaze deep into her left eye. Zip’s lips pursed.

Aranya concentrated on that well-loved face, feeling her eye-fires mellow toward warm yellows, oranges and apricot.

Zip screamed, “Petal!”

The Immadian almost jumped out of her hide.

Why does she call a Dragoness, petal? Va’assia complained nearby.

I had a waking vision, Aranya said meantime, to any Dragon listening. And to Zip, she said, “What do you see?”

Poor Zuziana. She just pressed her cheek against Aranya’s eye, and blubbered, “Light, Aranyi. I see light inside.”

* * * *

Walking with her Amethyst Dragon – hers, for she was Aranya’s first Dragon Rider – the Remoyan kept a Dragoness’ eye peeled for further signs of volcano-shaking behaviour. The Shadow Dragon shadowed them, along with Lyriela, Ta’armion, Beran and Ja’arrion, as Va’assia the Red provided a guided tour of Gi’ishior’s marvels. The Halls of the Dragons had been home to the Dragonkind for thousands of years. That great age showed in the artful fashioning of hallways and roosts, treasuries and hatchling-nurseries, scientific laboratories and the bathing-chambers, including red-hot lava, oil, fragrance and hot water baths. She took them first to the Dragon roosts, the chambers boasting Dragon perches and couches, and floor-to-ceiling, sliding crysglass panels opening out on the volcano or giving views of Fra’anior’s caldera to the South, the Islands to the East and West, or unbroken Cloudlands to the North.

Each Dragon roost included facilities for Humans to serve Dragons – Human-sized kitchens, bedchambers and living-spaces, and storage for scale-polishing implements, mite-extracting tools, talon clippers and files, and the like. Va’assia introduced them to Ha’azutl, who was called the Chief Scrollkeeper, the ceremonial title for the head of the famously iconoclastic clan of Humans who served Gi’ishior, who had returned from their homes on the tiny neighbouring Islets. At first the Humans had been overwhelmed to see the Dragons return, but the Red Shapeshifter later informed her delegation that many were less pleased at the predominance of Shapeshifters. Rightly, Lesser Dragons should be in command.

It seemed Shapeshifters were as little trusted in the ancient seat of Dragons as they had ever been historically.

Va’assia led them past the still-sealed roost of Sapphurion and Qualiana, the illustrious Dragon Elders who had reigned at the time of Hualiama Dragonfriend. Legend told of their death in battle in the Lost Islands in the far northeast, although that was debatable. No Dragon-explorer or long-range Dragonship had ever found trace of the Lost Islands. Aranya took a keen interest in this legend about her aunt. She had explained her visions and subsequent fright, the sense that something momentous had happened at Gi’ishior in centuries past, causing her to cry out in a way that Ja’arrion, who was Hualiama’s shell-brother after all, identified as that rarest and most perilous of Dragon powers, the Word of Command. Oddly, no-one else knew exactly what she had bellowed, but Aranya knew. Disturbance eddied in those fiery orbs, thunder prowled about the caldera, and her manner was withdrawn as it typically was when she introspected.

Zuziana’s eyes flicked to Ardan. Sapphire perched on the sooty-black Dragon’s left shoulder, as they conversed constantly. Ardan was patiently teaching Sapphire the Human and Dragon words for everything they saw. Zip grinned. Unforeseen talents!

After the roosts they toured the laboratories, climbing first to the astronomy dome at the top of the volcano. It boasted a range of Dragon telescopes for celestial star-gazing and studies of the orbits of the moons, asteroids and comets. Then they descended to the deeper laboratories designed for scholars of the botanical sciences, zoology, chemistry, magic, physics and draconic healthcare and more, and then to the forges and armouries in the volcano’s bowels, finishing up with the first of the great treasuries, re-opened that morning. Zuziana stared out over an underground lake of gold and gemstones, and caught her breath like everyone else.

Aranya averted her head. Get me out of here, Zip-Zip.

Surely … come with me, Aranya. Nonplussed, Zuziana guided her Dragon down the tunnel which had led them through the sextuple-layer security provisions of the vault. You aren’t avaricious. I know you, petal.

It sings to me. Strangely. I – I need suns-shine on my scales.

En route, Zip picked up a brush, a cloth and a pot of polishing oil from one of the storage chambers they had passed. They walked back up six levels to the lake, and then hiked higher to pool fed by a hot spring, Dragon-designed for bathing. At this hour the twin suns peered over the rim half a mile above, causing rainbows of iridescent light to cascade from the gemstone-studded walls with fearful intensity. Zip stretched like Aranya, catlike, savouring the heat.

She said, “Ah, a taste of summer in Remoy.”

Aranya nuzzled Zuziana’s left hand with her nose. “Scrub, slave.”

“Not before you soak the royal rump, lizard.”

“Ooh. I like ’em sassy,” growled Aranya, mock-feral. She huffed hot breath over the girl’s shoulders.

Zip brushed her hair back crossly. Pest.

The Amethyst sank into the steaming water with a sigh. Ah, beautiful.

Hands on hips, Zip confronted her Dragoness. “Right. Enough misty-mystique Islands from you, Immadia. Spit it out.”

“Spit? The royal personage does not spit. Mercy, Zip. Where do I start?”

“The beginning. I’ll give you a scratch behind the ears. You tell old Zippy everything.” She jumped lightly onto her friend’s lowered muzzle and clambered up to her modest but pretty ruff of skull-spikes. “Scrub, scrub. I know where you like it best.”

Aranya purred as Zuziana worked on the sensitive scales behind her skull-spikes, the equivalent of the nape of a Human neck.

“It’s just … this place has echoes,” Aranya muttered defensively. “Too much listening to Leandrial’s Balance and Harmony. I’m seeing oddities in corners.”

“You were odd long before we met Leandrial, my friend.”

“Rotten friend, you are. Remind me to tell my Dad to un-outlaw the painting of Dragons,” added the Amethyst, chuckling on cue. “Keep scrubbing. Ooh, do I smell fusty old monk?”

Zip waved happily. “Hey, sexy! Over here!”

“He’s blushing.”

“Good.” No doubt, Aranya noted the acceleration in her heart-rate as Ri’arion swung those long, lanky legs down a trail leading from the middle roosts. Dragons were all-knowing pests at the best of times.

He waved a scroll over his head. “Found something!” floated down to the girls. Correction. A girl and her Dragon. Zip shivered joyfully. Quadruple rainbows over Islands, that a girl of Remoy should unearth such a rich future!

Sapphire darted up to Aranya. Ari. Big, loud Ari. Shake leaves off Dragons. Scale-leaves.

The dragonet fell onto Aranya’s back, hiccoughing with laughter. It took them both a moment to understand her joke. Zip said, Aranya shook scales off the Dragons like leaves off trees, Sapphire?

Clever Dragoness. Clever, clever, clever, cooed the dragonet.

Honestly? Sapphire had to be the only creature cheekier than the Princess of Remoy. Even amongst her extensive family, she had earned the nickname of ‘volcanic hellion’. That detail, her siblings had helpfully shared with Aranya during their first visit to Remoy, along with various titbits drawn from her more hair-raising exploits. Now, she intended to bring home a man, handfast and settle down?

Cold sweat trickled down her neck – why?

Ri’arion started expounding the contents of his scroll from ten yards off – advanced shielding techniques they could use to hold multiple mental constructs in tension and achieve multiple layers of specialist shields – but Zuziana was struck with a crazy notion. Skip Jeradia, and their route would sweep right by Remoy.

She eyed Ri’arion speculatively, chewing the inside of her lip as the cold shakes moved from her belly down to her knees. Given as he’d flat-out forbidden her to travel to Herimor without him …

* * * *

On that sultry early afternoon following Aranya’s thunderclap arrival at Gi’ishior Island, as nearby storms fulminated without real menace, the Immadian Princess accosted Dragon-Ardan in the library. Ardan fretted over a Dragon lore-book, a volume ten feet tall and sixteen wide which Ri’arion’s scholars had retrieved for him and lugged up to a Dragon reading-stand, a plinth some fifteen feet tall in the massive upper chamber of Gi’ishior’s library.

Sensing a familiar presence playing as a threnody upon his Dragon senses, Ardan glanced to the library’s arched doorway. Great Islands – Aranya, wearing soft tan boots, snug-fitting Dragon Rider trousers and moulded body armour! Her hair was braided into a single, thick rope dangling to four inches above her knees, and Sapphire perched upon her right shoulder, her tail fondly twined about Aranya’s neck.

Amethyst eyes flashed between the folds of her face-veil, daring him to react.

Rage and desire choked him up like a roughly-corked wineskin. The Dragon-Princess insisted upon holding him at arms-length, yet now she dared to appear looking so … so much the breath of a volcanic dawn over the Islands? Those long, slender legs sashayed across the space between them with a rajal’s grace and all the poise of Immadian royalty, yet somehow mellower than he had imagined, the sway of her hips responding to the shared music of the oath-magic playing between them. Ardan swallowed fire down a suddenly parched throat. Did she feel as he? Amethyst-eyes must. How could she not recognise the effect upon a Dragon of staring into searing amethyst depths and recognising the fire, passion and high intelligence gathered there?

To some, Aranya must appear arrogant. Yet Ardan had seen her heart. Not all was the hard edges of a warrior like Kylara. He was the rough-hewn one, and she … she was … the Dragon struggled to put words to the feelings roiling audibly in his breast.

Incomparable.

Walking up to the Shadow Dragon as though this was perfectly natural, Aranya paused. “Good book?”

“Boring,” he croaked. Cleared his throat. His Dragon-hearing detected the precise burbling tones of her heart, faster than warranted – or was it? Curse this fate!

His muzzle swung down precipitously. Before he could stop himself, Ardan’s massive inhalation plucked at her clothing and sucked her braid upward to tickle his nostrils. Vanilla. Iridescent spider-silk magic. Perfume, not the dorlis-flower scent she had worn when courting Yolathion, but a headier, more complex scent. Lilies, fireflower, traces of oddly fragrant metals or aromatic wood, his dazed brain tried to comprehend. Smoke. Volcanoes. Fra’anior the Onyx’s roaring drowning out all but the raging of his Dragon-hearts!

Ardan was quite certain his expression must resemble a gormless ralti sheep.

“D-D … Dragon!” Aranya stammered, igniting liquid fire in his bowels. Ardan’s talons curled, squeaking against the stone floor. “Ride with me.”

He wanted to laugh. Fraud. She was as overcome as he.

This battle would be won by a Shadow Dragon. Aranya had no conception how tenacious he could be! Only friends? Find another to love? Toss that idiocy in the nearest volcano!

Aranya stamped her left foot. “Stop looking at me like … like that. You’re tearing your own scales off with boredom. Take me flying.” In a small voice, she added, “Now, please?”

From imperious command to a girlish plea. Oftentimes, he forgot she was still a teenager. Aye, Ardan, This was a young Dragoness who had made it her business to body-slam history and wrench it onto an entirely new course. Aranya’s course. And her heart throbbed in rhythm with his. His thoughts were sweet pollen tumbled by whimsical breezes.

He proffered a paw. “My lady.”

She bowed. “Thank you, Ardan. But I think I will practice mounting my Dragon. Never hurts to be prepared.”

Eloquence deserted his tongue. Ardan creaked, “Your saddle?”

“Spine-spike straps,” she said, holding up a tidy assortment of straps linked to ratchet-action fasteners. “A Dragonfriend special. Coupled with a touch of laziness on my part … come, Dragon! We’re frittering the day away.”

He purred:

’Ere thy gentle edicts doth shiver mine Islands,

Most deliciously –

“Ardan!” she squawked, blushing so hotly he saw heat shimmering right though her face-veil.

“What?”

“Don’t you know what you’re saying?”

“A ballad Ja’arrion was whispering to his mate the other … oh. Do I sense another cross-cultural mishap?” Holding her gaze with his febrile Dragon-eyes, Ardan watched her colour deepen intriguingly. He rumbled, “Aye, Aranya?”

“Aye. As in, that’s –” she switched languages mid-sentence – an expression reserved for roost-love. And a naughty expression at that. Quite inappropriate.

Naughty? Inappropriate? Immadians clearly did not excel in sharpening the verbal scimitar near the conjugal hut, as Western Islanders would put it. Ducking away in an attempt to disguise her blushes, Aranya proceeded to march off in a high dudgeon. Ardan’s eyes inadvertently lit upon the decidedly less-than-straitlaced action of her hips. Great Islands, how the poetry of Immadia simmered in tailored leather trousers!

He checked surreptitiously. Aye, his scales were smoking.

Chapter 9: Seeking Dragon Lore

ARAnya Fumed, AWARE she had erred. Doubtless, Nak would extol the virtues of playing with a man’s affections. That was not her style. So, what had she been thinking – to distract Ardan? Mission accomplished. Fire his futile desire? So done, as his scenting of her person signified. As self-directed irritation lengthened her stride, Aranya listened to and felt the Dragon’s massive tread trailing her. She had to inform Mister Sulphur-Breath soon about her decision soon, but she could not. Their oath-magic was too consuming; her loss too raw.

Dragons should not look at girls like that. It was just … it was the yearning between two oath-bound Shapeshifter-souls. It was right and proper, cried the voice of her inner storms – no! She must not admit this folly. Friends only, and not a scale’s-edge more!

Who was she trying to fool?

Aranya walked rapidly, but the Shadow Dragon took one step for every four of hers. As they exited Gi’ishior’s library through a tunnel, his rasping breath, burbling belly-fires and leathery scraping of paws on stone were magnified, and Dragoness-Aranya happily drooled over his warrior-Dragon odour wafting on the slight breeze from the rear. Her Human turned up her nose, mentally. Her Dragon had better behave herself – well, better than Human-Aranya, anyways.

Ardan paused as the fierce suns-shine broke over them; crouching, he shifted his hind left paw toward her foot. Mount up, Dragon Rider.

Stepping up onto the arch of his left foot, Aranya placed her boot on the nub of his ankle bone and levered herself up toward his tightly bent knee. She hesitated in surprise. Why the smoke, Ardan? Indeed, upon closer examination, wisps of smoke curled all over his body. Are you sick?

Not quite, he laughed gruffly, curving his neck to regard her progress.

I demand the truth, Dragon!

Very well. Too much flagrant ogling of thy peerless posterior, Immadia.

What? Aranya’s left foot slipped, landing the Princess flat on her stomach, in a fine pickle of wriggling embarrassment, partway onto his knee. A Nak joke? Too many truth-indicators shading … the truth! Ardan, how dare you –

He reached back to pat the upturned object of his desire. Need a paw now?

Paws off! Off, I said! Ardan, are you trying to vex me?

Aranya levered herself up with an angry flexion of her arms, before taking the route up the steely bulge of his phenomenal thigh muscles to his lower back. When she turned to glare at him, bending her knees to account for the slope of his black scale-armour, a sardonic, appraising Dragon-smile enflamed her fury. Stop … looking at me!

Slowly, the Shadow Dragon rumbled, Looking and vexing? I admit to both. Too much the Princess to handle the truth you stipulated?

Men! Dragons!

No, not that, she gritted out mentally. Ardan, I am not … I am no longer capable – I cannot be with you! Man and woman, it cannot ever be.

Kindly allow me my own opinions on the matter! the Dragon snarled. Aye, riddle me this, Princess: since when was love so one-dimensional? I spit upon this null-fires gibberish from a supposedly educated royal –

Thundering Dragon fires! She threw back, This is nothing to do with my station.

Then, I will admire what I will admire! Thou …

Abruptly, his cantankerous, smoke-billowing response mellowed into a purr that almost shook her off his back. Aranya climbed rapidly up to his spine-spikes. No! She had decided – spineless Immadia. Aye, she had provoked him, and now this? He had to desist! It was the only way.

She had to desist. Mercy.

He drawled, I fail to understand why we are arguing over the exquisitely inarguable, Princess.

Arguing over the what? Aranya snorted, before thinking the better of her response. Thunder resounded together with her cry, ARDAN!

His mighty body shook with laughter, still smoking visibly. Aye, Immadia? Might I endeavour to express how the delicious rondure of –

Not under any moon!

At once the Shadow Dragon bowed, acting unconcerned by her ire. Then, what is my lady’s pleasure today? The Islands are ours, the skies, the world below – where to?

A circuit of Fra’anior Cluster.

Agreed.

Shortly, Aranya had her straps affixed. Now Ardan could turn somersaults and she would merely bobble a bit on her seat between his spine-spikes. And he could ruddy well stop his shameless eyeballing of her pox-raddled personage! So much for denying the oath-magic. She settled her trembling hands on her lap. Fra’anior grant her strength to stay this dreadful course.

Oh, Sha’aldior!

At her low request, the Shadow Dragon sprang upward, his first leap taking them to double the height of a Dragon before he flexed his mighty wingspan, driving them toward the skies. The gemstone-encrusted walls of Gi’ishior’s volcano flashed by.

She whooped softly as the powerful young Dragon shot out of the volcano as though flung by an explosion, already exceeding a velocity of twenty-five leagues per hour. Oh, roaring rajals – Dragonflight! How different Ardan was to Yolathion. No well-bred, proper son of Jeradia would have dared to compliment her posterior in such a fashion – for the first time, she appreciated the irony and inanity of that notion, well-bred. What was not well-bred about a warrior who chose to shed his lifeblood for a kingdom not his own? He had Islands more honour, dignity and majesty than many a man or woman born into so-called high station. One mistook him for a simple man at one’s peril. Perhaps she would have governed Yolathion more than was healthy in a relationship. Ardan would not be dominated. They might clash, but he had already demonstrated the maturity to apologise for mistakes – apologies did not come as easily to proud Immadia, did they?

Fra’anior Cluster spread out before them, its mighty ramparts wreathed in a storm which had swept in low across the Cloudlands, washing around the base of the Islands of the south-eastern rim like a grim black tide, yet it did not reach high enough to surmount the league-tall cliffs. Another isolated storm embraced Fra’anior Island, its grey, drifting skirts proclaiming heavy rainfall; still a third approached Ha’athior, occluding the wilder, uninhabited southern rim-Isles beyond.

Clearly riled, Ardan indulged in a southerly sprint from Gi’ishior, just a quarter-mile offshore of the rim-wall, putting leagues between them and the Dragon patrols. Oh no, another Dragon patrol lurked high overhead, so high that her Human eyes only just caught the glint of suns-shine upon scales. One tropical Island slipped by. Two. Pocket-sized Human villages stood amongst the lush greenery, from this height seemingly populated by ants. She should memorise their names. Hualiama would have known these Islands like the palm of her hand.

Suddenly, her head swivelled. Ardan. Behind that storm …

What?

Instinct. Balance. A tingling in her bones. She had only the thinnest of descriptors to encompass the rich feedback of Dragon senses that led her to direct Ardan to fly low along the eastern flank of Ha’athior Island. She bade him slow, scouting the vine-festooned cliffs, hunting with her developing senses. His wings flexed and adjusted constantly upon the changeable winds. Gusts kicked them about so hard that twice, Ardan’s wingtips sliced the foliage. They sideslipped through cotton-puff ranks of white cloud; Aranya sensed Ardan’s concern, but she would not relent.

There! she yelled.

Ardan jinked, cutting his approach so narrowly that he employed his tail to knock them a few feet further from the cliff, before executing a cunning twist that took them beneath the stony outcropping and into a narrow crevasse that led to a cave. She breathed in the Shadow Dragon’s excitement. There were signs of recent occupation – broken vines, stripped leaves, a passage carved through a thick veil of trailing linger-vines.

Draconic occupation.

“Kylara!” gasped Aranya.

Ardan flared and braked as best he could manage in the narrow space, landing almost atop Kylara’s head in the sandy entrance of a hidden cave. “Wounded,” he growled.

“Ardan. Aranya,” the Western Isles warrior greeted them with a curt, pained bow.

Having already unclipped her harness, Aranya stepped rapidly down to Ardan’s shoulder. “Where’s Jia-Llonya? Yolathion?”

“Freaking feral Dragon’s gone,” Kylara cursed unhappily. “You ever tried to catch a feral Dragon without killing him, Princess? Go to Yedior – please. He’s the worst wounded. He kept Yolathion from killing us.”

A rapid paw-ride later, Aranya’s boots thumped down onto the sand. She ran after her erstwhile love-rival into the cave. It did not broaden out much, but it was deep. She smelled sulphur, dank smoke and the complex vanilla and anise-like scent of magical Dragon blood. Her boots squelched on what she realised was sand mixed with golden blood. As her eyes adjusted from the bright suns-glare, she saw Jia-Llonya lying to one side, nursing a severely burned arm. Yedior the Brown lay slumped beside the girl, the savage bite-wounds on his neck wadded with probably every item of clothing the two Riders possessed. Neither of them even wore trousers, she observed inanely.

Aranya snapped, “How long?”

“Four days,” Kylara said. “We’ve been waiting, calling for help … surviving.”

“Five,” Jia-Llonya whispered. “We felt something – was it you, Princess, kicking the Islands about?”

Never mind her weak joke. Rescue? Carry them back? Aranya knew she could not Shapeshift again this day and still have enough magic left to work on their wounds. She turned an unworthy curl of jealousy at these two chasing Yolathion about the Islands, into a fierce summons to her healing gift.

Yedior said, I’ve been lying still to conserve energy. We knew someone would come.

You did well with the clothing, Aranya noted. Ardan. Help me. Mind-meld. I’ll need your strength.

Then she reached for the Brown and laid her hands against his neck. Please, let her strength suffice. Please … Aranya rode the floodwaters of a familiar power. Let there be healing!

The Brown Dragon’s wounds had come within a rajal’s whisker of fatality, for Yolathion’s fangs had punctured the major neck arteries in four places. The Jeradian girl’s spare dress and Kylara’s wadded-up underwear had saved his life, she told them. Having contained the bleeding, the Dragon’s natural healing power had been at work meantime. Following Leandrial’s detailed instructions, Aranya drew also on Yedior’s strength and innate Balance – for in the Land Dragons’ philosophy, healing was a form of re-Balancing a physical, emotional or spiritual state – to repair the most life-threatening damage. The Brown sported other wounds upon his wings and paws, with three talons entirely torn from their roots, but Aranya understood those would regrow.

Now, the Dragon pointed her to Jia-Llonya. I’m well enough, for which I thank thee, Star Dragoness. Now, see to my Riders.

Infection had set in. Aranya swayed and almost fainted as she beat back the fever and hurting, trying to cleanse her friend’s arm as Jia-Llonya had once nursed her with the pox. Ardan’s presence was like a deep-rooted rock. The entirety of Jia’s left arm had been seared with Dragon fire, which had washed against her left flank and up to her neck. Aranya sweated three hours over her wounds.

“We’ll need cleansing herbs, salve and bandages,” Aranya said finally, becoming aware from the angle of the shadows how the day had advanced. “Kylara?”

“It’s just a cut,” growled the Warlord of Yanga Island.

“Which merely lifted a flap of skin off a granite-filled skull?” Aranya sniped, checking the wound behind Kylara’s head.

Kylara’s answering laughter told Aranya exactly how territorial she was being around Ardan. The Warlord said, “We tracked Yolathion down to Fra’anior. He’s been hiding around Islands and pinching ralti sheep. But at Rolodia he attacked a village – the buildings, actually, rather than people. Yedior drove him off. He’s completely wild, Aranya. Any advice for belting feral Dragons into their right mind? Assuming you don’t want to return the favour he bestowed upon you at Sylakia’s Last Walk …”

“I’m over that.” Aranya sighed. “And him. So over him. Not that I’m calling Yolathion leftovers, mind. He’s a good man in his own right, and honourable –”

“I’m to sup on a Princess’ leftovers?” Kylara shouted.

Jia-Llonya interrupted, “You don’t understand Immadian understatement.”

“Stuff it up your fumarole!” swore the Warlord.

However, Yedior turned a mesmerising eye upon the young Warlord; her hand trembled upon her scimitar hilt, before falling away. “Precious Rider,” the Brown rumbled earnestly, “how my hearts sing at the raging of your fires!”

Aranya did not understand what passed between the new Dragon-Rider pair, but Kylara appeared to relent. Soon, Yedior found his paws, stretching gingerly. I thank you, my Star-Shadow kin, he said. With your aid, I shall fly to Gi’ishior. We must scour the lore for the right methods to succour our wing-brother Yolathion, for our task is unfinished.

If this is your will, I shall carry your Riders, Ardan replied, overriding Aranya’s immediate protests. My Rider is right. We shall fly low to the Isles, Yedior the Brown, and I shall fly beneath. You will rest as needed upon my shoulders. Word of a Dragon?

Aranya sucked in her lip at Ardan’s tone. Dragon-direct! However, Yedior seemed pleased – this proposal winged the path between honour and shame, she recognised belatedly. His wounds and incapacity were shameful; worse, his defeat in battle. He had to show his strength by flying to Gi’ishior at once, or he was no Dragon. Aye. Sighing, Aranya summoned the dregs of her magical strength.

Perhaps, between them, she and Ardan might keep this stubborn lizard alive.

First, they had truly burned the heavens. Now, two Dragons and three Riders would limp home. This was her new life as a Shapeshifter Dragoness. Soul-inspiring. Tragic. Magical.

* * * *

Come the glorious deepening of evening that same day following a fiery Fra’aniorian suns-set, a second perturbation struck the much-abused volcano of Gi’ishior.

ARANYA!

Land Dragons had a way of making themselves heard. And he had just been chasing the largest fish he had ever seen. With a bubbling sigh, Dragon-Ardan breached the surface, shaking the water off his wings. He launched himself westward toward Leandrial’s head as she loomed above the terrace lake, searching with her eye-beam.

He bugled, “All is well, noble Leandrial.”

He called a second time in telepathic Dragonish, whereupon the powerful beam swept toward him. Ardan barrel-rolled smartly to his port flank, avoiding any impact, before accelerating with his utmost strength. Wind whistled across his ear-canals and scales. His flight muscles creaked and burned as he poured out his power, revelling in the joy of flight. To his surprise, he caught a telepathic chuckle from Leandrial.

Enjoying yourself, little one? Now, explain!

Compressing his thoughts into bite-sized chunks, Western Isles-style, Ardan peppered Leandrial with information. Aranya was fine. She had spoken a Word of Command; Leandrial replied that she had heard the Amethyst Dragoness over two hundred leagues away! He fired Ri’arion’s shielding ideas at the Land Dragoness and summarised the information they had received by message-hawk from Sylakia and Telstroy regarding Thoralian’s probable flight-path. He related their latest plan of eschewing the detour to Jeradia, if only they could extract information from her mind; Ri’arion also had ideas about how he might eavesdrop on Leandrial’s thoughts, if she was willing.

Then, he decelerated by cupping his wings, riding the violent forces conducted through the wing bones to his formidable shoulders and ready body.

Of course I’m willing, said Leandrial, apparently unruffled by this controversial idea. No mind-reading will be required, just the services of a mind that sees like yours. I will borrow their thoughts.

This pronouncement came accompanied by a thoroughly discomfiting grin. Ardan stretched his wings to disguise his unease; at exactly that moment, he heard Aranya’s call. The Amethyst Dragoness swirled through the tunnel entrance, having to take evasive action to avoid a fire-spitting Dragonwing. Their first thought had clearly been – attack!

Half an hour of explanations and bustling arrangements later, Leandrial’s knuckles curled over the terrace-lake edge in a posture of unalloyed frustration. Too many chiefs among these Dragons, Ardan decided, eyeing the commotion with a fiercely rolling eye. Two hundred monks and one hundred Human servitors sat on the terrace lake wall facing the volcanic cone, keeping a healthy distance from Leandrial’s mighty paws. King Beran rode Ja’arrion aloft, together with every single Dragon from the volcano, including Yedior and his double Rider-team. Jia-Llonya had evidently wangled or burgled her way out of the infirmary; she appeared deathly pale, and her green eyes dull with pain.

The Amethyst Dragoness, Sapphire and Ri’arion had alighted on the Land Dragoness’ towering muzzle and stood with their eyes closed, absorbed in whatever briefing Leandrial had for them. He eyed Aranya balefully. That Dragoness’ wingtips drooped, but she was still pushing herself beyond the edge of the Isle …

To the West, the thick golden rays of the suns’ fierce gaze beamed from beneath the horizon to the Yellow Moon, still shining furnace-hot two fingers above the faraway Cloudlands. Overhead, Jade waxed toward fullness, whilst the full Blue Moon seemed intent upon lurking behind Gi’ishior’s cone. Yet the caldera was never fully dark. Active lava flows and a constant level of eruption four miles below made a stolid Western Islander feel decidedly jumpy. Ground was supposed to stay still. Earthen-fires should stay well underground. Ardan’s gaze traced the copper-blue sky, picking out familiar constellations – the Golden Rajal, the Portal of the East, and the Forty Ancestors. At least some things remained immutable, unlike his life.

The suns dipped, the evening deepening as if golden curtains drew majestically across Fra’anior’s skies.

Suddenly, Aranya’s melody thrilled his soul. Ardan. We’re ready.

Without warning, Leandrial’s eye-cannon brightened, piercing the ruddy gloom with an ultra-powerful beam that played on the volcano’s steep slope three-quarters of a mile distant. White light irradiated the area, expanding as Leandrial adjusted her output, then abruptly, a picture flickered into existence against the foliage. Dozens of watchers gasped in concert with Ardan.

Monsters writhed and wrestled in an eerie realm of platter-like plants. Fists pummelled; flaming talons scored Dragon hide and punctured it like a Land Dragon ripping into a mountain. The other Land Dragon was larger than Leandrial by a considerable margin, but he wore puncture-wounds in his flanks and his boomed challenge communicated pain as his opponent struck him with multiple, rapid-fire blows. Every Dragon present flinched and exclaimed at the power of their battle. Yet the picture was wrong – lacking colour, Ardan realised. Leandrial was colour-blind. The aggressor, Shurgal, was shaped like a squat, powerful salamander, with three eyes to Leandrial’s one and five parallel lines of low, stubby spine-spikes running the length of his back and tail.

Leandrial’s voice, modulated through Aranya’s mind, rolled over the congregation. “I battled Shurgal for possession of the Pygmy Dragon. I was younger and much smaller, then. He had stolen the Pygmy Dragon from the Marshal of Herimor and dragged her into the depths of the Middle Sea, seeking to harness her powers for himself.”

Suddenly, a tiny Dragoness – barely half Aranya’s size – squeezed through a hole in Shurgal’s flank, clawing at the thick air like an uncoordinated frog. In Leandrial’s vision she was as black as onyx stone; they saw massive paws entering the picture, reaching for the mite, before the gigantic talons curled, shuddering terribly.

“Shurgal struck me a grievous blow. His anti-Harmonic attack disabled my defences.”

Latch onto this! a tiny voice cried.

“The little one was the voice of the Great Onyx to my soul.”

Ri’arion groaned and swayed visibly as a new sensation gripped the Dragons: power like the voice of volcanoes, strength born of old, of the darkest and most ancient reaches of Fra’anior’s power. Strength of Onyx, channelled through the presence of the Pygmy Dragon. The scene blurred, before stabilising just in time for the viewers to see Leandrial’s fisted forepaw striking Shurgal a monstrous, bone-crushing blow to the left-frontal section of his skull. KEERAACK!

Ardan flinched. Unholy, stinking windrocs!

“With Pip’s help, I defeated him. The traitor fled, but I was too sorely wounded to make any pursuit. I’ve had one hundred and fifty years to rue my blunder.”

* * * *

Flick. The images jumped again as Ri’arion, even with Aranya’s aid, struggled to control the Land Dragoness’ prodigious output. His job was to translate the language of Leandrial’s peculiar Harmonic vision into images ordinary Humans or Dragons could understand.

Aranya stared at the black scrap of Dragon fire-life lying collapsed on Leandrial’s palm. That was her? So tiny. So compact of scale and paw. Yet the magnitude of her power … great Islands, she had channelled the strength of Fra’anior himself into another Dragon! In that instant of blooming jealousy, she realised how badly she had underestimated the Pygmy Dragoness.

She was the most dangerous creature ever to shoot the rainbows above the Isles.

* * * *

Zuziana wanted to watch Ri’arion, but the faraway images mesmerised her. Aranya was helping and stabilising him, yet even a monk’s disciplined mind wrestled mightily with the task at hand.

The black scrap moaned, Jeradia. We must …

Only in unburdened rest can the soul be healed, little one, Leandrial replied. Now lay the world’s needs aside and sleep. We will reach Jeradia when the Balance of the Harmonies has reached its fruition.

Here in the now, Leandrial explained, “I ran with the Pygmy Dragon via Meldior to Jeradia. I am sorry, but my thought-memories have degenerated shamefully with senescence. I remind you, Shurgal-ap-Tuûar-bàr-Rhiytûxi was once a legend of my kind, the mighty Guardian of Wisdom of the Water-Runner Clan. Shurgal set out to wrest the First Egg from the deep-dwelling S’gulzzi. But he treated with the dread Theadurial in order to prevail in his quest. Upon returning with the Egg, when his foul bargain became common knowledge, there was outright war between the Clans. That was when the cunning Marshal Re’akka swooped and stole the First Egg for himself. Employing its power to corrupt armies of Lesser Dragons, he floated an entire Island across the Rift with the aim of conquering new territories and laying all the Dragonkind to the sword.”

“Pip believed that Shurgal summoned the Nurguz, a parasitic spirit-creature, to wreak revenge upon Marshal Re’akka. Whatever the case, the Nurguz ravaged the Dragons North of the Rift. Listen, I have a thought-fragment for you from a time I believe I carried the Pygmy Dragon inside my mouth.”

Pip’s earnest voice piped up, “Re’akka is a thief and Shurgal is a traitor armed with urzul. Re’akka and Shurgal hate each other. The Theadurial parasitize the Land Dragons –” The voice, apparently that of a teenager, snapped off.

Leandrial’s voice swelled. “Does any person or Dragon here know this magic called urzul?”

Zuziana glanced about, seeing a mighty dint of beard- and scale-scratching but not a great deal of knowledge emerging. Privately to Aranya, she said, Doesn’t Leandrial have any idea?

Ideas, aye, the Amethyst replied. But no direct knowledge. She’s concerned that Shurgal defeated her so comprehensively in both of their battles; the second time, she almost lost her life.

One of the monks rose from his cross-legged position to relay a pithy message, that the lexical root of urzul was similar to irzu, a word derived from an ancient Dragonish dialect that meant ‘taint’ or ‘corruption’. Ri’arion added that they would unleash linguistic researchers in the libraries. Then, he bowed to the Land Dragoness.

Leandrial continued, “Having released Pip near the Academy, I retreated for some days to heal. Then, I became aware of the Harmonic-song of battle joined upon the Island you call Jeradia.”

At once, the pictures jumped again. Accompanied by Leandrial’s low, thunderous commentary, Zip saw her charging up a vertical slope, her Harmonic vision picking out rock formations and features even through a misting that she suddenly realised must be the thick Cloudlands. Soon she poured over an incline before accelerating along the flat, her jouncing vision picking up a craggy, cracked mountain-scape she and many of the Dragonkind recognised as Jeradia Island. Then, the entire assembly drew breath as one.

An Island with no foundation! Shurgal. Myriad Dragons!

No Dragon in their group, Zip suspected, had ever seen a battle to compare. Upon a narrow plain between a massive, squat volcano and the north-eastern cliff-edge of Jeradia, a sizeable Island floated with infeasible ease in the air. Shurgal attacked its base like a frenzied mole, his great, spatulate claws fountaining rock behind him as he quarried for a power that shocked her, even now, hundreds of leagues and multiple generations later. Dragons darkened the sky. Spiky coal-black beasts in their thousands flitted around the floating Island and attacked a smaller group, who appeared to have approached from the volcano. The Academy Dragons, Leandrial noted, instructing Ri’arion to outline several of them in haloes of light. Zip would have struggled to pick them out herself, but her throat constricted as the monk showed a Dragonwing of hundreds of Riders seated upon mighty Dragons – she saw Nak riding a sleek beauty of a Dragoness, his Shimmerith, and Oyda aboard a much larger, muscular male who had to be Emblazon. They had been there! And remembered … nothing.

What by Fra’anior’s sulphurous breath had transpired, that day?

As Leandrial charged on, aiming her mile-long body like an arrow at Shurgal, who was half again her size, Zip saw the Nurguz. Formless and terrifying, a darkness of oily, unrecognisable magic descended upon the spiky Dragons clustered around Shurgal – helping? Attacking? She could not tell in the chaos. Tentacles fell lightly upon Dragons, pulsating as though to the tempo of an inner sucking, and the creature drank their souls, their very fire-life, out of their bodies!

Zip’s scream choked off in an explosion of bile, but even as she struggled not to vomit, she could not tear her eyes off the spectacle. The smaller force of Academy Dragons and Dragon Riders split up as Leandrial thundered into the fray, her unopposed opening strike knocking Shurgal sprawling as she tore a rib bodily out of his side. The Land Dragons tangled once more. They saw flashes of battle … Dragons clashing, falling … the ghastly Shadow feeding … the curvature of the First Egg partially exposed in the base of that Island, its inconceivable power playing havoc with Leandrial’s senses … the tiny Pygmy Dragon assaulting another Lesser Dragon of a size that beggared belief, power radiating from him in waves of awful majesty … Thoralian? No, surely –

HSSSS-KERRAAAACK!

An explosion of magic rocked the battling Land Dragons, momentarily turning her world to white, and then they tipped precipitately into space and fell, and fell …

Leandrial’s eye-beam shut off. Ri’arion sank to his knees, groaning and sweating. Aranya steadied him with her magic.

Roughly, the Land Dragoness ground out, “You have seen the Nurguz, my kin. It has departed our Island-World, or perished. You have seen the Academy volcano and its brave forces led by the Pygmy Dragon; you have seen the Island of Eridoon, home to Marshal Re’akka and his dread legions of Night-Red Assassins. Thus was my battle with Shurgal, but its ending was … shameful. I failed. I tumbled more than four leagues down the cliff; there, I fell upon my neck with the weight of Shurgal bearing down from above, damaging the spinal column. The traitor left me for dead. I was paralysed for a time spanning weeks. Having rolled all the way down to the middle layer, I placed my body into a healing sleep not unlike the hibernation of your high-dwelling animals. Once I had sufficiently recovered, I climbed that mountain again, the massif of Jeradia. And this is what I saw. Ri’arion?”

“Aye, mighty Dragoness,” he agreed, lurching to his feet.

The eye-beam speared out once more. Now she displayed two images, the first being the volcano and its backing mountains, and beside it, a second image showed a blackened, blasted hollow against a backdrop of manifestly the same mountain range. Gone. Spirited away, without explanation.

The eyes deceived. Surely, impossible? A chorus of querulous argument began among the monks and Dragons.

“That is Jeradia today, little friends,” Leandrial confirmed. She sounded exhausted and dispirited. “Long did I search, but the bodies of those slain Dragons also vanished into the aether, along with Eridoon Island, the volcano and all within it, and the First Egg. Yet I scented magical traces of Shurgal’s passing and the mighty power of the Egg, and I tracked him past your Crescent Islands, until I came at last to the Rift and knew the prospect of my doom. Three times I attempted that crossing, and failed. My kin suffer the most terrible oppression. But now, a new Star Dragoness has risen and I know a tingling and a trembling in my fires.”

Slowly, the talons of her right forepaw rose alongside her head, until the Amethyst Dragoness apprehended her intent and stepped forward to press her muzzle against Leandrial’s foreclaw.

After a long pause in which no soul dared move, Leandrial said, “By the power of the First Eggs, the Ancient Dragoness traversed the vast gulf between the stars and arrived upon the shores of our Island-World. At all costs, we must prevent Thoralian or Shurgal, if he still lives, from claiming such power. Yet we have hope. This little one is the paw of the incomparable Fra’anior in our world. She is the Daughter of Storm, her voice the thundering that resonates through the fate of all Dragons. Let Thoralian hear, and tremble! Let evil be struck into the abyss, and perish!”

The Shapeshifters’ answering battle-challenges boomed over the waters.

Zip watched Aranya. Her friend’s eye-fires were clear for the first time since her captivity in Sylakia. A tender wingtip-touch soothed her dragonet. What was she thinking? Aranya’s mind seemed to be trapped in another time and place, perhaps faraway at Jeradia …

* * * *

Ari call Dragon, Sapphire insisted. Ancient one.

A Dragon? Aranya puzzled. I know you don’t mean Fra’anior, petal. Help me understand.

As she flew back to the roost assigned to her and Zip, directly between Va’assia and Ja’arrion’s roost and a roost assigned to Beran, Ardan and Ri’arion, Aranya puzzled over the dragonet’s words. Her vocabulary and ability to communicate were growing by the day, but she was still the equivalent of an older child in dragonet terms.

Dancing. Laughing. She here, Ari. You see she-Dragon. Ancient one.

Numistar Winterborn? No. Aranya did not appreciate feeling dense, but her brain would not make a sensible connection. Poor Sapphire danced on her shoulder, making a spitting sound like an angry feline.

The dragonet hissed, Ari speak great Black Dragon. Now, speak her. Speak her!

But Fra’anior was male. Immadior? No. My mother? No, not ancient enough. Sapphire, who do you –

Here! She here! Ari lots-help. Sapphire flipped over her head and somersaulted into a landing on Aranya’s nose. Her little talons dug in sharply. Ari silly mush-for-brains.

Hmm. Perhaps less language was better. Aranya scowled at the mite, gazing at her eyes in turn from a distance of less than a foot as she danced from one paw to the other, making encouraging noises. Here at Gi’ishior, a dancer. Who had been a dancer in the ballads? Surely not …

Hualiama?

Chapter 10: A Dance of Stars

ONCE BEFORE, ARANYA had channelled her mother’s presence in a time of grave need. Now, her need was not battle-urgent, but nevertheless, excitement pinched her chest like a pair of warm blacksmith’s tongs as she settled on her pallet that night. She had returned to her Human form. Somehow, it felt right – not for any practical or obvious reasons, just an intuition.

Hualiama. Star Dragoness. Long deceased – surely, a legend of yore. Aranya knew so little about the mystical ways of Star Dragons, but if her mother could rise from her near-death state to enter a waking vision – whereupon she rebuked her daughter soundly, yet in terms so lucid, Aranya was persuaded Izariela had actually been present in some spiritual sense – could the legendary Hualiama do the same? Heavens knew she needed help. Even Sapphire said so! Paws the size of Fra’anior’s might help, along with the ability to spirit herself and her companions across the Rift.

Aranya closed her eyes decisively. She stilled her breathing. She must summon yearning and desire, and thrust rational objections out of her mind. This was no rational exercise.

This was a family affair.

Hualiama? Blue-star? If you can hear me, please, heed my call. I need you. Actually, I’m not ashamed to say I’m desperate, and a bit scared. She chuckled sleepily. Alright, I’m more the shaking-loose-of-my-hide kind of scared. Please come soon.

Sapphire snuggled against her ribs. Ari … so warm …

Aranya twined an arm around the dragonet. You’re so much more than a heap of pretty scales, eh, girl?

Sapphire prettiest, murmured the dragonet.

Their eyelids shuttered.

* * * *

The Red Dragoness burst into her roost, dripping hot oil. What? Are you hurt? Come to Mama, little one.

A tiny slip of a girl sat lost within the vastness of a Dragon-sized turquoise floor-cushion, facing the Dragoness. Her hair was a white-blonde moon-halo about her elfin face, framing eyes of a haunting, smoky green. Dragon-Mama? Hurt. Look. She displayed a deep cut on her knee.

Aranya watched, thunderstruck. How could a girl-child call a Dragoness her mother? She must be three years old, four at most, but … the Red was a Shapeshifter, surely. That was the only sensible conclusion.

Oh, my sweet mouse, crooned the Dragoness. Come to Mama. What were you doing?

Her eyes brimmed with fat, hot tears. With a spectacularly cute pout and a trembling lower lip, the girl sniffed, Was dancing, but I fell down. Hurt, Mama. Hurt bad.

Come. Crooking one talon about the child’s waist, the Dragoness whisked her to the bath-chamber, where she bathed the wound in cool water and touched it with her healing magic, singing:

Hush little eggling, don’t take fright,

Mama’s wings will rock thee all the night,

Safe and sound in roost and fire …

Aranya could not help herself. She gasped aloud, transported in her own memories to a time when Izariela used to sing that very song over her crib!

Squirming in the Dragoness’ tenderly cupped paw, the little girl stared directly at Aranya. She lisped, Who are you, tall spirit?

The Red Dragoness’ head jerked about, searching. There’s no-one there, she said. You and your imaginings. Now, why don’t you show me that charming dance, Hualiama?

Hualiama!

* * * *

Aranya’s jaw was just starting to drop when a petite, blue-haired girl of about her own age almost stuck a finger up her nostril, using the wagging appendage to illustrate her shout, “You leave my hatchling-memories alone, you despicable thought-stealer!”

“Calm down, Dragonsoul. We invited her,” called another, virtually identical voice, tugging at the other girl’s arm.

“Barbarian. Cloud-scraper. Memory-looting lout,” complained blue-hair.

“Twins?” Aranya spluttered.

Twins, save for the hair. Her eyes flicked rapidly between the pair of Human girls. Shapeshifters, or she missed her mark. Ears tending to Fra’aniorian points were almost hidden beneath the mass of their locks, which had an oh-so-familiar quality and consistency; both possessed terrace-lake eyes, one framed in deep blue hair, the other in a wealth of white-blonde. The identical set of the twins’ jaws … she had only ever seen that expression in a mirror. Oh, mercy! Shapeshifter royalty, precious images of her heritage …

“Aunt Hualiama!” Aranya sank to one knee. “Uh … which of you … is my Aunt?”

“I am,” they chorused.

“But you’re so young,” Aranya swallowed, the dipped her head to hide her embarrassment. “I’m sorry. Am I dreaming? Are you alive? I need your help, please, I beg –”

“Oh, petal!”

Again, the twins spoke in perfect concert, then looked at each other and laughed. “Alright, Hualiama, you tell her.” Aranya could not tell which of them had spoken. “Allow me.”

Slim, petite hands slipped around her neck from her left. The blonde girl leaned close, and kissed her cheek tenderly, notwithstanding its ruin. “I am Human-Hualiama, called the Dragonfriend,” she whispered. “I am one aspect of my fire-soul. In this place, which I call my soul-space, we two can always be together when we want to be. This blue-haired bundle of mischief is my Dragonsoul. My second-soul, if you like. Also, Blue-star, the promise-star. Hualiama.”

A second pair of arms clasped her gently, and the other twin’s breath warmed her cheek. “She’s my Humansoul. I call her Humanlove, dear Aranya. And I am her beloved Dragonsoul. I like this form because identical twins have many parallels with our existence. Together, we are Hualiama – your mother’s shell-sister – and we invited you into our soul-space because thou art kin, and we have loved thee since before thy star was born, Aranya of Immadia, and from beyond the stars, we have loved thee across the ages with an abiding and incendiary and fierce love! Thou art beloved – thou, Aranya!”

As the Dragoness’ passion rose, Aranya noticed her speech changed to more ancient, more draconic patterns. Like Fra’anior, she realised.

“Isn’t it my job to do the weeping?” asked Human-Hualiama.

The other chuckled softly, clutching Aranya to her bosom. So strong! “We’ve waited an eternity for thee, petal. Now. Doubtless, our father the mighty Onyx has roared at you the ways of fate, that the future must not be troubled by any meddling paw?”

Aranya’s head shook slightly. Unbelievable! This manner and excess of love alarmed and staggered her; could she have risen of her own volition? She must hold her head above the flood, must gather her wits to ask the right questions … what had Hualiama just revealed? Harmonies and fate itself could be modified by interference from Fra’anior, or his legendary Shapeshifter shell-daughter? So many questions burned upon her tongue! She must demand answers …

Blonde-Hualiama said, “No, petal. If we answered all your questions the future would change, and not for the better.”

Mind-reader! Aranya wet her lips. “Mercy.”

“Mercy indeed, my fierce shell-niece!” cried Dragonsoul. “Did your shell-grandfather not teach you these things? No mind. Question him when next you meet. And ignore all the thundering and fulminating awesomeness. Typical, overweening draconic ego, that’s all.”

The Princess of Immadia laughed at this spirited declaration, but the other twin added, “We have gifts for you, Aranya. Mine is the gift of dance.”

“Dance?” Flying monkeys, now her voice cracked and wobbled?

Dragonsoul said, “Mine is the gift of hope. We will show you the place in your vision. Indeed, you saw Sapphurion and Qualiana’s roost, where we grew up. Hidden in their roost is a storage chamber wherein you’ll find two further gifts – a collection of lore-scrolls, and –”

“Hurry, Dragonsoul,” interrupted Hualiama.

Aranya’s head felt as if it were spinning freely on her shoulders. That Hualiama? Or that one?

“Arise!” commanded the twins.

Her knees obeyed, even if the rest of her was rather less certain. For the first time, Aranya looked about, finding herself in a realm beneath a starry sky so close, she could reach up to touch the white-spangled velveteen trappings of the night. All was warm. Cosy, not bleak. Her bare feet trod a smooth surface of what appeared to be endless white marble; nearby stood a small platform surrounded by a colonnade of tall white pillars that incongruously, appeared to vanish amidst the stars. Hualiama’s soul-space? Why was her visualisation of being a Shapeshifter so very different to Aranya’s own?

Beside the platform lay quite the most breathtaking male Dragon she had ever seen, apparently asleep, his muzzle curved to embrace a tiny, white mite. She smiled unconsciously. Wow. He was the handsomest heap of gemstone scales, the awesome, celebrated Grandion! He was … alive? And the dragonet – that must be the fabled Flicker!

Aranya gave in to the need to rub her eyes in sheer disbelief. “What is this place? How can you be two? And talk to each other? Why am I here, Hualiama and … uh, other-Hualiama?”

The blonde girl said, “You must learn to listen to your Dragonsoul, Aranya. She is with you even now. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Aye, I’ll bake my brains in a furnace for you, Aunt. Because I don’t understand in the slightest.

Aranya chuckled as her feisty companions turned equally dazzling, empathetic smiles upon her. They knew. Peculiar perturbations wracked her soul. She had a sense of waking, of knowledge seeping into her at thoroughly discomfiting levels – unconscious, magical, spiritual, she had no idea.

When the girl-Dragoness reached up to touch her wounded face, however, Aranya flinched. “Don’t.”

The depth of understanding in the girl’s gaze snared her more surely than any hunter’s trap. Again, the petite hand reached up, the girl’s tears flowing freely. How thou hast suffered, mine soul-daughter. Yet beautiful are the wounds of thy heart. I shall not speak a monk’s curse upon the hand that wrought thy afflictions, for that oath is wrought, immutable. My gift is benediction.

Hualiama was tiny. Aranya gazed down from her height of more than a head taller than the twins, yet it was she who felt smaller, by far.

Dragonsong garlanded her soul, incongruously, in the heady scents of flowers intermingled with the rich cinnamon-vanilla scent of draconic magic, as her companions sang a harmonious duet in soprano voices of surpassing depth and clarity:

Thou art beautiful to me, to me, to me,

Thou art beautiful to me,

The truth within shall rise anew, soul-incarnate,

For these chains cannot bind flesh and spirit forever,

Thou art beautiful to me, to me, to me.

Each time the Hualiamas repeated that triplet of ‘to me’, Aranya heard promises enfolding promises. Though she could not believe, could not grasp that truth for herself as yet, she looked within and found a seed of hope burning in her breast. She wept for the longest time.

Then, the twins seized her hands with cries of irrepressible joy. “Come! Come, Aranya; beloved Aranya! Run with us, laugh with us, dance with us!”

Her feet tickled unbearably! Flinging aside her tears, she ran through the night until her loss fell away in tatters, as if she sloughed the rags of desolation off her newborn, shining body.

* * * *

A Dragon-sense woke Zuziana when Aranya chuckled in her sleep.

The musical sound had barely finished washing her vision with white when her friend flung aside her coverings and skipped, barefoot and clad only in her sheer linen sleepshirt, around the roost! Twice! She frisked and danced like a young girl, perfectly navigating the roost’s steps and hollows without recourse to opening her eyes.

“Uh … Aranya?”

Madness? Flame? She was accustomed to Aranya’s peculiarities, but this took the proverbial purple windroc. Her body shone, not so much with flame as with an inner light Zuziana did not recognise and felt she should fear, yet all she felt teeming in her own breast was Dragon-fire. A wondrous song of fire.

When Aranya broke for the door, Zip followed.

Helpless.

* * * *

Light passing the roost’s crysglass outer window woke Ardan. A prickle of premonition brought him smoothly to his feet, sword in hand. Warrior-ready. Yet he was not ready for the sight of a glowing Princess of Immadia skipping past his window like a lamb feeling the joys of growing legs and fresh pasture, nor for the surprise of Zuziana following up the path with Sapphire performing her usual aerial acrobatics around her shoulders.

Swift as thought, he stepped over to Ri’arion’s pallet. The monk slept right on the wooden slats, eschewing any form of padding or blankets. Moons-mad ascetic.

“Wake up, Ri’arion. Something’s afoot.”

When he turned for the hallway, which had a door sealed by a magical word, Ardan found King Beran already standing there, armed too. Ha. Habits of the warrior-born. The tall King grinned fiercely, understanding the tenor of his thoughts.

Ardan said gruffly, “Are you with me?” Both men nodded. “Then let us stalk …” he chuckled quietly. “As Nak would say, let us stalk a couple of scantily-clad ladies.”

Beran’s expression suggested the Shadow Dragon had better behave himself around his daughter, or the King would be moved to very un-Immadian forms of torture. Aye. Ardan bade his lolloping heartbeat behave itself. Now was the hour to move with draconic stealth.

* * * *

“Faster,” laughed Hualiama. “This way.”

Aranya’s feet tripped lightly up stairs which had miraculously appeared before her. She followed to a door, where Hualiama spoke the secret code-phrase and disarmed a number of magical wards, taking care that Aranya understood each one. Her soul soared in undeniable lightness as she stepped into a place so precious to her Aunt, the roost of the eminent Dragon Elders Sapphurion and Qualiana.

“I grew up here. I learned to dance here,” said the blue-haired twin. “Qualiana loved that couch, and the pedestal is Sapphurion’s work, his perch.”

Aranya stared at the finely-crafted block of agate crystal for a moment before she realised she was seeing an artwork. A masterwork. Lighter and darker blue agate crystals had been sculpted and fused, perhaps by Dragon fire, into a statue of water lilies growing beside a flowing river. The vivid patterns of the agates swirled and curved so eloquently that it was hard to imagine the artwork was not alive. The whole pedestal was shaped to support a Dragon at rest, she realised. It had to be twenty of her paces from end to end, perhaps more. It would dwarf a fledgling Amethyst Dragoness.

“Because I am me,” said blonde-Hualiama, “dance is the key to opening our secret chamber.”

“Formal dance? I can do formal,” said Aranya.

“No, free dance. Come. I will teach you the movements.”

“I … I’m not much of a –”

“You will do as you’re told,” Hualiama commanded, but her eyes twinkled as she made a shushing motion toward Aranya’s lips. “You’re an artist. That creativity is within you, dearest Dragoness, and it is far from dormant. I will simply show you how to release those silly Immadian inhibitions that keep your feet rooted to the floor.”

“Uh-um!” spluttered Aranya, blushing up a decent suns-set colour.

“Humansoul’s an incorrigible tease,” said the other twin, twirling so that her knee-length blue locks spun in a wide arc around her body. “She hasn’t changed in six hundred years.”

Aranya glanced from one to the other, noticing that they wore identical Fra’aniorian dresses, although the skirts were cut unfamiliarly short, above the knee. Gracious, how scandalous! The Human girl wore a deep blue that set off her eyes, while the blue-haired girl-Dragoness was garbed in pure white. The lacework was unmistakably Fra’aniorian. How on the Islands did her Shapeshifting manage to preserve those clothes, she wondered inanely?

Her heart felt squeezed with a beautiful ache. Aranya essayed a mischievous grin, accepting the Human girl’s outstretched hand. She inquired, “What will dancing do to those six hundred year-old, arthritic knees of yours, o most antiquated Aunt?”

Dragonsoul fell over in a heap of gasping, hiccoughing hysterics.

* * * *

Zuziana startled as the sleep-walker, having not even blinked as she neatly burgled the most hallowed roost in Gi’ishior and disarmed half a dozen violently lethal magical traps, burst into merry peals of laughter. She bowed to an unseen partner, extending her arm elegantly.

They danced.

She blinked. Aranya had never been ungraceful, but she was six feet and two inches of whisper-thin Princess, so she moved with the care and pride of a taller girl. She was no wren, more heron. Plus, she had her native Immadian reserve to overcome, not to mention the entire weight of a conservative, isolated Island-culture.

Now, she danced with an artist’s form and a child’s abandon.

Flame incarnate. Flickering, falling, rising, burning. Zuziana giggled as a lissom leap and flare of the muscular legs exposed Aranya’s very proper cotton undershorts to the world. She wept as white-fire filigree traced her friend’s limbs and flying, flowing hair. Throwing back her head with unconstrained joy, Aranya danced as if the Island-World should ignite and dance with her. Faster. Freer. A gloriously wild leap landed her lightly atop the Dragon-pedestal, which rose eight feet above the sunken seating-area in the main chamber of this famous roost. She twirled upon the air! Feather-light, Aranya spun and pirouetted on a bed of air toward a dark archway that led to Sapphurion’s sleeping-chamber. How – was this a case of the mythical Dragon power of Telekinesis at work?

Zip almost cried out as a hand gripped her shoulder. Ri’arion. He gaped at Aranya in a way that made her imagine clawing his eyes out, yet she understood. “Exquisite,” he breathed in her ear.

Just behind Ri’arion’s left shoulder, Ardan looked on with admiration at least equal to the monk’s, and a pleading light in his eyes. Through the roost’s crysglass windows, they saw lightning playing madly about Gi’ishior’s peak and gushing in multi-coloured streamers off the huge gemstones within the volcanic pipe.

Zip whispered back, “No, I didn’t know she could do this either.”

“Who’s that dancing with her?” asked King Beran, crowding into the roost-entrance with the others. He pointed. “Look.”

Indeed, a breath of flame lived in the air, now; a hint of an arm, the curve of a leg whirling impossibly high in the air. Silvery laughter delighted their ears, making Sapphire chuckle in response. She had perched on Ardan’s left shoulder, curving her body around the back of his neck so that she peered past his right ear.

Ardan said, Do you know anything about this, little one?

Sapphire’s laughter trilled around the chamber. Silly Humans. Hoo-lee … Hoo-a-lee-yah-mah, she sounded out the syllables carefully.

Hualiama? Zip gasped.

Aranya twirled through the twenty feet tall and wide, richly engraved archway into the Dragons’ sleeping chamber, built to accommodate even the largest Dragon. By unseen means, light flared within. Of one accord, Zip, Ri’arion, Ardan and Beran rushed across the roost, just in time to observe Aranya making an intricate, complex series of dance-movements before she stepped through ostensibly solid rock, and vanished!

“Aranya!” bellowed Ardan.

Beran was fastest. He sprinted for the wall where his daughter had vanished, alongside the sleeping-pallets. Everything seemed undisturbed, not even covered by a layer of dust. Zip accidentally bit a hole in her tongue as the men slammed up against the wall, kicked it, felt this way and that for an opening. Ardan moved to Shadow, but the wall denied even his power.

Sapphire launched off Ardan’s shoulder, squeaking in a miniature rage. She called, Stop! Ari all good.

* * * *

When she pressed back through the magical barrier, Aranya found she had gathered an avid audience. “Uh … good, help me with this,” she said, deflecting their questions. “It’s heavy.”

Ardan and Ri’arion immediately bumped into each other, laughed, and helped Aranya lug a painting some eight feet tall by seventeen feet wide out of a solid wall. Zip peeked around the edge, almost tripping her monk. She gasped. “Why, it’s … uh, not you, Aranya.”

The men set the painting carefully against the nearest wall and stood back in awed appreciation.

Beran growled, “Family likeness, eh? Look at the ruff, the arch of the neck, the neatness of those paws and musculature. And he’s –”

“Breathtaking,” said Aranya. “That’s Grandion, the Tourmaline Dragon. Hualiama’s Dragon.”

The artist, probably a Dragon, Aranya thought, had done a masterful job in capturing the gemstone gleam of Grandion’s scales. He had a fantastic ruff of skull-spikes, giving him a raffish, almost piratical air, but the artwork depicted the strapping Tourmaline tenderly curving a wing over a much smaller, midnight-blue Dragoness, who was so identical to her, Aranya felt as if the artist had simply painted the wrong colour, blue for amethyst. So ineffably tender, the way Grandion and Hualiama nuzzled …

“Freakish likeness,” said Ardan, his tone belying his ill-chosen words. “They’re … legendary in love. She’s said to be the mother of all Shapeshifters.”

Zip said, “Petal, your face is shining.”

Aranya rubbed her cheeks briefly, feeling the roughness. “Nothing’s changed. But everything has. One moment.”

She ducked back into the chamber, breathing hard. Mercy, her friend had raised a fragile hope that she might be restored in body after that mystical dance, but she was not. Forget it, Aranya. She had the word of the promise-star; she must not be impatient, no matter how it hurt. She had work to do.

Picking out the scrolls Hualiama had listed, and a most precious necklace, Aranya re-emerged into the roost-chamber. Ardan’s dark gaze gleamed upon her, draconic. Zip looked pensive. Beran seemed on the verge of popping with pride, while Ri’arion drooled unashamedly at the sight of an armload of scrolls.

Aranya said, “In case you hadn’t worked it out, that was a … well, not a vision, exactly, of Hualiama Dragonfriend, and I’m pretty sure she’s alive, although she hasn’t told me where, yet. These are scrolls she said we must take on the journey. Ri’arion, these can go in the library once you’ve –”

Zip touched Aranya’s arm. “Give them to me, petal, or I’ll never see Ri’arion again.”

The monk made a pretence of great fuss and annoyance, which ended, predictably, in a passionate kiss.

“This is a White Dragoness’ scale.” Aranya held up a necklace. Her voice betrayed a discernible quaver. “It’s Istariela’s scale – you know, my grandmother. Hualiama gave me gifts of hope and dance, and identified the Word I inadvertently spoke when we arrived at Gi’ishior. It was the secret name of an Ancient Dragon who used to live beneath Ha’athior Island, Amaryllion Fireborn, a name of great and abiding power, as I just about managed to work out for myself. Hualiama also urged the utmost haste on our quest. We must pack tonight and leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Zip snorted. “What’s the hurry?”

“Aye, we won’t have time to analyse these scrolls,” Ri’arion added, sharing an inscrutable glance with Zuziana.

King Beran said, “What was the substance of the Dragonfriend’s wisdom?”

“Let me explain.” Aranya summoned Hualiama’s words. “The Rift is in flux. Its activities appear to be cyclical, but it is not a regular cycle. She said that if we can’t cross this month, we won’t be able to for at least a year, which would give Thoralian that much more time to wreak havoc in Herimor. I understood that she meant the fires and the disruptive magic of the Rift-storms increase dramatically during these cycles. Hualiama crossed the Rift herself –”

“So the legend is true!” Ri’arion crowed.

“Aye. But she also said it was easier back then. And she was severely injured both times she made that crossing.”

Zip groaned, “The mighty Dragonfriend? Mercy! What’re our chances?”

Beran chucked Aranya beneath the chin. “So, Sparky, did you bring back any actually cheerful news?”

She shrugged. “Hualiama wasn’t giving away much, but I do believe your theory about the First Egg might be true, Ri’arion. She called the Egg a ‘time capsule’ and said that – well, she’s an engineer and scientist, I definitely didn’t understand all the terms she used – there’s a chance everything in that Egg might still be alive, kept in a state of stasis or suspended animation. That’s how the Ancient Dragons travelled between the stars. Magically slowed aging … as I said, I didn’t really understand.”

Ardan put in, “Are you saying Pip could come out only a little older than she went in?”

“Aye, that’s what she implied,” said the monk, mining his beard for fleas.

“If –”

Zip cried, “Oh, Aranya, I hate ifs. Can we do without this one?”

Aranya hugged her friend impulsively. “Very well. Here’s the proverbial windroc in the hatchery. We’d need to work out and reverse the exact process the Pygmy Dragon used to suck a volcano, a floating Island and thousands of Dragons inside the Egg. And hope beyond all hope that the Nurguz didn’t somehow enter the Egg too, or that this all-conquering Marshal isn’t resurrected to continue his merry genocidal ways.”

“He looked like Thoralian’s egg-sibling,” Ardan pointed out, confirming Aranya’s suspicion.

They stared at each other. Even Sapphire appeared cowed by their collective dismay. Thoralian might resurrect an army of Dragons. They might unleash an enemy crueller and more powerful than the Yellow-White despot of Sylakia, an enemy that even the legendary, tiny-pawed Pygmy Dragoness had not cast into defeat and ruin.

Beran clapped his hands. “Good. Let’s get packing, ladies, gentlemen and Dragons.”

Aranya groaned, “Who’s going to explain this to Va’assia and Ja’arrion?”

“No need,” came a saccharine reply from the doorway. “When were you planning to tell us about the Dragonfriend’s visit, Aranya?”

She whirled. “Aunt Va’assia!”

“Dragons have ears,” purred her Aunt, in her Red Dragoness form. “So, my lovely plotters, how can Ja’arrion and I help? And Aranya?”

“Ayeeii?” Aranya squeaked involuntarily. She covered her mouth. “Aye, Aunt Va’assia?”

“My itchy nose tells me you had some influence on the frankly astonishing levels of co-operation King Cha’arlla showed in the negotiation process. Is there a confession you’d like to make before you depart our shores?”

Mercy, her Aunt’s Dragon-smile was an exercise in sweat-provoking disquiet. Aranya was quite sure her own colour had summarily migrated toward a pasty swamp-green.

Ja’arrion shouldered his wife aside good-naturedly, as only a Green-Orange of his size, or perhaps Ardan, could have done. “You’ve a way with words, my flame.” That earned him a shoulder-bite. “Seriously, Aranya. We need to know because your Aunt and I intend to see that the will of Aranya is implemented concerning these Isles, the Dragons, their governance – whatever it was you said.”

Aranya raised her chin. “I was candid.”

“Verbal fireballs,” said Zip.

“You threatened him?” asked Ja’arrion, sounding so impressed that Va’assia bit him again.

“I merely reminded the King that we’re family.”

Chapter 11: The Far Shores

THE SHADOW DrAGON spread his wings over the caldera before daybreak. So nascent was the pre-dawn gleam, Fra’anior’s Islands appeared to float upon beds of darkness. Mist and smoke swirling around the base of the Islands lent the Cluster an air of mystique, so that Ardan imagined the Islands might just drift off on the breeze like Dragonships. Fine. This land was stunning. He was growing mawkish, a tough Dragon-warrior developing a melancholic appreciation of natural beauty. Or was this his Dragon’s outlook? Intriguing. For literally, he saw the Island-World through new eyes, and unaccustomed thoughts percolated through his armoured cranium. Just behind his left wingtip came Aranya, and then Zuziana, in the perfect slipstreaming position Ja’arrion had taught them – when was it? Less than two weeks ago?

Leandrial had already set off around midnight, since she and Ri’arion had worked out that given prevailing winds, the flying Dragons should catch her at the latest by Archion Island. Ardan had made the journey to Sylakia in two straight days and nights of flying, but this time they intended to take three, which was Leandrial’s estimate of her under-Cloudlands ability. Besides, there was no point in killing anyone before they partook in the communal delight of tossing themselves into the Rift for a swift and deadly roasting.

Ardan asked, New saddlebags, Zuziana?

Aye. Longer ones made of Dragonship sacking, which strap to multiple spine-spikes. I’m less likely to lose anything this way, she replied. Also, this configuration provides improved protection for all the jolly implements our wise Elders insisted we pack.

Tell me about it, he grumbled, hooking a talon backward at his load. Ardan had been ready to fly four hours before anyone else. At least he did not need to leave his beloved behind. Poor Zip. Her wings drooped at the tips.

Ri’arion had divided the scrolls exactly as specified by Hualiama, some to pack in a treble-sealed package in Zuziana’s saddlebags, while the rest he deposited in the library of Gi’ishior. Disturbingly, he reported a number of valuable scrolls were missing from the library’s racks – Thoralian’s handiwork, Ja’arrion concluded.

Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragons! Aranya bugled unexpectedly.

A spurt of Dragon-hormones roused Ardan’s being into a battlefield of pulsating blood and quivering muscles. Aargh! He expended his energy on driving higher, searching for a Dragons’ Highway. To his intense annoyance, the Dragonesses not only kept up, they were visibly flying more languidly than he and even goading him to fly faster! Rascally females! Ardan tried to focus on wing-form and body posture, but there were few apparent differences, apart from the obvious disparity in size and strength. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see in the spectra which Ri’arion had advised would allow him to observe magical influences, and was rewarded with a view of the air flowing over their peculiarly-shaped aerodynamic shields. Oh! How did they do that?

Alright, Ardan. Time to eat humble gristle, as his people said. He growled, Teach me to shield like you!

The Amethyst Dragoness eyeballed him in a way that made a Dragon’s blood boil. Are you asking or demanding, thou paragon of soot and fire?

Please, he barked. Uh … please, would you teach me, thou … um? Dragoness? Ardan burned at the ineloquent words snarled up in his throat. By his wings, he had better work on the romance, as Ja’arrion had quietly advised. He was no silver-tongued Immadian, but even a gruff word well-turned could shiver a Dragoness’ wings …

Ooh, that was nicer, said Zuziana, with a pert waggle of her tail.

You don’t want to make a grown Dragon beg, he snorted. It’s not pretty. How’s about a little Aranya-style negotiation?

How does that work? asked the Amethyst, playing the innocent.

Ardan said, First I burn your pretty rump from here to Sylakia, then – hey! Aranya’s mischievous wing-slap caught him unawares, sending the Shadow Dragon into a spiralling part-stall.

Catch me if you can, floated back to him on the breeze.

GRRROOAARRGGHH!!

* * * *

Three days later, the Lesser Dragons dived into the Cloudlands to join the Land Dragoness at the southern tip of Sylakia Island. Over the howling of the wind as they plunged, Zip called, “This is where the fun starts, according to Leandrial.”

They had tarried briefly at Nak and Oyda’s old cottage, finding only a note from their friend Nelthion and enjoying the pick of Nak’s herd of ralti sheep, who had continued to patiently fatten themselves on the sword-grass without a herder to care for them. Zuziana dropped by the nearest village – in her Human form – to send a note by message-hawk to Nelthion suggesting he meet Nak and Oyda at Fra’anior. A man of his administrative gifts could easily find employment at Fra’anior or Gi’ishior, or with King Beran.

With an unseasonal snowstorm closing in, which they could not blame on Aranya for a change, the threesome opted to shoot the breeze and dive off Sylakia’s edge, cutting through a driving blizzard which Zuziana teasingly suggested was ‘home and hearth to a Northern paleface’.

Aranya favoured this with her snootiest snort.

It seemed difficult to believe that travel in the dense layers beneath the Cloudlands could beat travel through the grey, stormy skies above, but with the blizzard firmly set against them, choices appeared limited. Down they speared, battered by the gale-force winds swirling around Sylakia’s peninsulas. Ardan’s lead took them several miles offshore on a steep descent aimed to obviate any chance of striking the cliffs, even though Sylakia’s massif plunged a jaw-dropping three leagues beneath the Cloudlands, right into the middle-lower and lower layers. There was no distinction between blizzard and toxic cloud, only an awareness of sinking into a realm where the snow fell ever more imperceptibly, and predatory bodies cut through the murk around them in search of easy pickings.

Aranya’s developing senses identified the primitive forms of Harmonic magic these creatures hunted with, responding to disturbances in the aether, either magical or physical. The light intensified rapidly as they descended through a drifting swarm of shihurior, an untranslatable word in Dragonish which described a class of light-producing, single-celled organisms which converted ambient electro-magical waves into light. Feathery, transparent bodies teemed against their shields. Though these appeared to be the benign form of shihurior, Leandrial had adjured them to be alert for other, more aggressive subspecies.

Thus, their wings stirred a cauldron of ever-changing, blue-white light as they descended into a realm where the deadly masqueraded behind serenity. Four times they dodged or hid as inquisitive monsters sought them out, from bubble-bodied, swift electrical Stingers to the lazy, mile-long Harvesters, which consumed everything in their path. Beautifully-patterned, butterfly-like insects the size of Dragonships concealed deadly stinging probosces beneath the pretty ancillary wings lining the undersides of their abdomens like sweeping lace skirts. In this middle layer the colours of plants and animals were vivid and variegated, like the view from one of Gi’ishior’s underwater windows which opened on the terrace lake. Stripes and spots and shimmering colours abounded, so unlike the realms they had traversed further north. This was the start of the Middle Sea’s vast expanse, stretching from Jeradia to Remoy along the full length of the Southern Archipelago, a sea so broad and untamed that no Dragon or long-range Dragonship would attempt such a flight.

In these parts there was no flat, leafy plant-layer to separate the middle layer from the middle-lower, only the waving tips of the forest in the distance, approximately three miles beneath their position in the aquamarine depths. Here, a vast shadow named Leandrial awaited them.

Little ones! she bugled gladly.

She looks well, Zip observed. Have you noticed the phosphorescent quality to her scales, Aranya? That’s new. She’s become … bluer. Brighter.

The barbels beneath Leandrial’s jaw, housing many of her additional sensory organs, waved as the Land Dragoness flicked her tail lazily, swishing toward them. Aranya realised they had never been so deep. The pressure against her pneumatic shield-layer was massive. She adjusted her wingbeat and form, performing more circumscribed beats with an increased cupping of the wing-struts on the downward stroke, lessening the lift required in thinner air while increasing direct forward thrust – semi-swimming, Leandrial called this movement. Aranya adjusted her pressure-compensation constructs and called for Ardan and Zip to do the same. As they had learned from Hualiama’s lore-scrolls, increased pressure differentials directly influenced the forms of filtering magic they required.

Besides, her little passenger needed to be kept comfortable.

Leandrial looked them over with a muted touch of her Harmonic eye-magic. She had explained that Harmonic magic examined or acted upon the natural vibration of every element of the material realm at the atomic level, which was an element of science unfamiliar to Lesser Dragons. At the simplest level, she could increase or decrease the amplitude of vibration or change its nature according to various vectors, leading to observable effects such as heating, cooling or even vaporising materials. Then, there was a host of other more metaphysical uses in the realms of her Balance-magic, which Aranya understood as a way of seeing broader global or even universal harmonies, such as the flow and probable cause and effect of events.

Very good, the Land Dragoness approved. Will you teach me all that is new about these multi-layer, responsive constructs? Where came you by this lore? Tell me everything!

As you command, o wise teacher, Zip said meekly.

I am wise, Leandrial agreed, oblivious to the Remoyan’s sarcasm.

Aranya sensed that the Land Dragon must have missed them even in three short days. How droll. How … sad. She could not imagine the loneliness of a century and a half’s enforced isolation from her kind – too staggering to frame in words.

She listened to Zip as Leandrial led them deeper, forging down to the level of the ‘treetops’, the broad, leafy terminal tufts of the snaking forest giants that stood rooted in a substrate a further three miles down – and these were not the largest under-Cloudlands forests by any means. The trunks, a mere fifteen or twenty feet in diameter for the portion they could see before they vanished in the sapphire depths a mile below, swayed gently in the air currents, and played home to a unique menagerie of under-Cloudlands life. How Aranya revelled in her newfound sight! Oh, she had never appreciated colours and details and distances like this!

They flew a mere compass-point or two east of south, angling for the mighty Urtuo-Jahû current, the great circular current that served the Middle Sea and kept its denizens alive.

From Sylakia to the fringes of the Urtuo-Jahû was a matter of a mere twelve leagues, but that was enough time for Leandrial to outline the dangers. Aranya ticked them off in her mind. Electrical pod-fish. A class of Sharp-fin predators that hunted in shoals, usually swimming against the current and relying on surprise to ambush their next meal. Eddies and whirlpools. Sentuki Squid, the flying giants of the invertebrate class together with the packs of hunting Minors they controlled psychically, and then a host of sub-intelligent draconic species.

Soon, a low rumbling communicated to their senses, agitating the magenta fronds of the forest in this area, bending them toward the southeast and the Crescent Islands.

The fringes are the most perilous, Leandrial noted. This is prime predator territory, where the voracious ones enjoy cover and camouflage, and the benefit of creatures knocked about in the Current’s swirling edges. Behold.

She pointed with her talon. A half-mile distant, the body of one of those creatures Aranya had nicknamed ‘Butterflies’ tumbled toward them, under siege by a host of Borers. As they watched, a flash of light beyond the Butterfly caught their attention. Dense shoals of sleek, fifty-foot swimmers descended upon the mess, their triple rows of inward-sloping teeth flashing white as they tore into the Borers. Beyond, a massive violet head reared up out of the current, squeezing and pulsating as the monster jetted toward the fray, its stubby yet powerful tentacles waving eagerly.

Sentuki Squid, the Land Dragoness advised.

Aranya shivered. The creature had to be a quarter-mile across, and the beak that pushed out of its underparts was capable of snaffling ten of Ardan for breakfast at a time. One gleaming, crimson eye fixed balefully upon them. She felt that gaze! No wonder Leandrial had them shielding; the creature’s menace was palpable and accompanied by psychic probing that stabbed at their brains like a thousand pinpricks all at once.

Leandrial explained, Hold firm. She seeks Minors for her herd, but she isn’t strong enough to overcome any of us. Sentuki are best left to their own devices. They’re too smart to take on a Land Dragon.

True enough, the Sentuki flashed a few luminescent warning-indicators on her hide at them, and then bent to her meal, leaving her herd to consume the luckless Borers while she concentrated on using her metallic grey beak to snap the larger Butterfly into Dragon-sized pieces, before stuffing them down her gullet with her tentacles. The rolling maul of feasting creatures drifted quickly down-current.

Time to move, commanded the Land Dragoness.

They swam-flew down a slope in the forest created by the pressure of moving air, immediately feeling the increased tugging upon their shields. Ahead, there was no apparent end or bottom to the blue, just an endless, increasingly steep slope that would take them to the lower layer and the heart of the tremendous current. Leafy fronds lashed violently beneath their compact wings. Ardan yelped as a predator ambushed him, but he beat it away by means of the firm application of a clawed paw to its sensitive snout.

Ha, he growled. I am not your dinner.

Zip’s laughter turned into a howl as a trio of pink tentacles snagged her left wing-shield and dragged her down into the forest!

Get off! yelled the Azure Dragoness, throwing lightning about liberally. Aranya swirled in, trying the same. A brace of fireball-blasts warmed up the hidden creature, while her lightning severed a couple of tentacles, which continued to writhe and spray dark green blood for several moments.

Panting, the Dragonesses winged away from the foliage.

Leandrial regarded them severely. Lack of attention will get you killed in this realm, little ones. Now, follow me!

When Leandrial’s back was turned, Zip gave Aranya a sympathetic look. Thanks for the helping paw, friend. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

What? Aranya asked defensively.

Nothing.

* * * *

Ardan eyed his companions. Odd. He could not put a talon on it, but he was convinced they were up to mischief. Both Dragonesses would bear watching.

His first concern was the Urtuo-Jahû, which swept along at speeds exceeding twenty leagues per hour, a tremendous rumbling, bubbling, buffeting mass of air. Leandrial coached them in how to take best advantage of the flow – taking long, languid strokes, and making an undulating motion of the body to provide additional propulsion courtesy of their Dragon bodies and powerful tails. She fought off enemies and allowed her small companions to rest, especially Aranya. He was proud of her. Never a word of complaint crossed her lips. Daily, she grew stronger. She worked relentlessly at understanding Harmonic and Balance magic with Leandrial; when even Leandrial tired of her incessant questioning, she bounced ideas off Ardan and Zuziana.

The great current pummelled them along the long, curving archipelago of the Crescent Islands, home to Pip’s Pygmy people. Ardan thought appreciatively back to Aranya’s further ‘requests’ of Ja’arrion and Va’assia, one of which was explicit Dragon protection for the Pygmies and a repeal of any laws and practices that treated them as animals. They were to stamp out, with claw and fireball if necessary, any form of slavery and systematic oppression of people-groups across the Island-World. Oh, Aranya. Lofty ideals!

Ideals, fearlessness, power and a ridiculous work ethic. That made for one dangerous woman.

The closer they drew to Remoy, the quieter Zuziana became. Germodia, not a chirp. Tyrodia, like a mouse. What was so difficult about the notion of visiting her family? The Shadow Dragon turned this over in his mind.

Zuziana. Aranya. What misbehaviour were they brewing? It took Ardan all of four days to work out what the Amethyst was hiding, but he had been stubborn as a man and his Dragon-form excelled at this character-strength.

Night only came to the middle-lower layer if there were no light-producing creatures about. This meant resting in apparent daytime, at regular intervals. When the three Lesser Dragons were meant to be sleeping up against Leandrial’s hide, just behind the curve of her skull, he Shadowed and slipped around to the Amethyst Dragoness. She was quick and slick, but not quick enough.

Sapphire! he growled. How long have you been hiding that dragonet, Aranya?

Ugh, keep it down to a dull roar, would you? Zuziana complained.

Ardan did not withhold his ire. Aranya, we cannot take Sapphire through the Rift! This is madness. Leandrial, you tell her.

How did you hide the dragonet, little one? Leandrial wanted to know.

Behind a highly specified auditory and olfactory shield! growled the Shadow Dragon. Completely irresponsible. I’m ashamed of you, Aranya!

Aranya said, Sapphire made me promise not to leave her behind.

The Shadow snapped, Oh, I suppose a dragonet forced the future Queen of Immadia and a Star Dragoness to boot, to pack her in a saddlebag and tell lies for a week …

Of course, the Amethyst only raised her chin and curved a protective paw around Sapphire. She’s Dragonkind. Look, I made a promise. I will not change my mind. Sapphire may well prove very useful to us.

He was about to tear strips off Aranya’s hide, when Ardan caught himself staring at Zuziana. Firstly, she had not protested. Now, he saw the Azure Dragoness’ thoughts incline to one of her saddlebags – no, not her thoughts, but his Shadow-vision somehow saw through her body to the yearning of her fires. No, no, NO! he almost howled, taking several jerky steps toward her. You didn’t!

Didn’t what? asked Leandrial. Little one, I see nothing wrong with taking a dragonet, if she’s willing to risk her life –

Not her. Her! Ardan aimed a talon at Zip.

The Remoyan protested, Me? I’m not hiding any dragonets.

No. Just something a little … larger, sneered Ardan. Come on, Remoy. Tell the truth. I’ve never seen you so quiet. You missed five predators in the last day alone, predators any self-respecting Azure Dragoness should eat for breakfast. Zip did not move a muscle. Don’t make me order a search of your saddlebags. Your guilt stinks.

* * * *

Aranya sidled over to Zuziana as Ardan’s ire swelled. “Ardan, please. I’m the one who took Sapphire against orders. Don’t be mad at Zip, too.”

“Angry?” he bristled. “I’m not angry, I’m fire-spitting furious, that’s what I am! How can I embark on a journey, on a quest of this magnitude, with any hope of success, if I’m lumbered with two freaking, colluding little liars?”

“Zip knew nothing about Sapphire, Ardan.”

“It’s not the dragonet, she has her monk in one of those saddlebags!” The Shadow Dragon swallowed, fighting to master his emotions. “Look. Here’s my last word on the subject, Zuziana. If you’re so desperate, fly the man to Remoy, marry him and send him back to ruddy Fra’anior, hear me? Or stay behind if you can’t –”

“No!” cried Aranya. “Zip, I need you!”

“AND NOT ME?”

“Ardan, calm down!” Aranya’s temper frayed at the speed of Storm-invigorated magic. “Of course I need you – I need all of you, with your hearts in the right places. Zip, tell me … it isn’t true?”

“Afraid it is, Immadia. He made me. Ri’arion absolutely forbade me to travel without him.”

RI’ARION!! bellowed the Shadow Dragon.

Aranya had rarely heard Ardan so riled. He did like things just so, but why was he so enraged about this?

Zip said smugly, “He can’t hear you, Ardan. For everyone’s information before they start fire-breathing all over this lovely current, or creating personal storms, Ri’arion’s hypnotised himself into a state of deep hibernation. If you listen carefully, you might detect his heart beat once every fifty seconds or so, and hear a single shallow breath every two to three minutes.”

“Hibernating a Human through the Cloudlands and across the Rift?” said Leandrial, shaking her head in wonder. The three Dragons gripped her scales more tightly. “Fascinating idea, little ones. You really make a Land Dragoness think. Most fascinating!”

“Fascinating?” Ardan winged off a short ways, his body rigid with anger. He threw back over his shoulder, “Since we’re all awake now, why don’t we hurry to Remoy and get this childishness over with?”

Aranya stared after him, before turning to her best friend with a half-hearted scowl. “Zuziana of Remoy, you didn’t.”

“Aranya of Immadia, you didn’t.”

Indulging in a fit of the giggles right now would probably be a bad idea, given Ardan’s reaction. Aranya could tell that Zuziana was about to erupt. She said ruefully, “So, when exactly did you plan your little charade? I promised Sapphire … well, that night before I met Hualiama, which was her idea, Zip. Sapphire’s, not mine – and just look at what it gained us.”

“Sapphire’s? Wow. So you thought, she won’t take up much room. She can get into places I can’t. She sees things I don’t – so she’d be an asset. Who’d suspect a dragonet? Right?”

Aranya elbowed her friend, knowing exactly where this was leading. “Who’d suspect an upright, virtuous monk of marrying a morally dissolute Remoyan, right?”

“Hey! You take that back, you man-eater.”

“Hey!” Aranya imitated her friend. “I’m not the one prancing about stuffing men in my handbag.”

That was too much for Zip. With a high-pitched squeal of laughter, the Azure Dragoness lost any semblance of control, causing the not-very-distant Shadow Dragon to expectorate a ten-foot wide fireball of overheated indignation. Aranya just shook her head at her friend’s antics. A dragonet stowaway – sneaky, aye, but compared to bagging a whole monk?

That Princess of Remoy had style!

* * * *

To say that Zuziana’s family were pleased by her unexpected arrival was perhaps the understatement of the century. All of Remoy turned out in paroxysms of celebration, for the rod of the Sylakian Empire had chastised their kingdom most sorely. Message hawks announcing victory were one matter. The arrival of a Dragon-Princess of Remoy, quite another. When the joyous tidings escaped the Palace, which they did at the speed of a hunting Dragon after Zip, Aranya and Ardan’s first chaotic briefing of the King and his Queens – that was the trigger. They could hear a roar rising from the Palace gates and spreading throughout the city.

Crazy Remoyans.

Zip’s sisters and mothers dragged her away. “We must unbag your luggage, daughter dearest!” gushed one of her mothers, as excited as a fledgling dragonet turning somersaults.

“Oi, Immadia. Over here.” Three sisters grabbed her, while one smiled, “Remember me?”

“Graziala? Of course,” said Aranya.

King Lorman waded through his swirling family, which numbered four of Zuziana’s brothers, including Yuka and Tarka whom she knew, and nine sisters, with a further four siblings missing here and there, barking, “Hold! O Princess of Immadia, I’ll have your hand, Milady!”

In a moment, the tiny, moustachioed King of Remoy snaffled her from the sisters, who had no qualms. They danced off to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over Ardan. Poor man. Aranya might have felt sympathetic if she hadn’t been so ragingly jealous of all the pretty, flagrantly underdressed Remoyans cooing over him. Zip had briefly warned her about hot season dress customs. That would be ‘undress’, Aranya thought uncharitably. And communal bathing. Ardan and Ri’arion were about to have their eyes opened – not that hers weren’t! Tuning in her draconic senses, she heard:

“Ooh, I didn’t know the Western Isles bred rajals for men.”

“Ooooh, these biceps! Do you eat boulders for breakfast, big man?”

“So dark; sooooo very beautiful,” gushed another sister, who could not have been more than twelve, nor an inch over four and a half feet in height. “He’s blushing, girls. So cute!”

“Grazi – oh mercy, I’m going to faint.”

“He’s leopard!”

Lashes fluttered, waves of perfume swirled and bright giggles rose around the dark warrior as his body burst into feverish embarrassment. Dragoness-Aranya could practically smell smoke from where she stood. Human-Aranya quelled her with difficulty, only to gasp as one of Zip’s mothers, Remoy’s third Queen of four, shooed the girls away – then blatantly ran her sparkling green eyes up and down Ardan’s physique herself! This provoked a rabid howl from Aranya’s inner Dragoness. Enamoured of Hualiama’s open, sweet relationship between her two Shapeshifter forms, Aranya had hoped to start listening to her inner life. No time like the present.

She managed an ugly, fire-filled snarl, “Leave my man alone!”

Ardan’s dark gaze snapped to her, jammed with passions she could only guess at.

So much for pushing him away, Immadia! Stupid emotions – Aranya shoved them inside, only to wince as an almighty thunderclap rattled every window across Remoy. Down, Star Dragoness! They were among friends … burning with humiliation, Aranya dropped her gaze to King Lorman, who held her hands gently in his own. His thumbs rubbed her knuckles, feeling the lumps and contusions there. At once, Aranya knew he knew.

“My father … wrote?” she stammered.

“And Zuziana. They wanted us to know that my daughter was a Dragoness and you … and you …” his voice broke. King Lorman dashed away tears, but his moustache began to sag from the volume of salty wetness running down his cheeks. He whispered, “When we released you to fight the Sylakians, my daughter, we had no idea. This is – we Remoyans say, there is no animal as cruel as the Human beast. I would take it all back for thy sake, Immadia, I swear … our freedom is not worth this travesty.”

Impulsively, Aranya hugged him. “The one life in exchange for the many, King Lorman. That’s the Immadian way.”

“Truly so brave, o Princess?”

His gentleness wrenched honesty from her breast. Aranya said, “No. But if I repeat the words often enough …”

“You’ve been more than a friend to our family, Aranya,” he said. “I will pray every day that you bring that monster to heel, but moreover, that you are restored to your true beauty and your precious mother to her life. I will assault the heavens in prayer with such passion that the very moons and stars shall take heed and make obeisance. I want you to know, my precious, precious daughter, and I declare this with all of my heart: your affliction is grievous, but it will be transitory – and I am not speaking of the afterlife.”

Aranya stared at the King, at a homely visage that suddenly possessed eyes like prophetic daggers. Her mind reeled. Magic? In Zip’s lineage? No wonder!

King Lorman whispered, “My tears for yours, Aranya of Immadia. My heart for your broken heart. May you fly to the far shores of our Island-World, where you shall soar on wings afire with the glory of stars! And all shall be restored. All – that is my prayer. Let it be.”

And it seemed to her that the voice of Fra’anior growled beneath the world, Aye, let it be.

She could not help but wonder how many promises must be spoken over a Star Dragoness. Was she so needy? Or the task ahead, so overwhelming?

Chapter 12: A Royal Handfasting

THE DAY of Zip’s wedding dawned bright and fair. The melodious strains of flutes, harps, zithers and cymbals roused the citizens of Remoy as columns of musicians and dancers paraded through the cobblestone streets, counterpoint to a stormy argument inside the Royal Palace of the fabled Jade Isle, the Island of eighteen terrace-lake levels and a people as passionate as the best of an Amethyst Dragon’s storm-summoning.

Her parents! Zip battled her Dragoness as much as the five of them in an argument that was rapidly getting out of hand.

Losing both the desire and the ability to keep quiet so that Aranya could continue to sleep, Zuziana yelled at her father, “Of course he’s a monk! Aranya, tell him. Tell my father and my mothers – accursed windrocs, I’m getting married today!”

Stirring on the pillow-roll, Aranya murmured, “Uh, monk? Sort of a … lapsed monk. Aye.”

“Heavens, no!” Zip gasped.

First-mother Yuhina snapped, “Lapsed? No daughter of ours is marrying some vow-breaking religious freak! What kind of monkey-nut is he, lacking a single moral bone in his body? Get that fraud in here. Now!”

King Lorman implored the heavens, “Whatever were you thinking, Zuzi? A monk?”

“She’s in love,” said Aranya, waking up properly. Open mouth, insert Dragon’s paw, Zuziana thought crossly. Even more helpfully, the Immadian Princess growled, “Leave my friend alone.”

“That’s exactly what Remoyans don’t do!” fourth-mother Siyantha said icily. “We know how to treat our daughters, so don’t you interfere –”

“Interfere?”

Keep your Dragoness inside, Aranya, Zip said privately. There are ways of fighting this battle.

Uh … spluttered her friend, discovering to her evident chagrin that she had been sleeping with her arm curled around Zip’s shoulders. Mercy … Aranya sat up, holding the blankets close to her chest as she reached for her face-veil.

Shortly, Ardan entered the royal bedchamber followed by a bemused, mussed-looking Ri’arion. Zip had five parents, but between them they had accusations for a hundred, burning the air until Aranya finally exploded, “SILENCE!”

Ardan dived for the blue Helyon silk sheets and snuffed out the flames, but there were scorch-marks all around her friend. Shocked, Zip checked her limbs. She was not burned, not even a little.

“Right,” said Ri’arion, coolly. “So, is the problem the chastity issue, or a religious objection?”

“Your vows,” said King Lorman.

“I see,” he said. With his most inscrutable monk-face set firmly in place, Zip’s heart sank. Oh no. Ri’arion was about to ruin everything!

“May I explain, now that all the shouting’s done?” she asked, acidly.

The tall monk said, “No, you may not.” Zip clicked her dangling jaw shut. What? He said, “King Lorman, I’m afraid I’ve not had very many chaste thoughts since the day I met your daughter. I may be a powerful Enchanter, but she played my heart-strings from the very first – the notes of her bravery, fiery spirit and loyalty to her friend and to our cause, shall resound through the ages. What I see in her is wholly admirable, and perfect in my eyes, though none of us Humans are perfect.”

For once, Zuziana’s family were silenced. So was she – but how her heart sang! Ri’arion! Oh mercy, to hear him speak thus! Then, his natural diffidence seized him like a Dragon’s paw.

“I … uh, I mean, not wholly unchaste thoughts,” he spluttered, blushing up to his bald pate. “Well, I have entertained a few rather un-monkish notions. Here and there. Thank the heavens, I said to myself, that the vows of service to the Great Dragon do not include chastity. It’s assumed by many, of course, o King. But not avowed.”

“You mean, you don’t anticipate any trouble with your manhood?” Ardan boomed, with a wicked chuckle and typical Western Isles bluntness. “Everything’s in fine working order?”

“Whaa!” Ri’arion choked.

“Besides, I’m sure Zip can teach you what you need to know,” he cackled.

She gave a small shriek. “Ardan! I am not … I have never –”

“Nor has he,” said the dark warrior, still in wicked-Dragon guise. “But I’m quite, quite certain Ri’arion can be persuaded. Just look at him.” No man living at that instant could more have resembled a fine, purple beet than the monk.

Zuziana vacillated between wanting to hit Ardan, and deciding if he needed a kiss. Whatever the case, he had neatly usurped all five of her parents. Was that a hint of a smile lurking beneath her father’s moustache?

Ardan added, “Now listen, all you Remoyans. This man is the most powerful monk-Enchanter of Fra’anior, a status akin to royalty amongst the monks, as I understand it. As their Nameless Man he took special vows, in his youth. But no Nameless Man lives forever. Some days ago, Ri’arion set in process the choosing of his successor. Historically speaking, I believe Ri’arion would be the fifth Nameless Man to choose this route, and it is accounted for in the vows he took – favourably, and with honour. The Great Dragon’s service is not limited to one Cluster in one corner of the Island-World.”

“Correct. The original vows are not time-bound,” Ri’arion clarified. “Nor do I wish … uh, in light of all things regarding my beloved, wonderful Zuziana … and her being so beautiful and … uh, exceedingly desirable –”

“He’s happy to sire children?” asked her third mother, Suziala, over the hoots of laugher rocking the room.

“Lots,” said Zip, restricting her contribution to a diplomatic minimum.

First-mother Yuhina added, “Like any normal man?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Zip, with a coquettish glance that did not help Ri’arion’s fuddled, blushing state in the slightest. “Isn’t that so, monk-darling?”

“Whaa,” he spluttered again.

Ardan clapped him on the shoulder. “He’s a clever fellow. He’ll catch on eventually.”

More guffaws greeted this sally as the Remoyans relaxed. Zuziana had never appreciated how much her family’s emotions swung from one pole to the other until she saw them from her friends’ viewpoint. Aye, this morning’s eruption had already subsided. Now there were more catcalls, promising ‘advice’ and making wagers on when the wriggling of ‘guppies in her belly’ would be felt. Had they fresh bread, it could have been toasted on Ri’arion’s cheeks.

“And then, he’s planning to let you leave for Herimor without him?” Lorman finally managed to wedge a question in between the kafuffle.

With her eyes, Zip pleaded with Ardan. Ri’arion had survived for days under the Cloudlands, hadn’t he? His mental skills would be invaluable in Herimor. And she didn’t want to leave him behind, oh please, no! Not when there was a chance …

The dark head bobbed. “No, he should accompany us. What say you, Immadia?”

“Well, we’ll stick him in the saddlebags,” Aranya agreed, with rising enthusiasm, “and Zip-Zap can pull him out from time to time for a little play!”

Silence loomed like an invisible Dragon in the room.

Zip raised an eyebrow eloquently.

Suddenly, colour exploded into the Princess of Immadia’s cheeks. She yelped, “Mercy! My Dragoness … oh mercy, I didn’t mean that!”

The Remoyans fell about in helpless outpourings of mirth.

“Oh, Immadia!” Zip flung her arms around her best friend. “You’re priceless.”

* * * *

As the noon suns beat upon Remoy’s lush crown, warmth settled over the Island like a Dragon’s breath. The birdsong of thousands of water-birds inhabiting Remoy’s eighteen concentric lakes hushed, but not because of the heat. The Island was a tall dome, surrounded on its flanks by terrace lakes from one mile to three miles above the Cloudlands, but its standard jade colouration had frazzled a little beneath the brunt of the Southern hot-season. Nary a cloud blotted the skies.

Rising into this perfect day, the head of a Land Dragon surmounted the lake walls, and upon her nose, a wedding-party danced.

Ardan, hovering a few hundred feet overhead in his Dragon form, chuckled quietly to himself. His job was to keep lookout, for with the entire population of the Island now gathered on a vast, grassy meadow that stretched eight miles from the walled city of Remoy to the first of the terrace lakes to the West, there might be opportunity for brigands or remnants of the Sylakian forces – far too many of the latter – to foment trouble.

Leandrial had been as startled and delighted as he had ever seen her to be invited to a Human wedding. She tiptoed over the lakes, trying her utmost not to crush too much vegetation, while keeping her head level as the bridal party danced the traditional Remoyan nuptial dances on her nose.

Now, there was a stage unlike any other!

All of the women – the Queens and Princesses, Zip’s female relatives and Aranya – wore the palest blue silk of Helyon, making a perfect spectacle against Leandrial’s dark, green-blue hide. Zuziana danced in their midst, a vision of bridal loveliness in a brief chemise that would have passed for scandalous nightwear, he imagined, on most Islands of the world, together with sheer skirts shaped as lily petals, dainty diamond-jewelled slippers, and a slim white gold coronet in her hair to anchor the lilies adorning her unbound, chestnut-brown locks. All of the women in the bridal party had embraced Zuziana’s request to flout tradition in this way; all wore their hair long and loose, none more so than his fabulous Aranya.

His Aranya? Oh, vain hope!

Three of the sisters had spent two hours that morning working miracles with makeup, transforming the Immadian’s poor, pockmarked skin into sheer beauty, apart from the hole in her cheek. That could not be disguised, so she alone among the women wore a face-veil. Perhaps people would think it a nod to Immadian conservatism, for the rest of her outfit was most certainly … smoking. He glanced at his scales. Literally.

His vision washed with the greens and crimsons of commingled jealousy and feverish desire as the Shadow Dragon soared above the crowd of thousands gathered on the hillside. They waved leafy fronds and yelled at the tops of their lungs as the male party, surrounding Ri’arion, danced their way up a spiralling path from the bottom of a small hill to the top, where the ceremony would take place. Drums thumped urgently. Great-horns of brass, twenty feet long, sounded the fanfares, and the flutes crooned incessantly at a much lower register than he was used to – again, a Remoyan tradition. He suspected that more than a few Remoyans were rather well-oiled with ale, despite the hour. The celebrations had raged all night.

Ardan could not arrest the curve of his neck to bring his superior Dragon sight to bear upon Aranya for the umpteenth time. She was a vision; strikingly tall and reed-slender, queenly of bearing, her unique multi-coloured locks swirling down to her knees in an astonishing treasury of feminine beauty. They had made her pale Northern skin flawless, glinting as if she wore a dusting of diamonds. His eyes drank in the moulding of Aranya’s scanty dress to her torso and a waist so trim, he could encircle it with his Human’s strong hands. He perceived the White Dragoness’ scale fastened to its golden pendant necklace, nestled between her breasts. He had to swallow and avert his gaze. Be not foolish, Ardan! She had been tortured and broken; too damaged to contemplate – his mouth twisted in a sad half-smile – at least a few of Ri’arion’s unchaste ideas. Mercy, how foolish his decision to give her space and time seemed now! He wanted her with an all-consuming passion; his desire burned like a volcano’s raging heart. She must sense the tenor of his regard. Did she dream of what Zip and Ri’arion enjoyed this day – the freedom to handfast and make promises to each other?

All he could do was play his part in her fate, and hope. Ardan’s right forepaw curled into a shaking, painful fist. Whatever it took. Anything. Everything. He would be her man. Her Dragon.

The Shadow Dragon drifted above the exultant crowd, hunting with all of his senses on high alert. Somewhere among these thousands, he was convinced, would be a Sylakian sympathiser.

Woe betide any enemy he smelled out.

* * * *

This day was about Zuziana’s happiness. Aranya entered into the fun as much as her strength and skill allowed, dancing with the women, dressing Zip’s hair and allowing their high spirits to infect her, too. Yet when Dragon-Ardan’s shadow briefly touched her cheek, she glanced to the skies. What did he think of this … wedding outfit? She had sensed his gaze upon her person, frequently. Did he stare at her bare legs and uncovered throat; might he remember what they had shared before her ruin tore them apart? She shuddered with echoes of flame-desire, of oath-magic run wild …

She must focus on her friend, and crush these futile thoughts.

Leandrial’s chin came to rest at the base of the small hill Zuziana had chosen for her outdoor ceremony, her tail-tip resting perhaps six or seven lakes downslope, such was her size.

Such were the Remoyans, the frenetic drumbeat barely faltered. If a Dragon twice the size of an average city had been peering over her shoulder, Aranya suspected the sensible reaction would have been to faint or run away screaming. Zip’s people, however, were famously enamoured with Dragons. To have a Land Dragoness turn up on their doorstep was an unprecedented opportunity for the balladeers to tune up their instruments, the artists to make a mad rush for canvas and paints, and the storytellers to buff up their finest adjectives and adverbs. The din the people raised upon sighting Zuziana, now standing apart on Leandrial’s nose, was enough to make every hair on her neck stand to attention. Sapphire launched into the air, mewling in consternation.

From the brow of the hill, Ri’arion gazed at his beloved. The artist in Aranya consciously committed every detail of his expression, every line upon his face and the crinkling of his eyes with his bedazzled smile, to memory. Unguarded love. If she cried, she’d ruin her makeup. She did not care. What they shared was precious; beyond reproach.

Come on, beautiful bride, she said privately to Zip.

Several sisters somersaulted or produced neat handsprings to take them onto Leandrial’s proffered paw. Aranya took Zip by the hand. No broken ankles needed now!

Is he there? Does he look nervous? Zip asked breathlessly.

Atop the hill. Can’t you see him?

Stupid tears, said Zip, even as she smiled at the crowd with a princess’ poise.

Aranya dabbed her friend’s eyes very carefully with a silk handkerchief she had been given for exactly this purpose. Better? He’s the handsome one looking rainbows-over-the-Isles. Which reminds me – Ardan?

Your majesty. The massive Shadow Dragon made an aerial bow. Thou … his voice broke with a soft oath. Then he rallied with, Thou art the rainbows over my Isle.

No! Unrelenting Ardan. She whispered back, Try to do your job without making me cry, because that’ll ruin this façade I’m wearing.

Waving his paws, Ardan extended an optical shield he and Aranya had conceived of the previous evening. Heart-shaped pink and azure rainbows spread over the Jade Isle. Leandrial voiced a throaty chuckle. Oh, you little ones, so enamoured with beautiful silliness. Zuziana, may I sing for you?

Zip turned to bow. We’d be honoured, mighty Leandrial.

Without warning, the Land Dragoness boomed, “Let every person and Dragon present hearken to the blessing of oath-bound lovers.”

She sang in a Dragonish dialect so ancient that Aranya understood but one word in four, but it was the exquisite musicianship of her performance that stilled the great crowd. Her voice was many instruments combined in harmonies so gorgeous and delicate, so complex and compelling, that the heart recognised a foretaste of the divine; an interlude of enchantment so deep, it transcended the boundaries of aeons and species. Men wept. Women broke into spontaneous harmonies and descants. Even the smallest child stilled to hear inspiration writ upon their very hearts. Overcome with emotion, Sapphire fainted into Ardan’s paw, but he assured Aranya the dragonet was fine.

By the time Leandrial’s last note echoed off the hills, the Land Dragoness’ paw rested upon the earth and it was a mere matter of sliding seventy vertical feet down from her digits to the ground, which they accomplished by using the natural curvature of her talons. Then the drumbeat picked up again, and the wedding-party danced into the waiting crowd. Onward. Deeper. Aranya’s feet danced for her as she followed her radiant friend on her slow, winding course uphill. She laughed and sang breathlessly with the others, hearing the crowd’s clamour as the roaring of a single, faraway voice.

Fra’anior’s voice?

His speech reached her as if through battle; Aranya heard fire crackling and the full-throated booming of draconic thunder. Thou hast conversed with mine rebellious shell-daughter, little one? She helped thee. I am not displeased, Aranya. Thou needest no permission of mine to know thine family.

Thank you, shell-grandfather, she said. A gracious word? Heavens forfend!

The heat sucked at her strength and will, and drained her pathetically shallow resources. Fire consumed her lungs as Aranya tired. The crowd’s roaring rose and fell, the sky brightening toward white-fires, and she wailed:

Oh, Izariela, how thou art lost! Might I not see thee once more?

The Dragoness’ scale scalded her chest. She heard, or perhaps imagined, a woman’s tones nearby, and sensed a hand stroking a swollen belly, feeling its tender vibration within. Thou, beloved shell-daughter, said a sweetly evocative voice. Oh, mother! I shall name thee Aranya, a strong name for the bastion of the Dragonkind, the name by which Dragons shall live again. Oh I weep at the fate I foresee, my shell-daughter. Shall we rise? I fear … look ahead! Look beyond!

Her mother’s cry mingled with Ardan’s mental roar from on high, Aranya! In the crowd!

As if in a nightmare, Aranya saw from the corner of her eye an upraised hand, deep in the crowd beyond her best friend, release a dagger. It winked with metallic menace, spinning end-over-end toward her friend’s throat. She was too far back. Too many heads bobbed between her and Zuziana. Why? Why had she allowed herself to be consumed by foolish visions? The bride turned slowly, as if trapped in a dream, and Aranya saw herself reach out in terror and desperation, a scream clawing her throat. Ardan!

Pain lanced into her hand. Zip, still turning, accepted a posy of lilies from a child with a bright smile. Aranya emerged through her friend. Ahead of her in the crowd, she saw swords and cudgels rising and falling in brutally brief mob justice. She stared at the small throwing dagger embedded in the back of her right hand. What had just happened? How … Zip brushed past her back and continued on her way, oblivious.

Pretend everything’s fine, Ardan’s voice entered her mind. The man’s dead. I don’t sense further danger, but I’ll keep sniffing about.

Fine? Why was there no pain? A knife right through the hand, and she felt no pain?

We don’t want to spoil Zip’s celebration. Your blood, Aranya! Cleanse!

Poison. Of course. She was not about to fall prey to that again. Aranya focussed on her hand, feeling the tickle of Leandrial’s presence in her mind. The Land Dragoness showed her the special tang and spread of the poison; Aranya drew deep of her healing power to deny it any further ingress into her flesh, then with a wince, drew out the knife. Returned to his station a quarter-mile above the throng, Ardan told her to be careful with the poisoned blade, but one of the Palace guards gripped her forearm.

Aranya straightened imperiously, but the man snapped, “How the hells did you do that, lady?”

“What?”

“You’re fifteen feet back of the Princess then I blink and you’re this side of her. I watched the hair, lady. I know what I saw.”

“I … er …” Aranya stammered. “This knife is poisoned. Be careful.”

The soldier bowed, before accepting the blade with care. With gruff respect, he added, “You saved our Zuziana’s life, Princess. Remoyans never forget.”

Aranya stared after the young man. Ardan? Did you see –

Faster than Shadow, he said, sounding troubled.

Faster than what? You’re joking.

It was no jest, Ardan’s irascible growl informed her. The Shadow Dragon scanned the crowd relentlessly as Zip, entirely unaware of any drama, reached the summit and pirouetted into her beloved’s circle.

The Remoyan handfasting ceremony was a curious mixture of formality, beauty and playfulness. Firstly, the young men of Ri’arion’s circle responded to Zip’s precipitous arrival by stealing her away from the groom. She had to win him back with an elaborate dance-performance which inevitably ended up with the bride’s triumph. Zip knocked men spinning, bowled them over with a flirtatious tweak of an eyebrow – overplayed in a style that Aranya remembered fondly from her cousin Lyriela’s wedding – and even danced past an uncle only to whirl and apply the royal slipper firmly to his expectant backside. Then the older men paired off with Zuziana’s retinue, presenting them with rich gifts, or offerings of poetry or dance. Ri’arion was supposed to make a dance-offering to his bride, which he accomplished by cleverly adapting a martial arts sequence Aranya had often seen him using for training, a beautiful, flowing exposition of the Fra’aniorian martial arts forms.

Didn’t know Mister Inflexible could frolic like that, Ardan commented drolly.

Aranya gave him a light-hearted mental shove by way of reply.

King Lorman, subtly amplified by Leandrial, delivered a rousing and oftentimes hilarious speech that ranged from Ri’arion’s new powers as a member of the Remoyan royal family to some blushingly pointed advice about the exploits he was expected to perform later.

After that came the traditional tossing of the bride. This began with an energetic dance in which even King Lorman showed he could shake and stretch his legs like a man twenty years his junior, before the men linked hands, four at a time, beneath Zuziana’s feet to toss her from one group to the next. Aranya’s eyebrows crawled as Zip neatly executed a range of forward and backward somersaults, raising a roar from forty thousand throats, then she threw in a single-twist, double-forward effort. Pandemonium!

Wryly, Aranya found herself hoping she might not have to produce any acrobatics on her wedding day.

Had there been a roof, Zip’s climactic triple-twisting single-backward piked somersault would have blown it right off the building.

Yet what moved her most deeply was the unabashed joy with which Ri’arion and Zuziana exchanged first the Remoyan, then the Fra’aniorian wedding vows, which if she recalled correctly, included a few more draconic overtones than expected. Every member of Zuziana’s family blubbered their way through the formal oath-taking, which included special oaths for parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and even one that was surely made up on the spot by King Lorman, presiding over this part of the ceremony, for Zuziana’s ‘best and truest friend’, Princess Aranya of Immadia, Star Dragoness.

After that, her makeup was a hopeless mess.

The afternoon’s shadows grew long in a realm of unending bliss for Zuziana and Ri’arion. As they clinched the matter with the traditional five-minute no-holds-barred kiss, Aranya was startled to look up and wonder where the time had flown. Truly, it was said that love transcended time, touching eternity. Zip stretched upward on her tiptoes to kiss the much taller monk, her chestnut curls flowing to her waist – just not quite long enough to disguise his hand wandering beyond her lower back. The Nameless Man’s countenance shone as if he beheld the very twin suns.

Leandrial split the heavens with her exuberant bugling. She fired her light-cannon in all directions, causing a fine, silvery dust to rain from the skies.

Then, the Fra’aniorian monk swung his bride off her feet and ran the gauntlet through the crowds as the people strewed the ecstatic couple with lily petals, perfume and small, sticky sweetmeats, to the strains of the ballad, Love is of Jade Eternal.

* * * *

That evening, at the Shadow Dragon’s insistence, Aranya and Sapphire flew Dragonback with him toward the setting suns. The day’s mellowing light perfectly matched their mood. Roseate upon the terrace lakes, winking impulsively off what appeared to be new patterns of mineral deposits in Leandrial’s hide, the rich suns-set robed all Remoy in truly royal splendour.

Stroking Sapphire’s scales serenely, Aranya said, “Ardan, I wanted to thank you for the gift you gave Zuziana and Ri’arion this morning. Before it all began.”

“Oh, that?” said the Dragon. “Selfish, that’s what it was.”

“All for my benefit? I’ll swallow that the next time I swallow an Island, Ardan.”

His knowing chuckle betrayed the truth. “Alright. I was wrong. Does an apology ring better upon the royal ear?”

Aranya tugged her grey travel-cloak more closely about her neck, but her legs remained bare to the thigh, tucked neatly either side of the Shadow Dragon’s towering spine-spikes. Today was about freedom. She could not have stood to wear a long dress upon Ardan’s back, nor suffered the closeness of trousers. Only, she could not easily pretend. Happiness for Zip’s sake was effortless. Pretending her pockmarks had vanished? Not so easy, despite the Remoyan King’s unforeseen kindness.

Yet she possessed sight enough to imbibe the suns-set’s glory.

“Not so much,” she said lightly. “What did you mean, ‘faster than Shadow’? There’s no such concept in known physics.”

Obliquely, he said, “One of Hualiama’s lore-scrolls noted the slow melding of powers, especially in more powerful Shapeshifters, and the ability of the oath-magic to be called upon in times of duress, leading to unpredictable results. You Shadowed through your friend.” He chuckled deeply, “I even saw you hesitate, probably wondering what on the Islands was happening.”

Aranya sat puzzling over this. Ardan was right. Maybe she had become light’s converse, momentarily. She had called upon Ardan’s powers and partially passed through her best friend’s body, only she didn’t remember actually running or leaping those four or five long strides through the crowd to reach Zip. So the soldier must have seen her cloaked in Shadow, aye, and her use of Shadow power had brought her clothing with her, just like Ardan kept his ur-makka through transformation – no. Wait just a hummingbird’s wingbeat!

“The odd thing is, you didn’t call upon my power until you reached Zuziana,” Ardan added, putting words to the twisting constriction in her throat. “I’d know. I identified the precise millisecond of that demand upon my magic. The timing was skewed, exactly as that soldier said.”

“I-I d-did …” Her teeth were chattering too hard to speak. Her mind managed to yelp, Impossible!

The huge, black head curved back until the Dragon fixed Aranya with one eye, as pearlescent and hypnotic of fires as she had ever seen in the Shadow Dragon. Glints of the fiery suns-set appeared between his fangs as Ardan essayed a fierce, noble, lunatic grin.

“Tell me about impossible, Star Dragoness. Tell me all about it.”

Chapter 13: Southerly Spear

IF RI’ARION’s Blushing the following morning was any indicator, the wedding night had not deviated too far from plan. Princess Zuziana coyly bagged her monk, leaving his face exposed for a moment in order to provide him a parting smooch for his mind to hibernate upon. Once Zuziana had transformed, Dragoness-Aranya fastened the saddlebags to her friend’s back.

Aranya made sure she elbowed Zip sharply. “Smug.”

“Aranya! Not in front of my family.”

Zip, embarrassed? A novel idea. Aranya bent her gaze upon King Lorman, his wives and family, who had all turned out despite the early hour to wish them felicitous travels, the Remoyan expression for ‘farewell’. She growled, “If I have anything to say on the matter, o King –”

He bowed deeply. “We know. You’ll bring our Zuziana, and all you love, safe to home and hearth. Go burn a trail beyond the moons, Star Dragoness!”

The Azure Dragoness picked that moment to land a Dragon kiss right on top of her father’s head, pinching his crown in the process. “Felicitous rulings, Dad,” she quipped. “Oops. Er, want your crown back?”

The King retrieved his crown from its lodging-place upon one of her fangs. “Perhaps you intend to start a new fashion in Dragon-tooth jewellery?” He rolled his eyes comically. “Given as I now have a scandalous epidemic of headscarf-burning young women to deal with around Remoy, you’d best be off, you irrepressible rascals!”

With that, the three Dragons launched off the flat Palace roof, headed south over the fabulous ribbon-lakes surrounding Remoy. The family waved until the Dragons had to be mere specks in the sky; Aranya did not tease Zip about looking back until she developed a crick in her neck. She knew what it meant to turn one’s back on family and face an uncertain future.

Instead, she sidled up to Ardan. Let’s give them a proper send-off.

What do you have in mind, Immadia?

Together, she and Ardan fashioned a heart-shaped rainbow ten miles high and wide, with the word ‘Remoy’ written in five-mile-high, rainbow-hued runes right through the middle.

Zip startled and laughed happily. “Oh, you two patsies. It’ll be your turn next, mark my words.”

Suddenly, a huge body cut through the Cloudlands beneath them, as if an Island rose to bare its back to the softly spreading dawn. Leandrial’s great length breached the clean air briefly, dark and slick and monstrous, as if reaching for the five moons. Her answering laughter boomed over the rose-tinted Cloudlands; her light-cannon blazed briefly before she sounded, showing the way.

Leandrial cried, Fly like a southerly spear, Dragons!

“You know, all she’s missing is wings,” said Ardan. “I thought she required Islands to climb up above the Cloudlands, but no. Just a long run-up.”

“Follow on!” cried Zip, clearly overexcited. “Only seven days to the Rift!”

Sapphire returned to Aranya’s right shoulder as the Lesser Dragons accelerated into a long, shallow descent designed to eat into the many leagues still to travel. The dragonet clung on with fully extended talons, revelling in the strong breeze. Sapphire snapped up a few flying morsels, then just stood mouth-agape for fun, enjoying the way the wind buffeted her tongue and puffed out her cheeks.

Between Remoy and the Rift stood nothing but league upon league of open, storm-swept Cloudlands, notorious for their fickle weather and legendary monsters of the deeps. Few Dragonship Steersmen braved the westerly run to the sprawling Southern Archipelago, although Aranya understood that it was Human-inhabited by hardy frontier types fond of living in wild, primitive conditions. As the Archipelago curved westward toward Meldior and eventually, at least a month’s journey even by Dragon, reached Elidia, Mejia and Jeradia, it crossed a desert of Islands ravaged by Dramagon the Red’s legions of Anubam, the legendary rock-chewing Dragon worms. She had to wonder what truth had spawned that legend. Far more fable than fact lurked out here near the edge of her Island-World – her corner of the Island-World, compared to the mythical extent of Herimor.

True to form, the Cloudlands grew choppy and the winds spiteful just a few hours offshore of Remoy. A storm blew up magically out of nowhere. Ardan led the downward plunge beneath the scudding cloud-front. After the three smaller Dragons rejoined their own monster of the deep, Leandrial, they dived into the tail-end of the Urtuo-Jahû current.

“Just an offshoot of the main current,” the Land Dragoness corrected Zuziana’s misapprehension. “We should enjoy two days of helpful currents, then five days of more laborious and dangerous travel.”

Once more, they descended into the middle-lower layer to find the optimal travelling conditions in a world of murky blue, employing the warm, plant-rich flow of wind to sweep them along. Leandrial chewed happily on a plentiful supply of one of her favourite foods, wine-red berries half the size of Aranya, swept down from the sprawling reed-beds of the Middle Sea. Aranya, Zuziana and Ardan flew above or to the side of Leandrial’s head as she snaked languorously along the current, making occasional corrective paddles with her forelegs or changing the rippling action of her hindquarters and tail. In her native environment, she was graceful and quick, her enormous, streamlined tonnage supported by the air’s density and shunned by most predators – which were plentiful, and most dwarfed even Ardan, never mind Sapphire. The dragonet goggled at the sights, cooing and peppering Leandrial with questions.

What’s that, Li-Li? she asked, using her name for Leandrial.

That’s a paw-sized chunk of flaming chak-chak moss, little one. Tamped into a wound, it has fine healing properties.

And Li-Li, what’s that?

Stickleback constrictor flatworm, little one. It’s a parasite with a nasty habit of strangulating its victims, anything from the size of a Borer up to that school of marauding Soma-Terrors up there. See those ugly insects with the underslung mandibles and curved frontal fangs? Very poisonous. They sometimes infest Land Dragon wounds and their acidic bite is excruciatingly painful, often leading to necrotic or gangrenous secondary infections. Now, the treatment for such is …

Aranya glanced from the five hundred foot long flatworm to the school of nasties Leandrial pointed out. They came in a vile, luminous green with fangs longer than her entire wingspan. Great. Assume everything wanted to eat you down here? Aye, Leandrial. Sage advice.

Ooh, mountains, Li-Li.

We’ll see plenty more of those, Leandrial purred indulgently. By evening the day after tomorrow, we’ll reach the first of the impossible deeps, and the beginning of the Rift-cracks.

As they flew between ranks of under-Cloudlands peaks, Aranya realised that they were following a deeply-scored watercourse. They passed fantastical mountain landscapes of delicate, fluted violet columns, towering reddish cliffs and a place where a bright orange lava flow tumbled sluggishly down a series of mile-high rock steps to plunge into the water flow below – and what a flow, at least nine miles wide! That afternoon, the canyon broadened as an even larger river joined from the East, opening out onto a floodplain twenty leagues wide and hundreds long, populated by the silvery, metallic Rollers, a class of water-loving herbivores that – Zip chuckled at another Land Dragon literalism – rolled along the bottom using their spherical or conical bodies and steam propulsion powered by their proto-draconic fire stomachs. Their main defence was targeted jets of steam.

This floodplain eventually terminated in a waterfall twenty miles wide and eight tall, as the run-off from the Middle Sea roared into an immense lake – more an ocean, Leandrial shouted to them over the deafening thundering of the waters, an impossible deep which had been flooded over the aeons. Many hitherto unseen piscine, crustacean and insectoid forms of life inhabited this new realm.

The rumbling commotion followed them for many a mile as they flew above endless, almost black waters for the remainder of that day and most of the next two, stopping occasionally to rest on the jagged mountain peaks protruding from this underworld ocean. Their talk turned often to the conundrum of Thoralian – including his uncanny resemblance to Marshal Re’akka – and the clear evidence of commerce across the Rift, not least the treacherous Chameleon Shapeshifters of Herimor, and the poisons they had used to bring both Aranya and her mother down.

During one enforced sleep-time, as an electrical storm laden with magical overtones growled over the ocean and the smaller Dragons took refuge in a mountaintop cave, Aranya said, “I think I’ve finally worked it out. Thoralian, I mean.”

Zuziana lifted her head from a quick check of the hibernating monk, giving Aranya a droll whirl of her fire-eyes. “Aye?”

Just outside the cave, Leandrial murmured, “My ear-canals tingle in anticipation, Aranya.”

That was Land-Dragonese for, ‘explain in detail.’ She replied, “Actually, I’ve only put together what you’ve all been talking about, perhaps in a slightly different way. It seems evident that Thoralian or his sire must originate from Herimor. He’s never been Sylakian, my friends. His Dragon-form’s colour is so unusual, it is absent from any Dragon lore we could find, besides his colossal physical size. He possesses a combination of psychic powers of unusual character and unmatched expertise in the mental disciplines, together with the strategic skills you mentioned, Ardan – which taken together with the probable timeline, argue against Re’akka being his sire. And let’s not mention his abhorrent feeding habits.”

“To think I was about to accuse you of admiring the beast,” the Remoyan growled. “Could you check Ri’arion in a minute?”

“Sure, girlfriend.”

Ardan’s eyes flicked open to roll at the Dragonesses. As his charcoal colour blended almost perfectly with the gloom, the effect was almost as if a predator had sneaked up on them. Both Aranya and Zuziana startled crossly.

“Dragon powers do arise spontaneously, particularly in Lesser Dragons,” Leandrial pointed out. “Case in point, one Shadow Dragon.”

“You mentioned the highly sophisticated nature of Thoralian’s mental processes, Leandrial,” Aranya countered. “Mostly, I refer to Ardan’s comments yesterday on the unexpected rise of the Sylakian Empire. Let’s say Shapeshifters had been infiltrating Sylakia for years, perhaps decades. At some point after Shurgal stole the First Egg and whisked it off to Herimor, Shifters came North. Why? Easy conquest, perhaps. Or they were forced out. Both Shurgal and Thoralian have demonstrated the ability – a theoretical ability in Thoralian’s case, I’ll grant – to cross the Rift, where even Leandrial has failed. That suggests a type of magic which counteracts the Rift’s disruptive magic. Then, a miracle. Over a period of sixteen years, Sylakia developed from being a band of merry, bearded occasional pirates and hardened ale-drinkers to the dominant power in our third of the Island-World. They improved Dragonship and battle technology, and demonstrated long-term, strategic mastery and a level of drive that was never present before. They subtly, quietly, removed all opposing Shapeshifters and Lesser Dragons during their conquests. Thoralian could be a hundred years old. He could already have been some kind of Herimor potentate –”

“A powerful Marshal from one of the ancient Shapeshifter bloodlines,” Leandrial clarified. “Or, he’s the old Marshal’s shell-son, as we discussed before.”

“Aye. He’s battle-hardened. Cunning. Every action and counter-action thought through beforehand,” the Amethyst added.

Ardan’s eyes held an especial gleam for her as he pointed one dagger-sharp grey talon at Aranya. “Only, he failed to identify the disruptive factor. Fate’s wild rebuke.”

Zip chuckled, “Well, there’s a few titles I don’t believe Aranya’s ever heard before. Shut the jaw, petal. No, better still, finish your thought.”

“Perhaps he planned to invade Herimor from the North, or there was knowledge he sought,” Aranya said, trying to decide just how thoroughly to thrash Ardan for that comment. “Thoralian had been busy in the library at Gi’ishior, Ja’arrion said – they reported various important scrolls and manuscripts were missing. What I mean to say is, however, that Thoralian is likely to be returning to his ancestral power base. He’s not one lone Dragon bent on causing a ripple of discontent. He means to gain the First Egg, and for that reason, he’s off to war.”

“Cheery, but logical,” suggested Zip. “Leandrial, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”

“I can discern gemstone qualities,” she replied.

Zip preened. “Meaning, I’m quality. Thanks, Leandrial!”

“Not that sort of quality, you silly ralti sheep,” Aranya joshed her. “So, is it true that all the most powerful Dragons in Herimor hail from these bloodlines, noble Leandrial?”

The Land Dragoness said, “That’s my understanding. Herimor society is arranged very differently to what you might be used to. There is a complex class and caste system, ruled by the Marshals and Sub-Marshals at the top of the pile. Marshals can be Dragonkind, Shapeshifter or Human, but it’s generally agreed and historically demonstrable that Shapeshifters are preeminent in Herimor. They place great emphasis on good breeding and selection of potential mates. Often, royal young are thrust into year-group nurseries where they are expected to survive various trials or even to kill all of their siblings in order to demonstrate their worthiness to rule. Murder is not only tolerated, it is encouraged.”

“Unlike Remoy’s slightly different emphasis on breeding,” Ardan observed dryly.

The Azure Dragoness gnawed playfully on his left secondary wing-bone. “Aye? I was very selective, Ardan. Enchanter, powerful warrior, brain on legs –”

“Sexy sack of rocks for abdominals,” Aranya offered.

Zip just laughed. “Oh aye, that was my first and only criterion. You understand me so well, Immadia.”

“Can we not insult a man while he’s hibernating?” suggested Ardan.

The Land Dragoness said, “I approve of Aranya’s synthesis of ideas regarding Thoralian. Only I would add and emphasise, we must discover how Shurgal and Thoralian came by similar powers to conquer the Rift. I posit that urzul, the foul magic of the Theadurial, is our crucial clue. Further, we know not if Shurgal and Thoralian be foes or allies.”

“I’d generally assume the worst regarding those two,” Ardan growled, half-heartedly shoving the Azure Dragoness away. “Can I have my wing back, please?”

Aranya checked Ri’arion and Sapphire’s health, making the dragonet wriggle and squirm in her grasp. The monk seemed almost dead, but she found her magic could detect his deep life-processes. “Detox needed, all. Leandrial, do tell us more about this Herimor class system?”

“Below the ruling class of Herimor comes the warrior caste of battle-ready Dragons. Again, the more powerful rule the weaker,” Leandrial told them, as the Lesser Dragons worked through their exercises. “There are specific subclasses of Dragons and Humans bred for war – Granite Dragons, Lightning Dragons, scouts and spies, hunters, assassins, even Dragons that specialise in heavy haulage. There are all the usual merchants and artisans you’d expect, but they’re typically organised into Guilds, as I understand it. The Guilds command all practice and lore relating to particular skills, ranging from masonry to developing poisons, from farming to scholarly pursuits, and the like. A code of chivalry and honour commands much of daily life. I do not understand its many nuances, but I believe that war is often conducted in a staged fashion in order to minimise the impact on life. Champions fight champions, and suchlike.”

Ardan said, “All very good as long as we actually manage to reach Herimor. Can’t we just fly over the Rift-Storm, Leandrial?”

“When we arrive, you may make your own assessment,” said the Land Dragoness. “Perhaps Shadow power is the key to conquering the Rift. Think upon that, noble Dragon.”

As usual, the appellation ‘noble’ made the Shadow Dragon appear as if he were developing another infestation of the unmentionables. To her intense surprise, Dragoness-Aranya drew herself up and roared at him – with a fine mini-rendition of Fra’anior’s storm of thunder, lightning and smoke, “You are noble – you’re a Dragon, not a ralti sheep! Islands’ sakes, Ardan!”

Having skittered a hundred feet off with battle-ready reactions, the Shadow Dragon came thundering back with, “What’s the matter with you, Amethyst –”

“You! Will you just grow into your oversized paws for a change?”

Aranya did not flinch before the rage of a Dragon the better part of two and a half times her size. Suddenly, she collapsed in a fit of giggles. Ardan coughed and spluttered as he swallowed smoke into the wrong stomach, then burped up an outraged fireball.

Aranya flicked his nose pertly with her wingtip. “Aren’t Dragon arguments such fun, Ardan?”

“You … Dragoness!” His eyes bulged with all the pressure of fire and brimstone roiling inside of him.

“Dragoness indeed, noble Dragon. And don’t you forget it.”

* * * *

Departing the eerie ocean beneath the clouds at what passed for morning in this realm, Zuziana made a grim discovery. The far shore was littered with bones – Human-like bones. The three Lesser Dragons descended to examine them, with Leandrial trailing just behind. The obsidian shoreline seemed to merge with the opaque waters, rippling with wavelets half a foot tall. No doubt greater storms kicked up waves, Zip thought, spotting the high-tide marks further up the beach. Many of the bones had been smashed or splintered, but all the evidence pointed to a remarkable resilience to time’s depredations. Left and right, the bones littered the dark sand as far as the eye could see.

“Streamlined skulls with especially wide and deep eyes,” Ardan said, pointing delicately with his fore-talon. “I wish Ri’arion could see this. Take mental pictures, Zuziana. Look. They’ve strangely shaped thigh bones and, could these be fins in place of feet? Aquatic, water-dwelling Humans – down here?”

Leandrial said, “I’ve never heard of such a tribe or people group, yet the likeness to Human skeletal structures is unmistakable. Note the deeper and stronger chests, probably adapted for breathing water or at least, air under great pressure. They’d be nine or ten feet tall, including additional leg joints and tail structures, even though the torso is roughly of Human dimensions. And see here? This one was killed by a spear.”

The Azure Dragoness reached down to delicately pluck the spear-point from its lodging-place between a pair of ribs clearly cracked by the impact. “What a peculiar design. I’ve never seen the like.”

“We’ll put it in your packs for safekeeping,” Aranya decided.

“Careful with my bag-man. I don’t want a shield-breach.”

“And you call me soppy, Zippy?” The Amethyst fussed with Zip’s Dragon-friendly buckles. “I’ve tucked it in here with my grandmother’s scale.”

“Don’t stand on the bones, Leandrial,” Ardan cautioned.

She paused mid-step, one great paw hovering three hundred feet overhead. “They’re bones, little one.”

“We don’t desecrate bones,” he said. “Nor do the Lesser Dragons above the clouds. No mind, Leandrial. Shall I tell you a few of our traditions regarding bones?”

“How astutely you judge my desires, mighty Shadow Dragon,” rumbled Leandrial, stretching her legs to take a monstrous step out of the ocean, over the beach and a goodly ways beyond. There was something mind-blowing about not measuring up to this creature’s ankle-bone, Zip decided. It certainly kept Lesser Dragons from thinking too much of themselves!

Yet a pensive mood overtook her that day. Perhaps it was the fate of a people lost to time and memory. So many deaths. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands had perished upon that dark shore. Could it mean that people had once lived in deeps like this? That they had been overcome by an unimaginable doom?

They flew up and over a deep purple mountain range that towered three and a half leagues above the beach of bones, yet did not come close to breaching the opaque Cloudlands. Zip might have imagined they simply flew beneath a permanently overcast sky, were it not for the pressure, eerie landscapes and distinctive predators. Perhaps Aranya thought the same, she observed. Her friend suffered from severe, constant headaches, and there was an inexplicable turmoil in the Immadian Princess and around her that kept Leandrial complaining of disturbances in the aether and baffling storm weather.

Daughter of Storm? Zip’s wings shivered lightly. Aye.

The following day, the four companions launched out over an impossible deep; a canyon so profound, the blue merged into blackness far below their steadily-descending flight. The cliff they left in their wake was the greatest the Lesser Dragons had seen yet, a jaw-dropping, unrelieved precipice of roughly eighteen miles, and the impossible deep shelved off still further below that. In several places, water from the ocean they had left behind jetted through tall cracks, creating slow-falling, plumy white waterfalls of a stature that beggared belief.

Leandrial quickly dropped two leagues, conserving magic and energy as she allowed the air density to stabilise her weight, before they paddled out into the vast blue world, travelling three to four leagues below the shadowy heights. The patches of shihurior were few and far between and visibility poor, so that it seemed they travelled through a dead, gloomy realm shunned by living things.

After crossing the impossible deep, Leandrial walked up a five-mile cliff carpeted in slowly waving yellow ferns, whereupon they launched out once more into a blasted wilderness of poisonous, luminous fungi and lichen-like plants that furred every crack and surface of the deeply fissured landscape. The smell of rot and decay permeated even their shields. Repeatedly, Leandrial urged the Lesser Dragons to check their shield-filters and magical protections, and to combat the sharply escalating levels of toxins in the environment. Sapphire stuck very close to Aranya, having mislaid her typical dragonet zip and bounce.

Progress became a steady push against contrary breezes. That push developed quickly into a struggle as the weather took a turn for the dangerous – currents, counter-currents and wind-shear attacking the Dragons from every conceivable angle. Leandrial might have been large, but even she was not immune. Shoals of giant, marauding crustaceans were the main menace. The dull yellow Spider-Crabs, as Zip dubbed them, attacked the Dragons with flurries of grapnels attached to silken ropes and sharp pinpricks of their native magic, propelling themselves rapidly through the air with bursts of their flat tails. Leandrial’s paws and talons soon became clogged with dangling crustaceans; losing patience, she occasionally turned to clean them off with irritated blasts of her eye-cannon. Aranya, Zip and Ardan had to keep a sharp watch for the perennially aggressive pests.

During their sixth day’s travel from Remoy’s shores, Ardan began to sniff about suspiciously.

Zip said, “You smell that – strange magic?”

“I don’t smell anything,” said Aranya. “I feel peculiar, though.”

“Has the pox affected your sense of smell?” growled Ardan.

“No!” Aranya glared at them both, before her head dropped. “Alright, maybe – don’t ruddy well stare. It’s just another side-effect, one I didn’t grasp until now …” Zip’s hearts, three in concert, turned over as Aranya muttered, “Curse that Thoralian! Must he take everything?”

Zip made to wing over, but Aranya jinked away. For the first time, Zuziana felt a stab of anger at her friend. Was she the only one who had suffered? No! Her own torso was a shameful mass of scar tissue; Ri’arion had treated her tenderly, but Zip had requested that the lamps be blown out before he saw her – besides, her best friend should be more gracious. Right then, Zip just wanted to belt Aranya and shout, ‘Get over your misery!’ Worse, the way Aranya treated gallant Ardan! Although, did she detect a thawing of the Northern icicle in that territory?

Right. As her mothers would say, she who aimed her forefinger in accusation, had better heed the three fingers pointed back at her own heart.

Leandrial said, “Little ones, what you sense is the disruptive magic and Disharmony of the Rift-Storm. I would value your analysis of this phenomenon before we attack it. I suggest that tomorrow morning, you three take a trip to view the Rift-Storm from above the Cloudlands. Wake your monk; demand his inputs. We need to develop the best possible strategy, and employ the Nameless Man’s powers during the crossing.”

Zip had a high opinion of Ri’arion, but she was surprised the mighty, self-sufficient Land Dragoness would admit her need so openly. Could she protect Ri’arion enough inside a shield-bubble? Worrying about him caused a reflexive flurry of lightning to greet the next attack of Spider-Crabs. Ardan jumped fifty feet sideways before catching himself with an irascible, choked-off battle-roar.

Aranya, observing this, said, “Interesting. Do you think it’s possible for a shield to absorb magical energy and reflect it, like Hualiama said in her scrolls?”

Leandrial immediately bugled her approval. “Aye! A noble pursuit!”

And she fell at once to discussion with Aranya. The small Azure peered ahead, sharing an apprehensive glance with the Shadow Dragon. That rumbling. Aye, they were starting to feel the presence of the Rift-Storm, and they were still more than three hundred leagues distant.

She bit back a few choice expletives. Ri’arion hated swearing. What he would appreciate, was the input of every draconic sense she had. Together with her companions, she began to catalogue what she sensed, and was soon embroiled in the rapid-fire telepathic communication of Dragons as they tossed ideas about with stormy abandon – only their storm was all in the mind.

The Rift was physical, inimical and deeply disquieting.

* * * *

Together with the two Dragonesses, Ardan raised his head above the ash-grey Cloudlands that evening, just a few minutes before suns-set. They drew sharp breaths.

For a moment, it seemed to Ardan that the world had tipped on its side, that he was seeing a crazy replication of the Cloudlands in the vertical plane. Then, Zip whispered, “The Rift-Storm.”

His neck-vertebrae protested as Ardan looked left and right, then up. And up. And up.

“Unholy, spitting windrocs!” the Azure spluttered, vocalising all of their thoughts.

A wall of crimson fire and sooty black cloud spanned the horizon. Seen from this close vantage-point, the Shapeshifter Dragons perceived how the fabled Rift-Storm curved gradually southward in a vast, shallow arc, just as the scrolls had noted, making Remoy one of the closest Islands to the Rift despite it lying at a latitude hundreds of leagues more northerly than the Southern Archipelago. The visceral shock was the way those sinister, red-tinted clouds billowed continually toward the sky, creating an unbroken rampart of tempest from the roots of the world to the skies above – attaining heights of between fourteen and fifteen leagues, Ardan estimated. Over half the height of the fabled Rim-Wall Mountains, and three times and more a Dragon’s maximum flying altitude.

The oily fires raged upward without pause or reason, bespeaking the unthinkable, hellish underlying volcanic activity that must spawn this phenomenon. Disturbing magic chilled his spine-spikes; judging by Aranya’s paw-curling reaction, she sensed the same. The Amethyst winced as peals of thunder resounded from the otherwise clear skies. Storm.

Ardan bared his fangs in concern. The storm grows within you, Aranya.

Aye. Something is amiss. The Amethyst Dragoness examined the Rift-Storm pensively. Could it be our proximity to this abnormal magic? Or is it me, Ardan? Last time …

We’ll work it out, Ardan and Zip growled simultaneously.

Aranya chuckled at their expressions. Alright. Is either of you my friend, perchance?

Just then, Ri’arion stirred in the saddlebag Aranya had opened for Zip, and peered out. He blinked. Slowly, the monk’s head tilted over to the side as he stared at the storm for several minutes, unblinking. No-one spoke.

He groaned, “What is this?”

“Alright, monk-love?” Zip crooned. “Awake and …” her voice trailed off.

The monk continued to stare as if he had seen his own soul walk out of his flesh. His cheeks lost any hint of colour. Eventually, he hissed, “Right. Confession time, you motley band of jokers. Who dumped the sky on its backside?”

Chapter 14: Riding the Storm

GRIMly, the six travellers conferred that evening after viewing the Rift-Storm, and examining it with every sense and technique at their disposal.

Sapphire chirped, Bad magic. Scared. Sapphire help Ari?

Thank you. Aranya stroked the dragonet’s skull-ruff with her fore-talon. Why did you ever choose me, Sapphire? Aren’t I a pain?

Big Onyx order, claimed Sapphire, then fell about in a fit of trilling giggles at Aranya’s choked wheeze. Jokey-jokes? Good joke?

Aranya could only splutter incoherently, for she realised the dragonet might be speaking more truth than she knew.

“So we’re agreed?” asked Ri’arion. “We go in hard and fast, trying Ardan’s Shadow magic first. We’ll also work with Leandrial to counter the disruptive magic we’ve all sensed in that storm. The Rift-Storm is said to be a mere –” his smile flattened into an even dourer line than before “– two hundred and fifty leagues across. Like chewing a piece of sweetbread.”

“Funny,” Ardan grunted.

“You and Leandrial will work together in the mind-meld to perform countermeasures?” Aranya asked.

The Nameless Man made an inviting sweep of his hand. “Aye. We haven’t talked about your contribution, Aranya. If you have any Star Dragoness tricks up your scaly sleeves –”

“– like re-Balancing the entire Rift, say?” Zuziana quipped lightly.

Starlight purify shields, the dragonet said unexpectedly. The wry chuckles around the group stuttered as everyone turned to gape at Sapphire. She preened immodestly. Sapphire best-brains.

“Never underestimate the manifold wisdom of the smallest!” Ardan said feelingly, tapping Sapphire with his right wingtip. Awesomeness on wings, you are. He added, “What do you think, Amethyst-eyes? Fancy infusing our shields with starlight, or having one of your mystical conferences with the Great Onyx?”

“Both,” she replied, still staring at her dragonet. Holy smoking … whatever! Sapphire, you’ve given us hope.

Yet she knew that they needed more than hope.

* * * *

Ensconced once more in the pocket of Leandrial’s cheek in order to save her strength, Aranya set her mind to dreaming about the greatest Onyx Dragon of all, Fra’anior. He was no nightmare. He had bellowed at her because she had avoided listening to his voice.

This night, however, she spent tossing and turning as the raging thunder of Fra’anior’s voices merged with the nearing roar of the Rift-Storm. Her dreams were tormented. Endless chasing. Endless falling through storms where the voice of the Great Onyx battered and bruised her body without respite. Try as she might, Aranya could not understand his bellowing – a caution about oath-magic? Betrayal by starlight? His voice rose and fell like a furnace’s song. Throbbing. Growling. Crackling like rock giving way beneath the brunt of an earthquake’s force. She screamed, cried and fought …

She sensed Leandrial’s soothing, but the dreams gripped her like a Dragon’s merciless talons. On the cusp of imagining she should shed her very scales in terror, Aranya slipped instead, into peace.

Unexpected, wholesome peace; soul-deep.

The laughter of starlight.

Who had spoken? She glanced about, as confused as a rajal chasing butterflies. She was cupped in a small pocket of soft, violet Dragon hide, its innate density shielding her from the buffeting that impacted a much larger body without. Oh. She lay inside her friend’s cheek, of course. And she felt as if she had spent a few days being repeatedly punched by a Land Dragon. Ugh.

Aranya coughed, Uh … Leandrial, was that you?

Was what who? chuckled the Land Dragoness, but Aranya heard strain-indicators behind her light-hearted comment. Guiltily, she realised her physical Storm had assaulted her friend.

Sorry. Someone said, ‘The laughter of starlight.’

Not me, said Leandrial. Hearken with your inmost fires. I’m about to call in our companions. We’re ten leagues from entering the Rift-Storm.

I – what?

You slept a whole day, little one. Twenty-seven hours. Her Dragonish softened, developing additional motherly-concern nuances. You must have needed respite, yet your dreams … her inward fire-shudder communicated much.

What could she say? Warm, orange tones of gratitude shaded her telepathic Dragonish as Aranya breathed, Thanks, Leandrial. I mean it.

I know, little one. Gratitude-reflection upon thee, who hath lifted a Land Dragoness from the mire with true-fires friendship. Never shall it be forgotten. With a curl of mischief-indicators shading her Dragonish like dancing dragonets, the old Dragoness added, Perhaps, for reason of thy heart, I should start to call thee, ‘great one’. It suits.

Aranya laughed uncomfortably. Would that I might step into such largeness of paw one day, Leandrial.

I join my fires to this endeavour, Leandrial replied, with a further atypical genuflection of her inner being. An oath-wish? Aranya did not understand the nuances communicated by her action, a spreading and fluttering of her fires, as if the Dragoness herself had grown spirit-wings.

With that, the pocket drew open upon the strange realm of Leandrial’s broad, flat tongue, which formed the floor of her mouth-cavern. The roof – her palette – was a luminous, very light purple similar to the plumage of the young terhals of Immadia, producing a soft radiance by which Aranya could make out many details, from the blocky molars with what appeared to be half a tree stuck between them, midway down the starboard side, to the exact patterning of the taste buds, smell bulbs and electrical-sensor-inlets upon her purple tongue’s surface. Interestingly, her highly elastic, prehensile tongue hinged from the front, allowing the Land Dragoness to snare potential food with a muscular movement that she described as snap-snaffle-swallow.

After checking that her talons were sheathed, Aranya stepped out onto Leandrial’s tongue. There had to be a balladeer’s dream in this moment, she decided, parading with queenly grace – and making herself chuckle in the doing – over to the stuck morsel.

Calling the dental surgeon, she said.

What silliness are you perpetrating this time, Aranya? Leandrial inquired.

Human-Aranya would have stood no chance of removing the stem of whatever plant it had been; Dragoness-Aranya arched her back beneath it, and pried the three-foot thick length free with a single, powerful flexion of her muscles.

Ah! Leandrial exclaimed. So that’s what kept me from conquering the Rift last time!

To the tune of their mingled laughter, Ardan, Sapphire, Zip and Ri’arion entered Leandrial’s mouth.

“Fra’anior spoke?” the monk asked at once, as direct as a flying arrow.

Aranya began to shake her head, then arrested the movement. Nothing carved in granite, Ri’arion, but there was something – if I could just remember it – and the briefest of inputs I think, and a message which I believe came from Hualiama.

Which was? Zip prompted.

Ah … ‘the laughter of starlight.’

She could have split Islands with the growls that emanated from the Shadow and the Azure, but Sapphire trilled brightly, Hoo-lee spoke! Is enough, yes, yes, yes?

Ri’arion fished for flies as he followed this. At length he grumbled, “Your Aunt prescribes a diet of laughter for the greatest magical storm in the Island-World and a dragonet understands more than any of us? You should meditate upon the Dragonfriend’s teachings, Aranya, rather than sleeping the days away.”

Aranya flashed a few dozen fangs at him. “Great leaping Islands, I’ll try to remember your advice next time Fra’anior won’t leave well enough alone!”

The beat of Leandrial’s tail picked up as the Land Dragoness accelerated. Meantime, she tucked Ardan into one of the twenty-five cheek-pockets that lined either side of her mouth, and drew him into the mind-meld. Ri’arion lost interest in baiting Aranya, concentrating instead on instructing Ardan so that he and Leandrial could achieve a deeper level of trust and sharing.

With Leandrial’s resources underpinning his effort, Ardan’s uncanny Shadow power enveloped the group. Aranya had a sense of fading into nothingness. In reality, she knew she still stood paws-akimbo upon Leandrial’s tongue, but her brain insisted there was no substance; at once, she saw through the Land Dragoness’ lips, teeth and hide to the landscape beyond. How? An image of teeth and jawbones seemed superimposed upon the terrifying storm ahead. Leandrial had dived deep, the best way to start, she claimed.

Ahead, fire jetted from a jagged crack in the black basal rock with huge force. The stench of taint was heavy in her nostrils, but more so, the awareness of disturbance in the aether. Aranya’s scales crawled as if stroked by enormous, ice-cold talons.

Quick, to my cheek-pockets, Leandrial commanded. The entry will be rough …

Amethyst and Azure managed to scramble into the same pocket, along with Sapphire. Aranya saw the monk’s faint outline above Zuziana’s shoulders and brought him down lest the enfolding Dragon hide squash him – or could it, in a realm of Shadow? Zip drew him gratefully in her paws; the monk gave no sign of being aware that he had been moved.

Their shields drew together. Heat. Pressure. A resilient force-distribution mechanism to spread the impact of conflicting forces along Leandrial’s great length, or she would be torn limb from limb. Leandrial had adapted the shaped aerodynamic shielding to best suit her. Aranya sensed the Land Dragoness’ mind checking over the shield-constructs one last time as she neared the wall, thrusting with her utmost power, a synchronised action of all four legs and her lashing tail.

Like the largest spear in existence, one and a half miles of Land Dragon plunged into the Rift-Storm.

An upward-rushing waterfall of fire snatched them away.

* * * *

The Azure Dragoness had imagined nothing could move the mighty mountain of Dragonflesh that was Leandrial. She had braced for an explosion. Instead, a prolonged, rising hissing sound developed as an orange and vermilion waterfall streamed over and around Leandrial’s body. An ultra-low rumbling shook her entire length. Heat enveloped them. Then, the Rift’s fires began to crumble their shields. Ardan and Ri’arion set about shoring up the defences at once.

Long minutes crawled by as the ambient temperature rapidly escalated. Leandrial swam powerfully, aiming not to be dragged too high, for if they struck one of the maelstroms, too much of a drop could kill her. The Land Dragoness’ great body juddered under the increasingly powerful assault, as if she were being pummelled from without by Shurgal himself. Meantime, she and the Amethyst tried to make sense of the disruptive magic. Was it sound? Impact? A wholly magical contagion? Certainly, it was far more complex than mere fire.

It’s unravelling constructs faster than they can rebuild them, said Aranya. This is what I see, Zip.

Zip inspected a highly-focussed close-up of the shield magic. To Aranya’s sight, magic was comprised of a very fine meshwork of threads … no, runes? Aranya took her closer. Look at how each thread is a poetic expression of magical language, as if this language comprises the very atomic structures and forces Leandrial spoke of … I do not understand how, but our presence and powers shape and mould this language, this expression of white-fires. Zuziana chewed her forked tongue thoughtfully. This was how a Star Dragoness saw her world? Very different to Leandrial. Together, they pointed to linkages and interdependencies and nuances in the great tapestry of magical language.

While they cogitated, their companions fought an unequal battle. It’s far worse than the last time I entered, Leandrial gasped, mining her magic deeply. I can’t cope much longer. We have to reach the maelstrom, the one-third point … hold, Aranya! Save your strength!

The Amethyst Dragoness paused. A small experiment?

WAIT!

The shaking worsened steadily, pounding Leandrial side-to-side and upward, always upward. Even the Shadow-effect of Ardan’s magic could not protect her from the Rift-Storm, for its innate magic seemed inimical to all forms of draconic magic. Disharmony. Disintegration. Destruction. Ardan growled expletives beneath his breath, trying to hold together, but he battled an endless flood. His Shadow flickered.

Ardan growled, Help me, Ri’arion … no … an explosion without rattled them all.

The Azure Dragoness could not believe how quickly his strength waned – Aranya muttered that they had been inside for over two hours, and swum twenty-five leagues. Their great companion still moved strongly … BOOM! BOOM! Leandrial groaned. The explosions came with more frequency now. All she saw without was fire. Rivers of fire. An upside-down torrent of fierce orange fire, as if they swam into the roasting heart of a volcano. Heat built upon heat despite their best protections.

The Shadow Dragon groaned again, in real pain now, but he still had strength enough to push aside Aranya’s tentative mental touch. No! He concentrated fiercely.

Suddenly, they entered a region of violent wind-shear. Zuziana’s stomachs leaped into her throat as Leandrial first dropped precipitously, before splashing down upon a huge, swelling bubble of bright yellow magma. BOOM! She tumbled into space. House-sized boulders peppered their shield, followed by a curling wave of white-hot, molten metal that dragged the Land Dragoness down again. Ri’arion helped to steady and phase the shields; Leandrial’s challenge roared forth as she shook free and resumed the beating action of her feet and tail.

Again and again, explosions pummelled them, twice sending the entire Land Dragon muzzle-over-paws into raging canyons of fire. She recovered each time, but the effort cost her dearly.

After three and a half hours of struggling into the teeth of the Rift-Storm, Leandrial was spent. Haven’t even come as far as last time, she gasped. Maelstrom … ahead. Too high.

Zuziana was wishing she knew what Leandrial meant by the ‘maelstrom’, when without warning, the Land Dragoness’ head and shoulders suddenly punched into space. Half of their shield evaporated instantly.

Disruption! The shrieking backlash of lethal magic concussed both Ri’arion and Ardan as if their candlewicks had been snuffed by the pinch of monstrous talons. The Rift-Storm’s voice was an unimaginable, shrieking turmoil; its heart a vortex of yellow-orange lava-froth forty leagues wide and ten deep. The brief glimpse she caught before Ardan’s Shadow-power vanished and the scene with it, showed them an estimated six leagues up the side wall of a churning, apparently bottomless whirlpool of hellish fire.

Hold on, Leandrial! cried the Amethyst.

* * * *

This was the place. If they could reach one of the pumice-like Islands she had spotted floating on the maelstrom’s surface, Aranya reasoned, Leandrial could rest. The Rift-Storm would shred their magic like a Dragon sieving soft flesh with his talons, but physical rest was possible.

As Beran liked to say, first problems first.

Before actual wisdom interfered, the Amethyst Dragoness seized the remnant of their shield in her mind and contorted it enthusiastically in an unexpected direction. Backward.

BRRROAARRR … Leandrial roared, mouth momentarily agape, as an area of low pressure developed at her tail and ultra-high pressure at her head. She squeezed backward like sugar bamboo being pressed through rollers to extract sap.

Steady as she goes, Helmsman! Aranya sang out.

She had the impression the Azure was gaping at her somewhere in the semidarkness inside Leandrial’s cheek-pocket, but the Land Dragoness voiced a mighty guffaw of rough and pained conception, before awkwardly paddling backward and downward in a corkscrewing motion, keeping her tail as stiff as a spear – a southerly spear. Downward. The starlight-infused penetrative shield teased aside just enough of the Rift’s hostile magic to succeed. Aranya could not understand the opposing forces, a mixture of stormy earthen-fire, physical winds that struck a shrill note of never-ending pain, as though the Island-World itself suffered a ghastly eruption of its bowels, and arcane magic – always the boisterous, caustic magic. The Rift-Storm’s perturbation was so deep-seated, it attacked her magic at the most elemental level, as if its very nature were – she grappled with the problem, meantime goggling at the rapid drain on her resources – antithetical. Forces so opposed, the mere juxtaposition of their existence resulted in mutual annihilation.

Inspiration! Could she imitate this magic, thereby cloaking them in deceit? No, they’d all be torn apart in the doing. Ugh. Thrusting that prekki-fruit mush aside, the Dragoness returned to her work.

Almost an hour later, when Leandrial adjudged the time to be right, they reverted to their previous configuration. With a dozen or so swishes of her mighty tail, Leandrial drove through the fierce wash and out upon the maelstrom.

Great grafting, Aranya, Ardan hissed tiredly.

Aye, top work, said Zuziana, plainly disgruntled. Remoy sits on her duff while the boys are fainting left and right and the Star Dragoness’ backwards logic sucks us down the proverbial plughole. At least we can conclude that Thoralian is disgusting enough to perfectly suit this Rift-magic.

Aranya heard Ri’arion slapping his Dragoness’ hide. Easy, Azure. We’ll need your strength yet, since us boys did such stellar work on the first leg. Almost had us killed.

They gazed about as Ardan turned Leandrial’s flesh semi-transparent once more, giving them a view through her clenched teeth to the whirling outskirts of the maelstrom. The dark centre moved at a dangerous speed, swirling downward with a lusty howl audible even over the Rift-Storm’s natural voice. The maelstrom’s surface bubbled and bulged ominously, like a terrace lake troubled from beneath, creating huge patches of orange-white foam that smoked and frothed and churned constantly. At its circumference, the storm’s edges rose upward abruptly as though sheared by a knife. Streamers and gobbets of strangely glutinous, red-laced fire peeled off these fiery cliffs to shower slowly into the great cauldron. Higher still, the cloud-ceiling was a filthy, sooty grey-black, like the residue of burning oil.

Leandrial swam a quarter-mile inward before allowing the tide to take control. Then, she rested her limbs.

No need to rush this part, the Land Dragoness said. No Islands, though. Last time there were –

Swim, Leandrial! yelled Aranya. Go!

The titan bellowed, What? Where’s the danger?

Straight up!

Aranya’s world tilted as Leandrial cast her eye-beam upward. A flat, metallic disk punched through the streaming fires three miles overhead. Already it shaded them as its nose tilted downward with ponderous majesty.

What the hells is that? Ardan bellowed.

An Island … thing! Metal! Leandrial panted, stirring the mixture beneath her belly with great strokes of her cupped paws.

Aranya linked in with the Land Dragoness, welcoming her great, shining presence at the edge of her mind. Instinctively, they shaped the shield once more. Pneumatic elements could ease the movement of her legs through the dense, liquescent substrate, and further, Aranya increased the size of her paddles on each downstroke. Leandrial’s molars ground together as the Dragoness applied her titanic muscles to swimming; Aranya tasted Ardan’s dark strength, Sapphire’s tickling laughter-magic, and Zuziana’s signature touch of blue lightning against her mind as she forced her own Storm inward. Use it all! Rage, winds!

The Land Dragon’s heaving chest began to throw out a bow-wave as she accelerated.

She glanced up. The Island shifted steadily to mirror their evasive movement … Stinking windrocs, it’s chasing us! Aranya’s mental voice hit a shrill note of shock. Faster, Leandrial!

Ardan growled, Ruddy wings would help …

Fins! Zuziana put in. Aranya, try this!

Aranya gasped. Turn Leandrial into a Dragonship? Excellent! In Zip’s vision, ailerons similar to a Dragonship’s adjustable steerage equipment lifted the Land Dragoness out of the gloopy fire dragging at her torso … at the speed of thought, she adjusted Leandrial’s shield-profile to conform to the clear objective in her mind, instantly refined by Zip, Ri’arion and Leandrial working in concert. The Dragoness’ massive tonnage surged upward as the ailerons solidified, borne upon paws that stabbed six hundred feet deep with every stroke. Her chin lifted. Leandrial’s body seemed to lengthen as the fires reluctantly sucked away.

The Amethyst Dragoness began to laugh. Fly, Leandrial! Faster! Spread your wings! She drew wings in her mind, great spreading white wings that flowered out of the Dragoness’ flanks, entirely formed of starlight magic. Beautiful, functional ailerons. Fly, o magnificent Dragoness!

The grey Island poured down toward them upon a bed of fire, as though it created a crimson comber for its own use; Leandrial glided ahead of it, running upon her talon-tips.

How Aranya chuckled! Hualiama? Is this you?

Very nearly, the great Dragoness flew – she skim-glided across the maelstrom, heading in a wide curve around to the southerly side to avoid the centre’s irresistible flow. The metal Island showed no such compunction. Dipping down until it skimmed across the surface, it accelerated on the inner track, catching the fleeing Dragoness with ease. Aranya half-expected the Island to grow a vast maw or tentacles, but when its denizens appeared, she experienced a greater shock than any so far. People! Grey, Human-like creatures bounded off the Island’s flanks with palpable joy and abandon, skidding and skating over the flames upon wide, spatulate feet. They had no eyes, but their humanoid nature was clear. Heads, pumping arms and skating legs were all present. Their skins were a smooth, seamless grey, as if they were encased in metal, or …

ENTIRELY METALLOID BEINGS! Leandrial shouted, deafening them all in her excitement. AMAZING!

At her shout, the metallic beings scattered across the heated foam, and then converged again. The Amethyst Dragoness frantically shored up their failing shields. Grief, with so much happening, she had failed to recognise the toll taken on all of the Lesser Dragons, not to mention Leandrial. Pushing this amount of complex magic about had drained their gourds to the dregs.

Suddenly, telepathic utterances pattered against her mind like soft, plinking rain.

<?Speaking-things?>

<!Concept: non-dwellers yet fire-born!>

<?Confusion?>

<!Excitement-fires-inside kin-creatures!>

They speak some kind of draconic proto-language, Ri’arion gasped, in exact concert with Leandrial.

I’ll try to speak to them. Aranya tried, <Frib-frib> … <Fingle> … <!Friends!>

Her fumbling attempt at communication caused the metalloid creatures to explode in delight. Somersaults ensued. Fancy spins. They indulged in froth-skimming and handstands and intrepid leaps up toward Leandrial’s flanks. Then, with bewildering speed, commands pinged between the creatures. Metallic ropes rose as if by magic – of course, magic, the Immadian admonished herself – from the blistering orange-white foam to entangle Leandrial’s’ legs! None of them could have arrested what followed. Snarled up, Leandrial’s muzzle dipped to snag in the flaming lake; subsequently, the entire length of the Dragoness’ body flipped up into the air. There was a dreadful pause in which everyone braced for the worst and in Sapphire’s case, screamed.

Then, they landed as if cushioned on clouds. The Island scooped them up and hurried off around the maelstrom. Unhurt. Baffled. Leandrial was not tied or otherwise encumbered; the ropes simply vanished, leaving her to squirm to her paws with a venomous hiss.

It was not every day someone casually flipped a Land Dragoness off of her paws.

Uh … I’m not sure that’s my exact definition of ‘friends’, Zuziana griped for them all. Right, everyone – heads, wings, paws, check?

I can’t feel the disruptive magic, Ardan said.

They all froze, thinking the same: had Thoralian or Shurgal taken a ride through the Rift-Storm on one of these?

No, the power drain continues, said Leandrial, but nothing like before. I’m convinced that –

Here they come! Shields! Ri’arion shouted. What the blazes – Aranya, stop!

The Amethyst called over her shoulder, I’m off to make friends. Show them your tonsils, Leandrial.

What are tonsils? asked the Land Dragoness.

* * * *

Thankfully, Ardan thought, Aranya was not even slightly the fool his gut-reaction painted her. Although he modified his thoughts hastily, a mental snap of her fangs confirmed his secret was no secret. This quality in Aranya of seizing life by the scruff of its protesting neck and giving it a firm shake, never failed to give him the hot and cold shivers. Didn’t she understand, ‘take a rest?’ Scarily focussed, Zip had said, adding that her friend sometimes needed to be surprised out of her ultra-intense, resolute mindset.

The Amethyst whipped out of Leandrial’s mouth and winged down to the Haven’s blistering surface.

The Shadow Dragon joined Aranya’s mind as she began to bat thought-monads about with the metallic beings. He became aware of Ri’arion, Zip and Leandrial all looking on with interest; Aranya developed a thumping headache as she puzzled out their form of communication, which was not at all unintelligible, just … ideas in different packaging, as he understood it. Ardan had assumed Ri’arion would assume the role of chief linguist, but his lack of interference suggested that the Princess was doing a creditable job. She identified the Foam-Riders and teased out their motivation for snagging the Land Dragon with their Haven – the hollow metal plate which served as their base for surfing the Rift-Storm. At her request, the metalloid creatures explained that ‘surfing’ was the action of riding fire-currents just as flesh-enclosed fire-spirits – that would be Lesser Dragons – rode the ‘deathly open air’ upon their wings. Apparently, these Foam-Riders were perfectly adapted to living in their native environment.

Ardan gritted his fangs. If only!

Now, Aranya questioned how they resisted the disruptive magic, a concept the Foam-Riders did not initially grasp. They kept insisting <!metal!> and <!metal-fire-inside!>, by which Zuziana’s mental voice quietly concluded that these creatures must not only be fire-dwellers, but also harboured fire within their bodies, like Dragons. Perhaps that was what kept their metal fluid enough for movement, Ri’arion theorised. Up close, the metalloid creatures were ferociously hot, at least one thousand two hundred degrees, Leandrial’s full-spectrum analysis revealed.

The Amethyst Dragoness formally requested the Foam-Riders’ help in crossing the Rift, which immediately split them into visibly argumentative groups.

Several raised their arms threateningly, shouting, <?Kill-confusion?> and <?See-other-four-paw-cross?> Other grey beings intervened, clearly seeking to protect the unflinching Amethyst Dragoness. The two groups spat gobbets of molten metal at each other, shouting, <!Clarify-first!>

<!Bad-bad-evil!> roared a group of Foam-Riders.

<!No-kill!> Aranya returned. <!We-go, you!> Drat, can’t get this … <!You-stay, we-leave!>

<?Concept: Ride-far?> asked the Foam-Riders.

Another creature kicked Aranya’s tail with its foot, making her jump. <!Danger: Storm Elementals. No-ride-far!> This provoked a chorus of agreement.

<?Clarify?> asked Aranya, flinching as all of her friends, including Sapphire, piled in to shout questions about the reference to the other ‘four-paws’ – which had to be Shurgal or Thoralian, or both. Ardan uncharitably decided the Amethyst looked as if she had wasps in her ear-canals, shaking her muzzle about. Angrily, she cried, <!We-friendly-no-trouble!>

<!Chief-fires-decide!>

Leandrial flexed her talons against the metal disk. By shielded telepathy, she said, I’m not at all certain I fancy this idea. Be alert, little ones.

With that, the Foam-Riders began to dance in a frenzy akin to the fiery foam their name evoked. Dozens of new Riders squeezed up out of the surface of the great metal disk, an oval Island in its own right, measuring roughly two miles wide by five long. These more silvery Foam-Riders were apparently comprised of an alloy as fine as the best scimitar-steel Ardan had ever seen; faceless, but clearly intelligent, and able to navigate the Rift-Storm.

<!Sweepers-ready!> the new group cried in a single voice.

They raised their arms skyward. <!Heave-sweep-ho!> Pause. <!Heave-sweep-ho!> Quickly, a chant developed that literally picked up their Island Haven and whirled it around the maelstrom, aiming for the western periphery. Ardan noticed Leandrial digging in her talons, able to grip even metal, while she marshalled her depleted magic.

Aye, Ardan thought, assessing his companions’ condition with a jaundiced eye. Aranya was about to drop, Ri’arion sported new, grim lines at the edges of his mouth, and even Sapphire’s wings drooped. His own magic was dimmer than a badly-trimmed lamp.

What new adventure would they face this day? And what by the fires of heaven itself was a Storm Elemental? Was the Rift not deadly enough already?

Chapter 15: Promises

Zuziana wriggled out of Ri’arion’s grasp. “Let me go! I am not letting Aranya have all the fun.”

“You’re in a foul mood,” the monk observed. “Is matrimony so disagreeable?”

Despite the ornery fires boiling in her Dragoness-hearts – which Zip did not understand at all – she melted into goo at his woebegone expression. Her indignation swelled, but she gentled her response into a discomfiting leer. “You’re the best monk I ever pocketed for my bridal chest, my dearest man-blossom. I’m disappointed you aren’t content to settle for being purely ornamental baggage in my life.” She caressed his cheek with her knuckle. “Mercy! I think I’m having a lustful contemplation. Oh aye, deeply wicked thoughts consume my Dragoness-hearts …”

Get a private room, you two, Ardan chortled. I can hear Ri’arion’s sizzling from over here.

Ri’arion belted the Dragoness’ flank; then he hopped about, squeezing his hand between his knees as he mouthed a few words that definitely had nothing to do with spiritual contemplation.

Zuziana of Remoy, Azure Shapeshifter Dragoness, flipped herself off Leandrial’s tongue and joined her best friend and fellow ex-criminal, the Dragon-Princess of Immadia, perched upon a glowing metal oval in the midst of a volcanic storm as hot as the back of an angry Dragon’s throat.

“I thought I smelled trouble,” Aranya greeted her.

“That precise odour emanates from the royal gas-producer of Immadia,” Zip returned cheerfully. “So – oh. What are they doing?”

Aranya shrugged her left shoulder. “Sweeping, methinks.”

The silvery Foam-Riders scooted ahead of and around their Haven in neat formation as if dancing to an unheard tune, perhaps the melody of the Rift-Storm. Their arms made horizontal gestures at shoulder-level with every long, balletic step upon the foam, as if they sought by main force to smooth the path ahead. The dance was perfectly synchronised. The Haven chased after its masters as if propelling untold tens of thousands of tonnes of metal was as simple a matter as a butterfly’s leap from one tasty flower to another. As they were protected from the immediate impact of the destructive magic, the companions enjoyed an unexpected rest – relatively speaking. Zip tasted the air with all the guile of her phenomenal Dragon senses, and concluded the Rift was still insidiously leaching away her Dragon-magic. Meantime, Aranya explained that the Havens stuck to a narrow, very particular range within the Rift-Storm, but when she evidently noticed her friend was listening with less than half an ear-canal, she said:

“What’re the boys up to, Your Scary-Scaliness?”

“Figuring out from Leandrial’s data, how to save our hides,” Zip informed her bluntly. “I was thinking about how best to protect our teensy companion –”

“Metal armour?”

“Shameless embezzlement of another’s inspiration is wholly unbecoming in a Princess.”

“Ooh, you’re confusing me with all these big words this morning,” Aranya cooed. “And here I mistook you for a simpleminded, underfed waif from a rustic trout-fishery somewhere south of –” mid-insult, Zuziana began to take a nip at her friend’s shoulder, hesitated, and then decided Dragons had the right idea after all. Snap! Aranya’s wings flared in startlement “– ouch! You little vixen, you plucked a scale!”

“Aw, you broke my fingernail,” Zip teased right back.

The Amethyst Dragoness’ wild answering snarl suddenly morphed into peals of belly-laughter. To the Azure’s amazement, the supposed Immadian icicle fell off her paws laughing, thumping down on her flank. There she writhed in glorious indignity, gasping and hooting.

Zip tickled her friend’s chin with a talon. “Funny-bug bit you, Amethyst-eyes?”

She clutched her stomach. “Ooh, that hurts!”

Sane? Or insane? She chuckled along with Aranya, wondering if laughing at fate was actually a deeply authentic, rational response to the unknown dangers that still faced them. Slowly, she realised aloud, “It’s Hualiama’s gift, Aranyi. I didn’t understand before. Dragons roar and fulminate, but there’s a curiously … Human … power in laughing at fate – isn’t there?”

The Immadian Dragoness squirmed back onto her paws, as wild of eye as Zuziana had ever seen her.

Zip said, “Dragons are all ‘noble strength of paw! Mighty fangs and mightier deeds!’ You know – even your inner Dragoness insists upon it. Humans laugh. It’s a Human-power, as great as any Dragon fire or Storm or Lightning.”

“But how – I’m expected to laugh at this?” Aranya’s paw touched her ravaged cheek.

Zip shook her muzzle. “I … don’t know, Aranyi. Because of? In spite of? How can I put words to such grief? Yet I know –” she moved forward to place a gentle kiss upon that brutally scarred Dragonflesh “– I do know the greatest damage was wrought in your heart. And it’s your heart that’ll defeat Thoralian. Only when your heart rises; I see …”

She shivered, staring unseeing into the fiery orange-red wall across the maelstrom, tasting eerie clues and fire-stoking whispers upon the desiccated breeze.

“You see what?” Aranya prompted.

A White Dragoness reborn! Zip heard herself cry. Then, darkness seized her.

* * * *

Four and a half hours saw them traverse the maelstrom. With the Azure laid low by her own paw, Aranya rode the metal disk into the upward-pouring fires around noon. The Foam-Riders worked unstintingly, while she stood alongside the crook of the first knuckle of Leandrial’s fore-talon, and tried not to think of how that joint alone was longer and wider than a fledgling Dragoness. The others rested and talked through Zuziana’s proposal of creating metal armour for Leandrial; later, Aranya debated the conundrum of the Rift-Storm’s Balance or Imbalance with her companions.

Now, even Zuziana was given to prophetic utterance?

At least, she harboured new hope …

We will return for your shell-daughter, Great Fra’anior, she said suddenly. We will find a way.

Thunder crashed at the fringes of her awareness.

The swirling curtain of lava-fire parted before them, crimsons and oranges and yellows playing with incendiary abandon, similarly to the inside of one’s eyelids when a person turned their shuttered eyes to face the noon brunt of the twin suns. The Haven pressed in. A pale orange mist played around its nose and sides, as the metal heated up to a furnace glow. The motion changed, swaying and trembling as the screaming storm slowly enfolded the metal disk. No Foam-Rider shirked its duty. Aranya had learned they had no gender. New creatures budded off the old in an organic process decided by the ‘Chief-fire’, who seemed to be a caretaker or god.

To Balance the Rift-Storm as she had immediately imagined, thereby wiping it out, would destroy these creatures. How could it be right to destroy life, even life that thrived amidst perverse magic? And if the Rift vanished by some miracle, where would all this uncanny power … go? It must originate from somewhere – for could she imagine that there might be a world beyond her own mountain-enclosed Island-World, these trapped fires finding ways to burst forth out there and destroy all life, whereas via the Rift-Storm their abominable taint was contained or dealt with in some manner beyond her ken …

She shivered so hard, Aranya lost another two scales. They had been loose. Va’assia said that some scale-turnover was normal for Dragons, but too much was unhealthy.

She whispered, Balance is so problematical.

Leandrial replied, Aye, little one. Balance is the simplicity of a petal, and the complexity of the Universe’s own song. It was Fra’anior himself, your grandsire, who did say, ‘The more I learned of Balance, the less I understood.’

If the Great Onyx himself could not … Aranya fell silent, feeling crushed.

In response, the great Dragoness bent that massive digit a little more, clumsily stroking Aranya’s flank. I wish thou wert mine own shell-daughter, little one. I did once mislay the Pygmy Dragoness. Never again, did I swear. Never again!

I am in mine hearts, the Immadian responded impulsively. Thou art mother, teacher, comforter and friend, Leandrial; mine staunch right paw. No Dragoness could ask for more in this life.

All between them was an absolute accord of fires.

Presently, the great muzzle bent until the light of Leandrial’s single eye burned upon the Amethyst Dragoness. In that glorious wash, light sang to light and sonorous tones played within melodies within threnodies, until the infinitesimal attained the infinite and what could be known was only the song of a moment, and each fleeting moment could but hint at the far greater, ultimately ungraspable tessellations of eternity.

So Aranya meditated; the day flowed into the past, and the companions slept in a protected haven amidst the ever-fires of the Rift-Storm.

By evening of the following day, the Dragons estimated they had travelled roughly three hundred leagues westward from the maelstrom. The enigma of their destination seemed no closer to revelation. Each time Aranya inquired, the Foam-Riders cried, <!Further!> or <!Patience!> But they were willing to answer such questions as she could fashion about their environment – so she learned that the Rift-Storm grew wider the further West they travelled, and that there were many Havens. The Riders believed that the fires were generated by the Storm Elementals they had named before, creatures which dwelled beneath what they described as dark, solid earth – rock, she assumed, in the world’s core-fires. She teased out of them that Thoralian and Shurgal had both passed through; Shurgal’s passage was enshrined in their legends as forged by a fiery kernel of white-magic in his possession that ‘burned fire itself’ – unquestionably a description of the First Egg – and Thoralian on the wings of ‘evil, life-stealing non-magic’. Urzul.

Although Dragon-senses measured time without need for reference to suns, moons or stars, evening in this environment was hardly worth the name. The fires only appeared to burn brighter as the ambient light, somewhere above and around the Rift-Storm, faded. Indeed, the Foam-Dwellers had a word for darkness which translated as ‘the absence of fires’, apparently, a source of great agitation or fear.

At last, Aranya stirred, sensing excitement amongst the Foam-Riders.

Aye, said Leandrial. Her companion’s shields coalesced at once. You sense rightly. Many presences surround us and ahead, a mighty Fire of Fires … such as even I have never encountered. A majestic being of yore.

Aranya regarded Leandrial with wonder. Aye?

Observe.

The awestruck quaver in the Dragoness’ voice triggered a simultaneous lurch in the Amethyst’s three Dragoness-hearts.

The Haven nosed out once more into a place where the Rift-Storm had become divided in a complex pattern that originated somehow in the rock-formations she saw ahead and far, far below, at the limit of her Dragon sight – in the vertical dimension! Her talons tightened painfully on the Haven’s edge. As they passed over this illimitable abyss, demarcated at its edges by fountains of pearlescent, rainbow-hued fires, she saw Ardan and Zuziana similarly taking a better grip, even if it was on metal impenetrable to their talons, but entirely penetrable by Leandrial’s special Land Dragon magic.

Aranya caught her breath. Here, the Rift-Storm revealed at last its inner beauty – a terrible, soul-crushing beauty that cast into insignificance the reality one had taken for granted. The colours hypnotised. The scale dwarfed even Leandrial. Every fibre of her being thrilled with the knowledge that only an ancient, magnificent and even holy creature must claim such a setting for its habitation.

Ri’arion exclaimed, “Look at all the Havens!”

Many, many metal Havens peeked out of the storm-fires as though neatly shelved by a gigantic paw in regular rows, stacked perhaps a mile apart vertically and horizontally. Aranya counted thirty layers from below to far above, where the Rift-fires bent inward to obscure what might have been a view of the stars. Even here there was no respite. Leandrial laboured to extend her shields around them, especially Ri’arion, who was far more vulnerable to the heat than any of the Dragonkind.

Zip added, “The pattern strikes me as a Dragon’s paw-print. Look. Three peninsulas of rock out there. There are two behind us divided by the fire we’re travelling upon right now – three forward and two rear-facing. Structurally, a classic Dragon’s paw.”

“And a central column of fire arising from the Dragon’s palm,” added Ri’arion, patting his Dragoness approvingly.

Zip purred, “Aye, but I wouldn’t want to meet the Dragon whose palm print was ten leagues wide and twenty long, not counting his talons. He’d make even Leandrial look like a hatchling.”

Leandrial vented a decidedly muzzle-out-of-joint snort.

“See, we can’t always be the biggest in this life,” sniped the Azure, with a cheeky glint of her fangs.

Aranya growled at Zip, Don’t press your luck, Remoy.

“Perhaps I should investigate how big a splodge you’d make on this metal if I stepped on you, little one?” suggested the behemoth, with suitably expansive dignity.

As the disk slowed at the apex of the fires sandwiched between the two eastward-pointing ‘talons’, the great column of fire facing them grew rapidly brighter, as though infused with a presence from within. The orange fires brightened toward intense, suns-bright golds and yellows. Ri’arion shaded his eyes, while the Lesser Dragons’ secondary nictitating membranes filtered the glare automatically. Aranya checked with Sapphire, but the dragonet stood firm upon the flight-muscle of her right shoulder, her fire-eyes gleaming bravely. Upon the periphery of her vision, shiny grey Foam-Riders budded out of the metal Havens in their thousands. She saw some smaller ones among their number, perhaps family groupings or children …

<!Engineers!> declared the Foam-Rider nearest them. <!Genuflect-fires-now!>

<!CHIEF!>

Thankfully, Leandrial anticipated the mental cry of thousands and dampened the psychic wash. Still, Zuziana clutched her head and Ri’arion swayed in his seat upon her back. The fiery column swelled, filling the ‘palm’ of the Dragon’s paw, coalescing and streaming in new and beguiling patterns as an overwhelming presence began to solidify within. Aranya found herself thankful for their perch several miles from the phenomenon, for the heat escalated rapidly to thousands of degrees, visibly melting the fringes of their metal disk before the Foam-Riders began their dance once more, spreading the heat to mitigate its effect. Further, given the size of the beast forming within the flames, they could not have viewed it properly from close up.

Eyes of vermilion-and-white flame, swirling like a Dragon’s orbs, formed amidst the lustrous fires – tall and slit like a cat’s pupils, partially flanking a muzzle that reached four leagues below their position. The eyes themselves had to be two miles tall, Aranya heard the monk mutter. Of course, Ri’arion was making calculations while the rest of them just goggled in stupefaction.

We stand in the presence of majesty, the Princess of Immadia told her friends, spreading her wings and lowering her muzzle in a draconic obeisance.

Ardan, Zuziana and Sapphire copied her, while Ri’arion stood between his Dragoness’ spine-spikes to execute one of those ridiculous Fra’aniorian productions she would never quite grow accustomed to – twelve distinct hand twirls, seven deep bobs of the head, the whole ralti sheep.

Still the creature coalesced within its flame-column, assuming presence and detail by the moment. Ear-canals. Limbs. Scales – although all appeared to be the substance of pure flame, perhaps draconic flame coursing along conduits of metal or lava, Aranya could not tell. She touched Ri’arion’s mind briefly to check his body temperature, but so far, their shield was protection enough. A flaming paw rose from six leagues below. One digit advanced, itself longer than Leandrial’s entire frame. Aranya realised the creature moved with consideration for the tiny ones it addressed, but she was nonetheless discomfited to be the talon’s eventual target. It hove to perhaps seventy feet from the centre of her forehead, the heat now like a physical blow.

An earthquake shook them. ISTARIELA, I KNEW. ART THOU HER TWIN?

A-A-A … Aranya gritted her fangs. Aranya, noble Dragon-Spirit.

FRA’ANIOR PROPAGATED OFFSPRING?

The Amethyst Dragoness spread her wings a second time, holding a deep bow. I declare my ancestry. I am Aranya of Immadia, shell-daughter of Izariela the Star Dragoness and shell-granddaughter of Istariela the –

HO-HO-HO!!

Much more laughter and the creature would flatten the Rift-Storm on its own, Aranya thought crossly. As it was, their Haven rocked violently as the flame-beast’s laughter battered it backward half a mile; Leandrial corralled them in her paw as the Foam-Riders rapidly stabilised their home, seemingly unconcerned. The laughter thundered over them for over five minutes, drowning out everything, even the ability to think; hammer-blows of sound buttressed by a psychic storm.

AT LAST, I UNDERSTAND THE FATES! roared the creature.

GENTLE THY SPEECH, I BEG THEE! Leandrial boomed back, only she sounded like an echo’s echo in comparison.

Again, the laughter belted their entire Island backward through the fiery wash. ASK WHAT THOU WILT, O LEANDRIAL, THOU WILD-HEARTED WANDERER!

But just as Leandrial had been able to modulate her telepathic Dragonish, so this creature constrained his mighty power. Now, his speech was only as a thunderstorm breaking directly above one’s head, and each syllable, a drumroll of thunder. I am Infurion Abytharr Fireborn, little ones, a fellow-traveller with thy Fra’anior when this world was young. His mighty paw it was that welcomed mine spirit from the egg, for aye, I was born an Ancient Dragon but he was the Firstborn of Dragons, may his magnificence be honoured throughout the ages! Thy grandsire is mine elder by a mere thousand years in thy reckoning. He embodied, while I did not, preferring to make mine dwelling-place in the fires deep beneath the habitation of thy diminutive fire-kin. Aye, I am Infurion, ruler of the inner world. Who are these, thy companions?

The most sulphurous blessings of Fra’anior himself be upon you, noble Infurion, said Aranya, with another deep, formal bow. We are honoured to make thy acquaintance. Then, she introduced each member of their group by name and title.

These are my people, responded Infurion, gesturing broadly – in an Ancient Dragon’s parlance, that movement described a ten-mile sweep of his fire-dripping paw. Once, I sought to mimic Fra’anior’s creative genius. Thou might say, I was jealous of mine wing-brother. Aye, but in the best way, for the doings-in-life of these mine beautiful creatures have accorded mine heart-fires great joy. The slit eyes narrowed upon them. A strange companionship thou art, of Human, Land Dragon and Lesser Dragon – and this brave beauty, the miniscule yet unutterably joyous expression of Dragon fires.

In response, Sapphire trilled a word in Dragonish Aranya did not understand.

Aye, little one. For thy sake. The talon-tip shifted, again settling upon Aranya as if Infurion intended to etch his words upon her body and mind. Mine Foam-Riders inform me of thine conversation regarding Balance. Know that every kind of magic exists in Balance. This that troubles thee is called Earthen-Fires of the Dragonkind; thy magic is Sky-Fires of the same Dragonkind, yet juxtapose the two …

Infurion’s mouth simulated an explosion. Aranya held firm as golden streamers of fire burst toward them. She leaned appreciatively upon Ardan’s sturdy presence in her mind, for rivers of multihued fire sheeted over their shields for long minutes.

The Ancient Dragon’s voice swelled, battering them like rocks churning in a whirlpool of lava. Thus, what is inimical to thy kind is boon to mine. Magic is Balanced, Star Dragoness – for in thy paw and the result of thy contemplation, lies a mortal danger to all Rift-dwellers and indeed, to all Dragons who exist in these fires of the uttermost Deeps. Yet there is also interdependence, wherein do exist the greatest mysteries of all draconic fire-life. Do not misunderstand the Balance, little one! Do not act in haste!

His thunder rolled over them and washed into the Rift-Storm, shaking its eternally-upwelling columns of fire. Aranya clenched her paws and endured, thinking: Her existence threatened an Ancient Dragon? Only a lifetime’s royal training kept the Immadian Princess’ jaw from sagging toward her scaly toes. Star Dragons were this powerful? Oh, Izariela, what wisdom she required to wield such power! For she knew what was to come. Infurion would act to protect his kind and his own survival. The nuances of his Dragonish expressed that as clearly as a shard of crysglass.

A third time she made obeisance, saying, I shall be guided by those greater than I.

Guidance is no substitute for oath-magic, little one. It is not the destiny-shaping oath-magic of a Star Dragoness. I SHALL HAVE THINE OATH!

Ardan growled, Don’t you bully her!

Infurion’s column flared unbearably. Mine is not the way of bargaining with lesser creatures! Be glad I do not extinguish thy miniscule lives forthwith!

Yet you fear her power. Ardan had no qualms expressing what Aranya had wished to hide. Ruddy direct Western Islanders! Her hearts sank toward her paws as he added, Let us deal openly, mighty Infurion. For all wish to live the days given to us beneath the suns, and our quarrel is neither with you, nor is your quarrel with us, I suspect. We seek the rightful return of the First Egg and the breaking of Thoralian’s power. And if all you seek is assurances, even the oath of a Star Dragoness, then I am a beetle and no Dragon. I humbly entreat you, Infurion – upon my honour as a Dragon – to speak plainly. May we aid your cause? Be it in our power, we shall. Gladly would I give my own oath upon this word, but I shall not put words in the Star Dragoness’ mouth.

To Aranya’s surprise, the fires of Infurion’s wrath appeared to simmer at a whiter temperature than before. Perhaps he liked outspokenness, or saw truth in Ardan’s words. The flaming eyes regarded them fiercely, great lakes of white-fires so intense, she shuttered her gaze in response, but could not thus shut out the Ancient Dragon’s power. At last, the great voice spoke not in thunder, but in a hypnotic melody like a thousand flutes playing at once.

Infurion’s Dragonsong washed over them to the unknowable beyond, O Fra’anior! Must so great a task rest upon shoulders so frail?

Aranya heard no reply, but the Rift-fires themselves seemed to shiver.

Even more softly, the flutes sang, I see thine hearts, Aranya of Immadia, kin-Dragon of the Great Onyx. For mine part, I propose to place into thine heart knowledge of the resting-place of the First Egg in the realm of the S’gulzzi, deep in the cracks beneath the Island-World, and into thy understanding, the nature of the corrupting urzul, which by the First Egg’s power, holds even mine might at bay.

Aranya froze. She heard Zuziana give a tiny bleat of shock; Leandrial’s muzzle immediately turned toward the Amethyst Dragoness, her eye-cannon brightening.

Trembling from wingtip to tail, she ventured, And for mine part, great Infurion?

First, an explanation. Once, the traitor Shurgal travelled the Rift-Storm by the power of the First Egg. The result of his trespass was the creation of Storm Elementals, the creatures that plague mine Foam-Riders and even me; corrupt creatures that damage our pure earthen fires and destroy mine peoples with indiscriminate glee. Twice, a Lesser Dragon traversed our territories – the one you named as Thoralian. I know him only as a master of urzul, and by the power of urzul, did he consume many Foam-Riders. Having stolen their magic, he succeeded with ease where thou hast bravely struggled.

Aranya shared a loaded glance with Ardan and Zuziana. So it was true – and vile. Thoralian travelled the Rift by cannibalising the magic of those who dwelled within its fires!

But Sapphire chirped, What urzul, Infurion? What my Aranyi do with urzul?

Thirty miles tall he was, but the entire column of Infurion’s fires heaved a sigh. Of the seven primary types of Dragon fire, only two exist in our Island-World – Earthen-Fires and Sky-Fires.

And the Nurguz creature? Aranya asked. What type of fire-life –

Dark-Fires. Another type of Dragon-fire entirely, from whence is derived the misleading Dragonish expression of using ‘dark-fires’ to describe an emotional state. Dark-Fires are an anti-fire in their simplest manifestation, a precise inversion of the nature of Sky-Fires … I digress. Earthen-Fires are the fundamental fires of entire classes of Dragons unfamiliar to thy kind – I speak of the Theadurial, S’gulzzi and mine Foam-Riders as the prime exemplars. Even thou, Land Dragon, thou burnest brightly with the beauty of thy Sky-Fires, for dost thou not fly in the heart of thy preferred environs?

Leandrial inclined her head. How mine fire-life is honoured. Reflected-honour be thine, o Infurion.

Majestically, Infurion’s explanations continued to rumble forth, Each type of magic has its opposite; some, as thou hast discovered, are mutually destructive. Importantly, for our discussion, each type also has corrupt forms, usually forms originated in the works of evil Dragons, such as Dramagon the Red. Urzul is a corruption of Earthen-Fires. Ruzal was the corruption of Sky-Fires.

Was? The Azure Dragoness queried for all of them.

Ruzal disappeared around the era of your Dragonfriend, said the Ancient Dragon. Aranya sucked in her lips. Alright, giggly, dancing Hualiama – she had questions! Infurion continued, The dominance of the Theadurial over Land Dragons is rooted in the power of urzul. Augmented by the First Egg’s power, they grow mighty indeed. Their ambitions know no bounds. Therefore, to your part, Star Dragoness –

Wait, Aranya frowned. What of the corruption arising from the Rift-Storm, Infurion? What of the poisons of the Cloudlands – what form of magic is that?

Nothing magical, he replied.

Nothing – what? gasped the Immadian.

Not magical in nature, but clearly magical in origin, said the Ancient Dragon, his voice rising with testiness. Many times, I have tried to trace this contamination to its source, without success. I thought these poisons might originate in our Earthen-Fires, or be transported here by some current of the molten fires deep within the crust of this world, but I was mistaken. They simply … arise … by no process that I understand, and only since the last six centuries of thy reckoning of years. Aye, even the Ancient Dragonkind do not grasp all aspects of Balance, little ones – remember this lesson, and remember it well!

Leandrial and Ardan shielded the companions from the furious firestorm of Infurion’s frustration. When his liquescent fires had sloughed off of their pneumatic shield and sheeted off the Haven in rivers, she turned to the Amethyst Dragoness. What might we offer the majestic Dragon-Spirit, this Fire of Fires?

Unforeseen consequences, Aranya thought. Shurgal had travelled the Rift-Storm via the First Egg’s powers and generated a new terror that plagued even Infurion, to this day. Ruzal disappeared from the Island-World, and a new contamination arose from the Rift almost simultaneously. Could the Dragonfriend’s actions unwittingly have spawned this new problem? Well, new as in a mere six centuries old?

Almost inaudibly, she muttered, “Aunty Dancing-Paws, this Amethyst guppy and you need to talk.”

Swiftly having assembled her thoughts, Aranya responded, Together with these, the best of companions, most noble Ancient Dragon, we commit to regaining possession of the First Egg and returning it to its rightful place. We shall not misuse the Egg’s power. If we must breach the Rift-Storm to create a way for Land Dragons to return to the North in order to speed our world’s restoration, we shall do our utmost not to destroy your peoples in the doing. We will not change the Rift’s Balance without first consulting you. And, we promise to strive to the uttermost frontier of flesh and spirit to defeat the scourge of urzul, for the sake of Land Dragons and Rift-dwellers alike. This, I gladly swear, with all my heart and soul. Are you with me, friends?

Aye! roared Ardan, Zip and Leandrial, while Ri’arion and Sapphire added their assent.

Infurion’s gaze, turbulent and inexpressibly profound, measured them for the length of thirty individual draconic heartbeats. Then, he said, Thy truth is the freedom of mighty fires, Star Dragoness. Knowledge shall be thine, and mine blessing shall I confer upon thee. May thy service be efficacious, thy hearts pure, and the right paw of thy justice, uncontainable.

Aranya abased her fires before him. In service are we blessed, mighty Infurion.

Chapter 16: Escaping the Storm

ARanya rolled to her knees, groaning, “You’re a beastly monk.”

Her intensive training with Ri’arion, while the Foam-Riders built flexible metal armour upon Leandrial over the course of three days, had certainly been beneficial – and painful. After several further hours’ discussion, Infurion had departed for his happy and undoubtedly scorching home far beneath the Island-World. Now, they planned to travel on the following morning, but the monk had wanted to use the time wisely, which translated into walloping his companions, to Leandrial’s evident amusement.

“I’m the beast who’s teaching you to stay alive.” Ri’arion extended his right hand graciously. He did not look even slightly flushed or sweaty, unlike the Immadian. “Get up. Once more, Princess.”

Zip’s sniggering nearby did not help. They had all taken turns in being trained by the exacting, untouchable monk, even Ardan, because the famed Fra’aniorian open-hand martial arts techniques could be applied just as well in Dragon-form as in Human guise.

Aranya stood, easing her thrice-bruised left shoulder gingerly. No excuses for her. She was slow, and she knew it. She was little better than Ri’arion’s personal punching-bag. But why should a Shapeshifter Dragoness be constrained by her Human form? Hualiama’s scrolls had spoken of channelling her Dragon powers even while in her Human manifestation, as Aranya was now; had she not lifted Ardan one-handed, and used her healing powers on Zuziana?

“You punch like a girl,” the petite Remoyan catcalled.

Aranya gritted her teeth, at least managing a Dragoness-worthy growl. Anger would summon her powers. Only, she wasn’t angry with Ri’arion. He was granite, but a nice sort of granite. He had pulled his throw enough to prevent her breaking any bones on Leandrial’s upturned palm. Sweet. Strength alone would not defeat the monk. But what if she pictured Thoralian, or worse, that vile palm-licker, Garthion? What if she used her artist’s mind to paint him in the colours of Zuziana’s blood and the screams of her torture …

Aranya pleaded with her inner Dragoness, Help me, second-soul. I need to learn what you’re capable of, how we can work together.

Dragoness-Aranya stirred within her breast. Her hands hardened into blades, every muscle and ligament taut yet loose, as Ri’arion had taught her. Power flooded her muscles as Aranya settled into her fighting pose, turning slightly side-on in relation to the monk, her left foot advanced.

Not by strength alone, Dragoness. I need Dragon-reactions. Controlled power. Aggression.

Feel our passion burn! snarled her inner life.

Ri’arion’s depthless blue eyes appeared to flash as he mimicked her pose. Did he sense what she did, the dark flame curling within, while purpose flowed simultaneously into inner concentration and outward into preternatural awareness? Her blighted lungs laboured to flood her arteries with oxygen. Aranya rotated her stiff neck. If only she could be as battle-ready as a Dragoness.

With a windroc-like cry, the monk swirled gracefully into the attack. Rapid-fire chops targeted her torso and kidneys. Aranya defended compactly with her forearms, absorbed his cunning low kick with a flexion of her right knee, and by way of appreciation, hammered a lightning-fast thrust-kick into his sternum. Ri’arion twined her left leg in his arms and lifted sharply, breaking her balance, but this Shapeshifter was ready to fly. Leaping perfectly in concert with his heave, using his strength against him, Aranya craned her head backward and flung her right leg into a furious axle-kick that came within a whisker of breaking the monk’s jaw. Only his reflexive head-jerk saved his blushes, but his right cheekbone still collected a mighty ding from her heel.

She completed her somersault, landing neatly in her ready stance.

Zip gave a shriek, clapping her hands to her mouth, while Ardan grunted, “Well, top of the dawn to thee, Dragoness-Aranya!”

Ri’arion touched the split skin next to his eye. “At last!” he exclaimed, the sight of a smear of blood drawing a rajal’s snarl of delight. He beckoned with both hands. “More of that, Aranya! Test me –”

Had he waited for this moment? Fury washed her world to flame-whiteness. Dragonsong raged behind her ears, a torrent that threatened to peel her scalp free of the bone beneath. Dance. Wrath. Power united with flesh; a fusion of Human and Dragon. This was her Dragonsoul. Two, but one.

With a wild, bleak cry, Aranya fell upon her tormentor-friend, intent upon savaging him. All that was Dragoness blazed through her now, unstoppable; there was thunder in her mind and a storm in her fists and elbows, knees and feet. She knew only the simplest techniques, the basic forms which were taught to toddlers and children upon Fra’anior, but the purity and speed of her execution was enough to pummel the monk with a relentless flurry of kicks and blows. Thrice, she flattened Ri’arion, only to see him rebound each time. She pressed his defence to the uttermost. Dragoness-Aranya forced the monk to retreat across Leandrial’s paw; each time he tried to launch a counteroffensive, she smothered his attack or thrust it aside, stronger and faster than ever before.

The monk’s reaction was pure joy. Focus. Disciplined vehemence. His blows escalated in power as she tested him exactly as he wished. Twice, he had to resort to psychic buffets to prevent her close-up punches from rearranging his nose upon his face, his techniques expanding in range and complexity as she turned the fight and they stormed back toward her companions, scrapping like feral rajals. Panting. Hissing sharply. Aranya landed a perfect blow to the nerve of his elbow, extracting the first yelp of pain she had ever heard from the monk, but his answering side-thrust kick twisted her right knee. Still, the Dragoness within had the shrewdness to whirl with the blow, bringing her left foot up and over in a looping counter-strike, slamming into Ri’arion’s temple as he tried to duck away.

“Break!” shouted Ardan, shouldering his way between them.

Aranya stopped herself with a wrench. She doubled over, wheezing, her lungs afire.

The monk wobbled into a decidedly unsteady ready-stance before shaking his head with a great laugh. “Bravo, Aranya! Oh, bravo indeed!” He held out his hand. “Peace?”

“Like a volcano,” she coughed, gripping his hand in return. “Mercy, Ri’arion. Were you holding back?”

“Not this time – well, with the exception of lethal techniques. Unlike you.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? Don’t be ridiculous. What’s to be sorry about?” Bless his shaven head, the monk practically glowed with satisfaction. “Remember this, Aranya – and all of you. What you saw today cannot easily be taught. This is the place where flesh becomes the willing, subordinate tool of a fighter. Technique can be honed to a point. After that, what matters is the spirit within, and that is what ultimately separates the good from the great. Fantastic match, Aranya. I think the one who was holding back, was you.”

“Such high praise from Ri’arion?” asked Zip, hugging Aranya with an impish laugh. “As we Remoyans say, the stars really do swim in our terrace lakes.”

* * * *

In her dream, Human-Aranya climbed a mountain peak. Such a peak, she had never imagined. Mile upon mile of sheer, unrelieved grey-speckled granite speared into the night skies, attaining a ridiculously slender pinnacle wreathed in storm clouds. Lightning played constantly above her, while water sheeted down the rough, stippled surface, but Aranya clung to the damp stone like a determined gecko as she inched her way upward, toehold by toehold, and from one fingertip hold to the next. How many hours she had been climbing, she did not know, but her movements seemed mechanical and tireless.

Wind moaned around the isolated peak, teasing her unbound hair. Aranya shivered, although she was not cold. Her outfit was wholly inappropriate – just a thin white cotton sleeping-shift, thigh-length. She was barefoot. Neither daggers nor sword adorned her waist, nor was there sign of Sapphire. The place from which this mountain rose was a vast, atramental abyss. She saw nothing else in any direction, neither land nor moons nor clouds, apart from those encircling the peak, and stars. Myriad stars hung invitingly close, like shining fruit waiting for her hand to reach out and pluck.

Hualiama? she whispered. Fra’anior? Where am I?

The fragrant, playful breeze spoke no word of an answer.

The near-complete darkness gave rise to the illusion that she climbed upside-down, descending toward the skies. Aranya focussed on the lightning-shot clouds. Those were her goal. Up there … she yearned, burned and hoped for whatever lay ahead, unseen and unattainable by any ordinary exertion of her physical body.

Only the mountain existed.

Left hand. Right. Toes moulding to the warm granite, as warm as her heart. Her hair tugged upward. Aranya clung, trembling, as the wind buffeted her and the thunder voiced its gruff disapproval, like Ardan warming up his throat when facing an enemy Dragon.

Sha’aldior? Even he gave no reply. Where was her oath-magic now?

What if he remembered his past? What if his loved ones had escaped the Sylakian scourge? Could she ever be the one he needed if they both harboured doubts? So much lost. Damaged beyond a Star Dragoness’ power of repair. Aranya pressed her forehead against the rock, trying to deny her weeping, but her emotions billowed like thunderheads – or perhaps they hearkened once more to her grief – and the lightning played about her now, the clouds enshrouding her ravaged body like the softest of blankets. Blindly, she climbed, careless of the electrical potentials in the storm.

Perhaps from the top, she might simply fling herself into space and fall … and fall …

And abdicate responsibility for her life and the Island-World’s future? The horror! May she cry, ‘Never!’ She had never been suicidal – had she? Perhaps, facing the long, dark halls of soul-deep despair after her Shapeshifter pox had changed her, and made her think the unthinkable. Perhaps she was not as strong and heedlessly self-confident as she had been before.

Perhaps she should learn to dance.

At this thought, Aranya’s hands seized the rock so hard her fingers cramped. Hualiama! How dare she intrude … or did she? How could she be certain of anything anymore?

She must climb.

Infuriated beyond rational thought, Aranya climbed through the storm, stretching her aching body to seize handholds recklessly. Lightning? Who cared. Winds? Let them blow! Thunder? But the blustering of a noisy giant; it could never shake her loose.

She ascended. Hours passed. At last, her bloodied right hand grasped only air. Gusts raged around her spent body as Aranya pulled herself over the edge, her legs yet dangling in space as she arrested her movement, never more shocked. Only her fingers clawed upon the stone, holding firm.

A ravaged whisper escaped, Dragonsoul? Is it you, Dragonsoul?

My precious Humansoul, said the Dragoness.

The voice was Dragonsong over misty terrace lakes; the Amethyst Dragon facing her was perfect in every detail. In her Dragon form, Aranya was a slender female fledgling, her scales having a mesmerising, semi-translucent gemstone quality about them, as though amethyst had unaccountably become infused with Dragon scale-armour – Aranya had never seen herself from quite this perspective. Separate, but one. Here but also there. Every hair on her head, every note of her heart’s Dragonsong yearned for that other-manifestation, yet what burst from her mouth was distressingly inane.

You can’t be me. You … you’re –

The Dragoness’ eye-fires mellowed to a rich yellow. We are what, Aranya-of-my-soul? Not what we expected?

You can’t be perfect! This isn’t real! This isn’t me – I’m wounded, broken, ugly …

The Amethyst Dragoness reached for her. Oh, Aranyi, if you would only believe –

Fake. Fraud! IMPOSTER!!

Her battle-roar blasted Human-Aranya backward. She tumbled into space, screaming, Dragonsoul!

The muzzle peering over the mountaintop was that of a Yellow-White Dragon. I’ll help you, Aranya. Huge, pale wings spread against the storm, another ghastly blow to the pit of her stomach. Come to me, little Dragoness.

No …

Thoralian dived into the void, yet he was in no hurry to catch the flailing, plummeting Princess of Immadia. Call for your Dragoness, he jeered. Expend your pitiful breath, you wasted, accursed fool. I’ve stolen her just as I will steal your soul …

No!

Endless falling!

Screaming, wailing – Ardan!

Aranya woke in the heated cage of a Dragon’s paw, pressed against his muzzle! She landed a wild, shattering blow upon the side of his jaw.

“Flaming windrocs!” growled the Shadow Dragon, reflexively casting her aside with several added execrations for the punch.

Transforming mid-fall, the Amethyst Dragoness caught herself with a wing-snap. Another set of clothing fell in shreds around her. She had slept inside Leandrial’s newly armoured jaw. For the first time since entering the Rift-Storm, the drain upon her magic seemed greatly diminished.

“Stupid woman, I was only trying to comfort you,” he added, feeling his jawbone.

“Sorry – aye, I’m sorry!” Aranya hated the tenor of his gaze. Did he fear her lack of control? She began to turn away, then steeled herself. “Did I hurt you, Ardan?”

“No!”

“Well, I definitely hurt myself,” she said, wringing her paw.

“Let me guess. Bad dream? Like having Kylara try to sharpen a scimitar upon my head? Curse it, Aranya, I think you did – something’s loose.”

He did not flinch, but neither did he bend from a posture of stiff-legged outrage as Aranya reached up with her paw. She tried not to touch him too tenderly. Even so, the oath-magic arrived in a flash of lightning that sparked from her palm to his face.

Hairline fracture, she whispered.

Thou art yet my Dragonsong, he replied.

Wretched Dragon! All three of her hearts set off on a crazy gallop. Aranya stuttered, A-A-Ardan … I’ll … heal you. Aye. Hold still.

His wing curved over her back. What does holding still gain a Dragon?

A Princess’ undivided attention, she returned pertly. And, no more undeserved punishment. Sorry.

He drawled, The thoughts I’m having about you right now, Amethyst-eyes, you should punch out a few fangs in the bargain. You know, it doesn’t entirely fill a Dragon with confidence when the Fire of Fires, the most ancient draconian earthquake-muncher himself, says his farewells with the air of glumly shooing us off to the executioner.

You felt the same? she asked. She could not trust herself to say anything more in the face of his ardour. Why would he not just stop? Leave her alone?

Aye. Armour or no amour, I suspect we’re in for it this time – not that we have any choice in the matter, do we?

Aranya champed her fangs at nothing in particular. According to dear Aunty Dragonfriend, we’ll just dance our way through, rainbows over the Isles –

– Shadow chasing Starlight. His fire-eyes gleamed down at her.

For a gruff old warrior, you aren’t half the sappy old balladeer sometimes, she returned, rolling her eyes to express droll humour. Dampen the oath-magic, ignore its seductive call … she asked, When are you planning to turn properly barbarian on me, you bone-chewing, muscle-popping Western Isles popinjay?

When I first see dawn gild the skies over Immadia – if I might safely compare thee to an Island, Immadia! Her expression triggered guffaws from the Shadow Dragon. He said, Somehow, I feel my paws tread unsafe ground …

Their laughter woke Ri’arion, Zuziana and Sapphire. Aye, it was dawn. Time to fly the Rift-Storm.

* * * *

The beat of Leandrial’s tail chased them urgently into the fires once more. The Foam-Riders had brought them as far and low as they dared. Turbulent titian waterfalls buoyed the Land Dragoness on the final leg of their journey through the Rift, one hundred and thirty leagues to the relative safety of the impossible deeps beyond.

Encased in flexible metal armour, the disruptive magic was muted almost to nonexistence within her mouth, but Leandrial’s sight showed them metal already beginning to boil off her muzzle and flanks. Not boiling physically, Zuziana noted aside to Ri’arion, but magically. Perhaps degenerating or decomposing was a better word, his mind suggested. They understood the process better now, but even with magical shielding imbuing the metal with additional cohesive factors, there was no way they could halt the process with their Sky-Fires-based capabilities – unless they developed a taste for urzul, Ardan muttered darkly.

Zuziana lent her strength to Ri’arion, who sat cross-legged beside her in a meditative posture, concentrating deeply on the mind-meld with Leandrial. Slight change to slipstreaming, he directed. One percent improvement.

Leandrial accelerated, the beat of her legs changing fractionally according to the monk’s instruction. He had no need to help her with his developing Kinetic ability at this stage. Instead, Ri’arion focussed on power output and reducing friction. The Land Dragoness’ mighty furnaces roared higher as she charged as if into battle, at maximal output, even shutting her eye-cannon so that she could focus every iota of effort upon swimming the storm.

An hour passed. Two. The fires grew choppy, knocking them about severely, tossing them a mile upward before dropping the Land Dragoness into an abyss beyond.

Zip said suddenly, You’re like the ultimate Dragonship engine, Leandrial. We’ve heard meriatite furnace engines aplenty, haven’t we, Aranya? You’re a living engine, magnificent and powerful beyond imagining. So fly, Leandrial! Fly!

Rough laughter spread through Leandrial’s being. Aye, little one? She surged through the billows with renewed strength, her legs pumping in concert. Like this?

They swooped. Aranya-Ardan locked in as planned, lending the Land Dragoness wings of white-fires. She encouraged, Strength to your paw, Leandrial!

Even Sapphire joined in, her presence a tiny spark of light.

Leandrial ploughed through a mighty upwelling at her top speed, sheeting streamers of crimson and green-blue fire from her flanks like a leviathan breaching from a terrace lake. Through Ardan’s Shadow they watched the outer world seething with greater and greater violence, colours painted now in livid tangerine and sheeting rufescent flame, explosions coming thick and fast, searching with every sense for what they knew must come.

Aranya cried, Corrupt Storm-power – there!

Flame took form and oriented toward them. Semi-embodied, Storm Elementals were draconic creatures of fire and Earthen-magic lightning, lacking all but the most rudimentary intelligence, but what minds they possessed turned to one channel only, the annihilation of all life. Limbs of tawny, curiously furry fire churned the torrents ahead into a boiling vortex. Half-formed muzzles and throats tossed amidst the tumult bellowed new notes of thunder, changing the voice of the Rift-Storm into a chilling, hostile battle-roar. The storm lumped together and smote the invaders, pummelling Leandrial with fists like monumental, red-hot granite blocks. Lightning flared continually, striking incandescent white-purple sparks off their shield. Leandrial responded with sharp, directed blasts of her eye-cannon, finding a pitch of her Harmonic magic that fragmented the Elementals.

Let us join in battle! the Shadow Dragon howled, throwing his strength behind Leandrial.

Grimly, she forged through a howling sea of Storm Elementals as they re-formed and pounded her from every direction, with waves of semi-solid scarlet fire and pugnacious blasts, shaped lightning bolts and bone-shaking peals of thunder. Barely came a second’s respite and a new voice joined the fray, for each Elemental added a distinctive note to the Rift-Storm’s booming. Suffused with the awesome natural force of their environment, they joined together to assault Leandrial, rolling her over and over with massive, co-ordinated blasts, but the Land Dragoness simply gritted her teeth and swam upside-down.

Zip and Aranya joined their strength to flex the shield, shooting pneumatic jolts at a Storm Elemental pounding Leandrial’s back with its fists. Thunder! Shuddering! Explosions! The Dragoness groaned loudly and long, forging through the storm for three fraught hours, but Zuziana sensed her strength, and that of the Shadow Dragon, fading. Ardan hid their group in Shadow for minutes at a time, but allowing the Storm Elemental magic free reign to wash through their Shadowed beings was an imperfect answer, for even his magic was vulnerable. Strips of armour peeled off, exposing Leandrial’s hide. The Shadow Dragon raged. Every moment of his exertions proclaimed his desire to be battling with tooth and claw rather than the weapons of mind and draconic will.

The Dragons fought in tandem, wielding every weapon at their disposal. Every league won was by wild combat; every Storm Elemental braved, a victory. In the battle’s heat some Elementals even turned upon each other, shooting fire against crimson fire and pounding fist against muzzle, splattering the Land Dragoness with ultra-heated globs of lava strung together with Earthen-fire magic. Yet their numbers seemed unending.

We have to turn back, Ri’arion gasped. I can’t hold any longer!

Strength, cried Zuziana, trying somehow, anyhow, to relieve his pain.

Deep explosions resounded beneath Leandrial’s belly as a group of Elementals attacked from below. They surged through the seething flame-sea as a group, smiting the Land Dragoness so powerfully that the Dragons inside her mouth staggered, before driving her high, high into the storm’s flame-streaked, tempestuous heights. The Storm Elementals fell back at last, and Leandrial began to drop.

Deploy wings, Aranya. Ardan cried. We must fly!

Already on it, Shadow, she gritted out.

Shouts and cheers rang within Leandrial’s mouth as her falling momentum transformed into acceleration, sweeping her over and away from the Storm Elementals on star-fire wings. Fiery billows and peaks swarmed beneath them like the surface of a rapidly-boiling pot, giving chase, but the Land Dragoness’ impetus was enough to make her soar beyond them.

Sapphire said, Ari, big Dragon hurt. Hurt bad.

Ardan cursed softly. Zip touched Aranya’s flank at once. Help her. Can you see to her injuries?

The Amethyst growled, Trying. Leandrial, where does it hurt?

Everywhere. Something’s damaged in my bowels, a few ribs caved in, but my lower heart-cluster … here, little one. Let me show you.

Aranya stiffened beneath Zip’s paw. Oh, Leandrial!

The Land Dragoness gasped, Keep us flying, Aranya. We have to fly. Save your strength.

Zip said, Quick, Aranya. Don’t listen to her. You have to make essential repairs.

The Amethyst Dragon clenched her jaw, already faraway in her mind as she focussed on closing the rents the intense battering had torn in Leandrial’s hearts and circulatory system. Zip sighed. Then, Ardan pointed a claw ahead through the faint outline of Leandrial’s jawbone, voicing an incoherent cry.

* * * *

Fire confronted them in a shimmering, many-pawed battlement that reached the heights of the Rift-Storm, its colour a sickly, greenish-orange, like copper cast into a furnace. The Storm Elementals they had defeated seemed like gnats before this broad-shouldered mountain, the grandfather of their brood.

“Oh, ruddy roaring rajals!” groaned Ri’arion.

Star-fire! gasped Leandrial. Aranya … come back to us. Aranya!

The Star Dragoness reeled, white of eye, as the Land Dragoness leaned to starboard in an attempt to adjust her flight path. Towers of flame crashed upon them. BOOM! BOOM!

Ardan threw his whole being into the shield. I’ll hold!

KAAABOOOM! Ri’arion dropped as if struck by a flying boulder. Ardan shuddered, screaming at the force that overwhelmed them now. The towering Storm Elemental gripped Leandrial by the waist in two monstrous, flaming paws, and squeezed. He had never felt pain like this. Ardan Shadowed desperately, but the Earthen-fires of this beast maintained their grip despite his Shadow-power. Blood burst loose in her body; Ardan tasted his own blood in his throat as his body convulsed with the supreme effort of holding the Storm Elemental at bay. His strength was adamantine, torn from the unknowable depths of his Dragon’s resources and his will to survive. Fire! Vermilion-green fire sheeted over his vision, over them all, searing holes in Leandrial’s flanks …

Desperate, beyond rational thought, he reached for Aranya’s power. Aranya! Help me!

Aranya was faster. Dipping with a hummingbird’s speed into his strength, through the oath-connection that bound them so profoundly, the Dragoness leaped out of Leandrial’s cheek-pocket and onto the middle of her tongue. For the barest fraction of a second, Ardan spied a star standing four-pawed upon the broad carpet of Dragonflesh, thrusting back the darkness with her presence.

Her clarion voice resounded through his being, and destroyed all hope.

Leandrial! Spit me out, now!

* * * *

Ardan howled, No! Aranya!

Protect our friends, Sha’aldior! Aranya cried, as the Land Dragoness launched her out of her mouth like a catapult-shot. She had no need to spread her wings. Heat smote her. Fire. Gasping, terrified, she remembered she had forgotten to shield. No time for that now.

ARANYA!

His despairing cry washed over her as the mighty Storm Elemental turned the hammer-blow of its regard upon her. The creature’s breath was an open furnace, the strength of its gaze, a crucible of reaming, caustic Earthen-fires magic that washed over her scales like acid, before her inner white-fires flared in instinctive protection.

Trust me, Sha’aldior, she pulsed, not at all certain if he heard her or not.

Aranya had clarity of vision, but no clue if her idea would work. All she knew was that this was the only way. She had leaped through the crowd to save Zuziana’s life. Now, the Amethyst Dragoness summoned her sketchy knowledge of that moment, calling upon every power she had ever imagined. Onyx strength. The light and beauty she remembered of her mother. The physics-defying dance she had danced with Hualiama. This was her heritage which spanned the aeons of time itself, and reached beyond where the white-fires of all substance merged into one, and the reality of imminent death could be cheated if a Star Dragoness dared to attempt the impossible.

Reaching out, she leashed Leandrial with a thread of her own white-fires. Then, she drove forward with the utmost, failing strength of wing and muscle. The white slingshot stretched. Stretched further, the tremendous tension felt as a stabbing pain in her mind. Aranya’s approach had taken her dangerously close to flying into the enraged, looming presence of the Storm Elemental when she stopped and pivoted, anchoring herself with the air of Fra’anior clutching an Island and her grandsire’s legendary strength. Applying the impossible acceleration through time and space she had essayed when saving Zuziana, the Star Dragoness employed her impromptu slingshot to launch Leandrial over her right shoulder.

BEZALDIOR!!

Her shriek of ultimate effort snuffed out the Rift’s fires but for a moment.

A mile and a half of Land Dragon rocketed away as if blasted from the mouth of a massive volcano. As Leandrial shot by, Aranya infused her friends’ shields with the last of her strength.

Starlight meets Shadow, she whispered, enfolding them with her presence.

The Land Dragoness hurtled into the leagues-tall mass of churning Earthen-Fires, piercing the Storm Elemental like a spear flung on a low trajectory. She travelled so fast, Aranya belatedly heard a booming concussion following the Dragoness as she parted the Rift-Storm’s most hazardous fires and blew a hole through the titan’s churning breast. At that speed, she realised, Leandrial would traverse the remaining leagues of the storm in a matter of minutes.

Hopefully, no Islands stood in her path.

The storm washed back, great incendiary rivers of blood-red, fibrous fires pouring toward Aranya with a staggering screech of rage. Far from being defeated, the Storm Elemental seemed roused to greater excesses. Its fires clumped together in champing fangs, pouring out of muzzles and over proto-limbs as if the creature vomited volcanic fire and detritus from every pore. Heat mounted upon heat, attaining temperatures in excess of ten thousand degrees. The Elemental’s primal magic sang a soul-shattering, injurious song. Now she was a Lesser Dragon cast adrift in the Rift-Storm.

Tugging. Making headway? Aranya realised she was still connected to the Land Dragoness by her tenuous magical thread. Her jaw cracked open. Oh no …

The pale white thread drew taut like spider-silk trembling at the first caress of an impending storm. The Storm Elemental’s paws swept upward to gather her in, but the Amethyst Dragoness rode that tide. The blazing surge jolted her onto a new trajectory. Brutal acceleration drained the blood from her head as the tightening connection forced Aranya’s flight to arc upward. In creating an arcane slingshot for Leandrial, she had unleashed a relative imbalance of momentum that now squared her tiny weight against her friend’s massive tonnage. There could be only one result.

Desperately tucking in her wings and paws, the Amethyst Dragoness blazed a skyward comet-trail through layers of gritty, sulphurous smoke lashed by sizzling whip-strokes of ochre and vermilion fire.

The thread-connection propelled her mile upon mile into the darkening sky, through a region of roiling heat and blue-hearted flame, into churning billows of malodorous smoke that clung to her fangs and throat like charred, gritty ooliti wood smoke. Still the terrified Dragoness continued to accelerate to a phenomenal velocity, drawing a long, fiery jet-stream from the Rift-Storm’s upper reaches into a new realm of cool, clean air, her scales and wings aglow with the speed of her passage. So powerful were the winds she generated, her lips and eyelids fluttered madly and the Amethyst distinctly felt her wing-membranes tearing in multiple locations. Aranya held on only because she knew she must see her friends safe. The only way she could know assurance, was to see them pass through the Rift-Storm’s infernos. Every throb of her complex draconic hearts-beat was for them – a stream of nurturing, protective magic pulsing down the thread.

Still, their passage was a fearsome rending of Storm Elementals reluctant to release their quarry.

Aranya curved her neck toward her breast, peering through slit eye-membranes at the Island-World below. The Rift meandered like an orange river seen from a height, with sickly dark tentacles of poisons spreading to either side reaching deep into the Cloudlands. She saw for the first time the legendary Island-archipelagos of Herimor stretching to the southern horizon, like flotillas of green and brown Dragons floating above a carpet of rolling white. Did she spy darker rifts and canyons breaking up those faraway cloudscapes? She could barely focus against the windstorm’s force. Now her gaze shifted, lighting upon endless mountains to the East. Tan, many-fanged mountain ranges clawed the sky’s very throat, rising so high above even her elevated position, surmounting multiple, pink-hued strata of cloud, it seemed to Aranya that just as Ri’arion had mistaken the Rift-Storm, so the world had tipped upon its side and what she beheld was the backbone of a vast Island lying prone against the darkling sky.

The air’s thinness seared her lungs. She was cold, so very cold.

Her speed abated. Should she not be alarmed? She had ascended many leagues above the Rift, now. Far too high for ordinary Dragonflight.

There! The Star Dragoness screamed in victory as she saw a tiny fingernail of fire break free of the thick orange ribbon, almost immediately vanishing beneath a murky, poisonous layer of smoke. She knew it to be Leandrial, holding her friends secure in her mouth. Deftly, she severed the white thread with a final prayer of speed and protection for her companions. It sloughed away into the Rift-Storm, and vanished.

The panorama viewed from this altitude was so serene, she could almost imagine there was nothing amiss with her Island-World – and if she dreamed of tranquillity, and her wings unfurled so delicately upon stillness that she heard the subtle hiss of blood flow through the arteries feeding their agile surfaces, why then did the Dragonsong of her soul sigh like hot, heartsore rain into the emptiness?

So far was she above any sound, she heard the very starlight chiming upon … impossibility.

Aranya whirled. Mother?

Izariela’s spirit hovered nearby, as white as fresh-blown snow upon the beloved peaks of Immadia. She said, Softly to me, petal. By your selfless defence of your friends, you’ve placed your being in mortal danger.

So I chose; so it must be.

I know, my precious eggling. I know. Now, will you allow a mother’s forlorn love to embrace –

With a sob, Aranya flung herself across the void.

Chapter 17: Ripped Asunder

EVERY LAND DRAGON must dream of flying. Leandrial could boast that she had flown the Rift, but as she finally slowed, she ground her molars together, creating a sound like an avalanche.

Tentatively, the Azure Dragoness tried to comfort her. “We’ll find Ardan, Leandrial. And Aranya. She can’t be lost in the Rift-Storm. Didn’t we sense her flying upward?”

“No Dragon can overfly the Rift. It is imposs –” The Land Dragoness champed her sentence into deeply unsatisfying bits beneath her teeth. “That Amethyst! She’s what’s impossible! Barely have I finished swearing I will never lose another Dragon as I did the Pygmy Dragoness, and I lose three. Three! Curse this fate, these great paws that cannot for a moment hold that which is most precious to me.” She heaved an almighty sigh, her belly-fires soughing like torrential rain. “She saved us. Surely as Islands reach the roots of the world, Aranya saved us all. We should be thankful, not … desolate.”

“We’ll start searching for Ardan and Sapphire,” Ri’arion mumbled, stirring.

“Move an inch and you’re a dead monk!” snarled Zuziana, rushing to his side.

“Ah … love you too, petal?” he grinned weakly, feeling his head as if he expected to have grown horns or to find the mental strain had blown a hole through the side of his cranium. “Frog-skins, I’ve a headache worthy even of you, noble Dragoness. Mighty were your deeds this day.”

“Frog-skins?” rumbled the Dragoness.

The monk returned, “Long story. Legendary – I will tell it at a more appropriate time, I promise. Is there a chance your Balance power can track Aranya or Ardan?”

“I am … sorry. I dwell on my wounds when I should be thinking of our companions.” The Land Dragoness suddenly stiffened. A wordless cry of amazement escaped her battered, torn lips.

“What?” asked Zip.

“Land Dragons. I hear … I hear my kind!”

Poor Leandrial. To hear the speech of her kind, even from afar, for the first time in one hundred and fifty years! Zip looked up as Ri’arion made a strange sound. Beautiful grief welled in his eyes, matching her own joy-in-sorrow. He dabbed his eyes on his sleeve as Leandrial’s muscles quivered uncontrollably, while the spent magic of her being soughed and tried to rise, only to gutter and fail.

Zuziana whispered, “We shall sing with thee, Land Dragoness. In song is Balance, and in Balance thou shalt find healing.”

“You … understand?” Leandrial whispered back. “There is forage here. Life. I hear life, everywhere, and my soul thrills to its every song, yet my delight is a spent current.”

Zip said, “Leandrial, whatever happened to Ardan? Are we safe here?”

Safe, as long as they scraped together enough magic to protect her wounds while she tried to heal, she averred. When Aranya had released them, the Land Dragoness projected from the relative angles of her own trajectory and that of the magical link by which Aranya had ensured their escape, that she would have been flung upward into the verimost heights of the Rift-Storm. Could she have spread her wings and flown out? Zip immediately volunteered to check. As for Ardan, he had been shielding Sapphire from the waves of Earthen-fire crashing through them, when the release of Aranya’s extraordinary magic recoiled to slap him so hard and fast through the side of her mouth, Leandrial calculated that he and the dragonet might have ended up as much as five hundred leagues distant.

“He’ll find Aranya,” Zip said stoutly. “They’ve their oath-magic. Now, carefully onward, Leandrial. Let’s find safety and a place to rest. I’ll fly up top to search –”

Ri’arion snapped, “Without so much as a sniff of magic to shield yourself? I’ll see your lizard-muzzle pickled for a trophy first, girl!”

“Oh.” The Azure Dragoness waggled a brow-ridge at him. “Shall I transform? Then we can argue properly. Mmm …”

“Inside our friend’s cheek?” inquired the monk.

The Dragoness’ belly-fires burst into mortified life. “Ah … perhaps not.”

* * * *

The Azure’s first two trips above the Cloudlands, on days two and four after their slam-bang arrival in Herimor, yielded nothing of interest whatsoever. In accordance with Leandrial’s memory, this region was barren, and one of the few where Islands apparently stayed put. The vast majority of Herimor’s Islands were migratory after various different fashions – following currents, prevailing wind patterns, moon-cycles and draconic migratory paths, whilst others simply misbehaved for no apparent reason – making any attempt to map Herimor, fraught with ridiculous complication. Zuziana found no trace of Ardan or Aranya. On her third trip aloft, she was almost eaten alive twice over.

Upon returning to the enormous under-Cloudlands hole where Leandrial had necessarily withdrawn to imitate a caveworm for a few days, she greeted the Land Dragoness with a furious yell, “Barren? What the hells is barren up there – it’s crawling with Dragons, Leandrial! Crawling, I tell you!” Zip held up a wing. “Look at this. I’m … holy!”

Leandrial blinked her huge eye slowly, darkening the cavern before returning it to full light. “Ah,” she said.

“Ah?” So maddened was she, the Remoyan choked on her own fire.

Ri’arion leaped out of Leandrial’s mouth, drifting slowly through the thick air to a gentle landing on the sandy cavern floor. His boots float-stepped over to Zip. “She’s also lost plenty of scales,” he commented.

Missilo-ragions, Leandrial said. “Uh, that would be, missile-firing subdraconic lifeforms. Sorry, they didn’t inhabit this region when I left.” At Ri’arion’s forceful ‘humph’, she explained, “They’re pack hunters. Typically, they cluster over a Dragon, then when sufficient are present, they link together to attack it with a rude but powerful multi-mind psychic blast capable of overwhelming most Lesser Dragons’ shields, followed a millisecond later by a concerted discharge of gas-powered fang-harpoons. The swarm then attempts to disable their prey and eat them while they’re still conscious – is that what happened to you, Zuziana?”

“No, I invited them to share a gourd of lukewarm milk! What do you think?”

Leandrial blinked.

“Aye, that’s what happened! Only, stupid me, I thought they were friendly dragonets at first, so I let them cuddle my freaking shield, alright?”

“Are you alright, darling wife?” the monk worried. “Where are you bleed –”

GRRRAAAARRRGGGGH!! thundered Zip. Lightning flashed across the cavern, blowing a decently-sized crater in the nearby wall.

Ri’arion smashed his fist into his palm. “Precisely!”

“I’m fine – sorry, Leandrial. Didn’t leave my royal calling-card, unfortunately. I sort of … fled. Tail tucked between the legs. Rather humiliated and chewed upon, monk-love, but alive enough to be thoroughly steamed.”

“Next time, you’ll show them who’s the bigger Dragon, eh?”

The Land Dragoness said, “She’ll lick a few wounds first, like me. Then we girls will get out there and start kicking enemy hides around the Islands.”

Zip’s lips curled back to display every fang she possessed. “You shake their Islands. I’ll shred any that fall off. Like this! And that!” The Azure aped a few of Ri’arion’s martial arts poses, before tapping Leandrial’s fore-talon with her sadly mangled wingtip. “Deal?”

“I thought calling a Dragoness ‘girl’ was an unpardonable insult?” Ri’arion inquired.

“I was being culturally relevant,” Leandrial claimed.

As the females chuckled, one high-pitched and the other like a proximate earthquake, the monk was left rolling his eyes. He evidently decided that a stint of exercise was the best rejoinder.

* * * *

Using the word ‘steamed’ led Ri’arion onto one of his monkish brain-asides. He had Zuziana practising her water-based Blue Dragon attacks for three days straight, until she was heartily sick of swallowing water. To her relief, Leandrial finally declared her intention to move on. The rest, building on the foundation of the Amethyst Dragoness’ running repairs, had improved the worst of her wounds. Now she required good forage and ideally, medical help and communion with her fellow Welkin-Runners. For Zuziana’s part, she was amazed to note how her Dragon body had already begun to grow fresh membrane to close the fifty-seven holes neatly stitched in her wings by the missilo-ragions, and the exposed patches of hide developed a layer of fresh, diamond-hard scale-armour. Better than ever. She teased Ri’arion about his head needing as much regular polishing as her scales.

“We’ll proceed in the direction we think Ardan flew, as agreed,” Ri’arion stated, with a grin that approved of Zuziana’s joke. “Leandrial will reconnoitre below the Cloudlands and we’ll take a turn above. Safely. No coddling deadly life-forms this time, Zip-Zip – right?”

“Can’t carry you then, can I?” She winked flirtatiously at him.

“And you need to feed your Human form,” he added, not without a newlywed twinkle of his own.

“I’ll meet you at dawn on a direct south-westerly bearing,” said Leandrial. “Did I understand rightly that you two are planning to make hatchlings this night?”

“Wha-wha …” Ri’arion spluttered.

“Kindly poke your Island-sized muzzle in somebody else’s business,” Zip said firmly.

The Land Dragoness’ deep chuckles shivered the Cloudlands as she turned to walk down the side of the Island where she had deposited her companions. She called back, May your roost-love be pure-fires, little ones.

Did she regret never having had the chance to have a mate, Zuziana wondered?

Oh Aranya. Oh, precious little Sapphire … it seemed her every thought was about their lost companions.

The Azure Dragoness flicked her wings restively as Ri’arion mounted up. She stood crouched at the base of a low, mounded Island, one of seven in this small cluster. Six were heaps of rock supporting the barest signs of life – a few spindly bushes, lichens and mosses, and lizards. Similarly to the North, no Humans lived this close to the Rift, for the ambient poisons were too concentrated. Leandrial had singled out two classes of bottom-dwelling, filter-feeding ragions, however, which Dragon scientists had discovered processed many types of toxins through a surprisingly complex physical and magical process, converting them into nutrients. At a depth of five leagues below the Cloudlands, they infested the lower reaches of these Islands in their billions, a living layer of perse Dragonflesh that resembled overturned dinner-dishes slowly waving yellow vacuum-tubes to suck air into their primary stomach-lungs.

The ragions represented the lowest and most generalised rung of the draconic ecosystem in Herimor, Leandrial had taught them. In contrast to the Island-World North of the Rift, Herimor crawled, buzzed and sang with a vast array of life-forms, many of them subdraconic or of lesser intelligence, while thousands were parasites or deadly to Lesser Dragons, having specialised in a variety of creative ways of infiltrating or ambushing Dragons that her academic monk patently found fascinating and Zuziana found … rather less so. Spreading her wings, she caught the soft but rank breeze flowing up the side of the Island and rode it aloft.

Four full moons spread their cheer across the barren Islands as Zuziana winged her monk south-westward into the night. Toward midnight, the Shapeshifter Dragoness landed on a small, mossy Island and transformed into her Human form; after a certain amount of tarrying with intent and un-monkish waywardness, they rested beneath the swelling Yellow Moon. The Remoyan Princess snuggled against Ri’arion’s shoulder as she gazed up at the night sky.

“Soo …” she tickled his chin. “Alone at last. Beautiful night.”

Ri’arion quoted:

Midnight beauty was she; molten silver was he,

Like White Moons and night skies,

Silver darkness intertwined.

Zip chuckled. “That’s a rather risqué version of the Pygmy Dragon’s ballad, Ri’arion. Are you trying to suggest something? Wasn’t she a teenager –”

“Oh, merciful heavens, how I have sinned with thee,” he chuckled. Zip grinned over the fingers she was pretending to bite. “Alright, growler, you’re seventeen, irresistibly gorgeous and of age on all the major Islands. Most records show Pip must have been young indeed – if nothing else, her Dragoness’ purported size declares it.”

“What’s wrong with petite?” asked the Remoyan, archly.

“Nothing …”

“Then prove it, thou despicable Enchanter.”

Zip giggled as Ri’arion floated her above him with a curl of his magical power while he pretended indolence, arms folded behind his head and legs crossed as he looked her over with innocent glee. She covered her ruined torso with her arms, about to protest, when she realised his frown was directed over her shoulder. What? Traitor!

“Oi! You don’t just leave a girl floating,” she said crossly.

“I’ve never seen that star before,” he said, shamelessly ignoring her pout and a come-hither crook of her forefinger. That would not do!

In her most ominous Dragoness-voice, she said, “Ri’arion of Fra’anior, if you don’t start apologising right now for your despicable behav – mmm.”

Shortly, he surfaced for air and a quick gasp, “But Zip-Zip, that star –”

She sealed his mouth with an implacable Dragoness-kiss. “Certain men should learn when to shut the trap.”

* * * *

After a round of apologies that threatened to leave the moons themselves blushing, Zip and Ri’arion returned to their stargazing. “You mentioned a star?” she murmured sleepily.

“Forgot all about it.”

“Sweet liar,” she accused, loving him for the untruth.

His fingers curled a lock of hair at her right temple before he dropped a warm kiss on each eyelid. “Certain women should learn when to shut the trap.”

“Fighting talk, Ri – mercy!” With a yell, Zip leaped to her feet, socking the monk’s jaw with her right elbow by accident. “Where’s that star? Where? Apologies, but … oh great heavens, Ri’arion – noooooo!”

Her scream had barely begun to echo around the small Island when a strong pair of arms encircled her shoulders. “Precious petal, we know that’s impossible, don’t we?”

Shuddering, she snarled into his chest, “Want to reconsider your word-choice where that feckless friend of mine is concerned? She doesn’t … do … impossible.”

Salty tears smeared upon her lips.

“Star Dragons don’t … become stars, do they?” Ri’arion groaned, never bleaker of voice.

He knew, or at the very least, suspected what she did. Zip’s eyes rose to the smoky grey wall of the Rift-Storm. They surmounted the ash-clouds drifting above that ever-burning realm, lighting upon a strange upwelling … like vast wings of the most insubstantial cloud drifting across the face of the Yellow Moon … a Cloud-Dragon? Such was the legend; such was its ethereal beauty, a girl could only wonder at the boundary between imagination and reality, for the clouds opened oh-so-fleetingly upon a dance of translucent wings backlit by the White Moon, before veils of ash obscured them from sight.

A sharp pinpoint of light hung higher still, over the Rift. A soul-lost shiver caused Zip to wish to burrow beneath Ri’arion’s skin for comfort, like a babe returning to the womb. So fresh and new it was, its light seemed to sparkle with especial meaning for the two pairs of eyes that beheld it from a lonely, deserted Island in northern Herimor that night. That star had not been present when they first beheld the Rift. It hung low against a velveteen tapestry of star-dusted darkness, brighter and more breathtaking than she had ever imagined, yet her melancholy seemed both travesty and injustice as Zip craned her neck to gaze upward, rising upon her tiptoes as though she could imbibe the wondrous magic of starlight.

Amethyst winked into her soul.

She wiped her eyes. “Aranya watches over us, monk-love.”

Ri’arion made a narked noise in his throat. “What, first I can’t cuddle my wife inside our friend’s cheek-pocket, and now the nights are no longer sacred? Must we hide beneath stones?”

At this, even more a shock to herself than to the monk, Zuziana dissolved into helpless fits of laughter. Eventually she subsided, claiming an episode of moons-madness. Was it lunacy to harbour hope in her breast? She had seen a forty-foot Dragoness whirl on a brass dral to pitch an entire Land Dragon over her shoulder and out of the Rift-Storm. Perhaps the greater madness was not to believe the evidence of her eyes.

Come back to us, Amethyst star, she whispered.

Ri’arion kissed the crown of Zuziana’s head tenderly. Was her oath not to rise again?

They shivered. Oaths were not meant to come true. Not like this.

Aranya’s star had indeed risen.

* * * *

Over the course of the following week, Zip, Ri’arion and Leandrial swam steadily out of the Barrens into the Northern Kahilate region of Herimor, where they tarried for six days with a nomadic group of Flash Stellates who had wandered far from their usual foraging grounds two thousand leagues to the south. Zuziana knew that Leandrial had been hurt more severely than she cared to admit. She was a venerable four centuries old. Even Dragons did not heal as easily given such great age.

The peace-loving Stellates were ambulatory fortresses, very similar in outward body structure to the giant land tortoises Zip had once seen at Telstroy Island, but they boasted one thousand two hundred legs per beast. They walked with a centipede-like rippling motion. Their carapaces were perfectly circular mountains up to a league in diameter and half a mile tall, sporting fantastical spiked gardens that supported entire ecosystems of unique life-forms atop the back of each and every Stellate. Many shell-denizens aided the Stellates in one fashion or another, such as providing cleaning or defensive services, or even foraging for special titbits to supply the ever-busy beaked maws of such massive beasts.

It was special to Zip and Ri’arion, however, to observe how respectfully the Stellates treated Leandrial. Every utterance to her was punctuated with ‘o voice of ancient wisdom’, their honorific for a Dragon Elder, while the eleven youngsters of their Clan, mere mites sporting shells eight hundred feet in diameter, were far too overawed to speak with her, at first. Instead, they sang over, communed with and fed the great Land Dragoness. Then, they healed her with touches of their unique Flash Stellate power, an amber flare of Harmonic magic that emerged from the tip of each point of their stellated shells, and bathed Leandrial in a restorative light-aura. The technique was a very different branch of Harmonic magic to Leandrial’s, but apparently no less effective. Then, they offered their same services to the Azure Dragoness. She could not refuse.

Afterward, she flew aloft to meet Ri’arion on an uninhabited floating Island, which had already moved three leagues from its position at dawn, sixteen hours before.

She found the monk doing handstand press-ups on a flat, West-facing boulder. Shirtless – scrummy! The suns-set burnished his torso into lean planes of muscle. He was all hers to slaver over. The Remoyan Princess clicked her jaw shut before she started dribbling fire too shamelessly.

The suns-set diffused richly through the constant ash-clouds in these northerly latitudes of Herimor, making the twin suns resemble open meriatite engine furnace-windows, the fired-glass portholes that gave a view of the inner furnace. Hazy yellow-orange striations formed by the differing densities of airborne particulate matter lent the scene the air of an artwork roughly brushed by an enthusiastic artist, but the overall effect set her Dragoness-hearts a-dance. Gorgeous. Just look at the flame-burnished effect on Ri’arion’s granite abdominals!

She purred blissfully.

Sweeping into a compact landing on the boulder-strewn slope near her monk, the Azure Dragoness cast another glance at the Rift-star, as she and Ri’arion had dubbed the new phenomenon, which now lay low upon the northern horizon, above the storm’s dark smudge. The star twinkled cheerfully. Perhaps four hundred leagues from the Rift, life had finally taken hold, and ran riot on the Islands. This unnamed archipelago boasted some fifty-two small Islands which at their orbital apogee approached within two hundred leagues of the Rift; this showed in a dense layer of mineral-rich but apparently toxic ash and dust which supported its hardy plant-life. Leandrial said that these Islands orbited a magnetic core deep inside the Island-World, returning to this position once every eight years. Zip’s nostrils tested the scents of damp ash – it must have rained – and the cloying honey-like scent of the clumps of carnivorous, violet skortik-flowers, the plant ubiquitous to this archipelago. The next archipelago would boast a different variant of skortik, Zip understood.

Oh, the joys of draconic science – what a load of twaddle and paw-tickling piffle. The Azure leered at the monk, finding him far more diverting.

Descending smoothly to his feet, the monk said, “Does draconic romance always come accompanied by fifty gleaming fangs and a curl of smoke?”

“You make my furnaces purr,” Zip pointed out throatily, then giggled more like a girl than a Dragoness. “Oh dear. Sorry. This Shapeshifter life takes some adjusting to, doesn’t it?”

“I’d better bathe before my man-stink offends those sensitive nostrils.”

“Mmm. Monk-smell.”

Ri’arion’s pulse leaped in his throat. “Alright … is there something different about you?” He cocked his head to the left, a mannerism that always accompanied an inquiring mind, Zip had learned. She stood still, but her paws clenched with sudden hope. Could it be? He said, “You stalk me with apparent intent, Remoy, but the tenor of your fires strikes me as pensive. And –”

He stumbled forward to lay his hand upon her lower chest, at the height of his shoulder. He touched the scales with a soft, knowing hiss.

“Aye,” Zip choked out.

“Thou wert ripped asunder, precious petal.” Ri’arion bit his lip, gulping awkwardly. “It … it is not … restored. Not entirely. The Flare Stellates sang for thee?”

“How perceptive thou art, monk-love.”

Zip wanted to chuckle as her Dragoness immediately copied his archaic speech, but the moment was too precious, and too fragile, to be defiled. He ran his fingers over her throat-scales and along her powerful chest and flanks, making Zip shiver as though a fey breeze had tickled her sensitive Dragon-nerves. As his magic prickled oh-so-gently, Ri’arion muttered, “Better.” His thumbs tested the surface and edges of her scales, tracing the whip-scars patterned so faithfully upon her azure hide. “Aye.” Ridges as deep as a man’s thumb. Twisted scar tissue. Yet he touched even the worst blemishes. “Definitely improved.” He caressed them. And just when she was on the cusp of transforming to kiss the man who cupped her third heart in his hands, he growled:

A bane upon the loins that spawned the coward who scarred thee, Zuziana of Remoy!

She stared at her man. “Ri’arion …”

“What?”

“That’s just plain creepy.”

Unfortunately, her thoughtless remark triggered their first married fight.

* * * *

Fortunately, there was kissing and making up. Oodles of delicious kissing, followed by various regrets and confessions, and barrel-loads more kissing. So much kissing, indeed, that the monk laughingly claimed to have pulled a muscle in his jaw the following morning.

Human-Zuziana perched her hands on her hips. “If some people wouldn’t keep throwing oath-magic about!”

“If some girls wouldn’t insist on being so overwhelmingly draconic.”

“Uh … sorry about the sparks. And the spontaneous lightning-bolt which singed your backside. Are these your only pair –”

Ri’arion smirked, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Laughing happily, Zip reached for his trousers. “Maybe I’ll just tear them off.” Rrrriiiip! “Oh! M-Mercy, I-I’m sorry, Ri’arion. Look … look, they just …”

The monk doubled over, hooting as one finger wagged toward her, “You should see your face! I can’t … oh … you’re priceless! Oh, Zip! You’re worth a million laughs.”

Zuziana flung the scraps of material at him. And a lightning-bolt, which thankfully, he was wise to on this occasion – a Nameless Man shield saved his blushes. Then, she twigged. He had cut the stitching of his ruined trousers beforehand … but how? When? Fury roiled in her belly, bubbling together with grudging mirth. Mad-monk! Grr!

“How?” she seethed. “How did you know what I’d do?”

Ri’arion smiled sweetly, “I’ve two words for you, Princess. Completely predictable.”

Even more galling, now he mimicked exactly how she’d baited Nak! Her Dragoness wanted to belt him right off the Island. The petite Remoyan settled for a snarl, “Oh, Mister Monk is so clever.”

He shrugged. “The trousers were done for.”

“Joker.”

“Learned from the best,” he claimed.

“The sight of you in a loincloth has always steamed me up,” Zip said roguishly. “That first time, we were interrupted by a Dragonship. But today, I must admit to harbouring despicable designs upon the scanty remains of your outfit.” She plucked his loincloth impishly. “What say you –”

“Dragons! Jump!”

Chapter 18: Ardan’s Harem

WHen THE SHADOW Dragon came to, it was to startle at a blaring chorus of Dragon-challenges, and to groan at a fleeting recollection of Amethyst power slapping him so hard across the Isles, he could barely remember his name, let alone guess where he was.

What he knew was that he had barrelled into the midst of a large Dragonwing. They were vexed.

Capture the Black! bellowed a powerful, female voice. Alive!

Other draconic voices barked, At once, Marshal! We obey! Seize the Black! Take him!

Dazedly, Ardan began, Now hold on a stinking …

He was distracted by a tickling sensation in his left palm. Ardan’s curled fist unclenched to release a flash of sapphire-blue scales, but his immediate attention was fixed on the cruel paws gripping his body, his legs, his wings. These Dragons were all grey-green monsters, his size or up to a third larger … Ardan punched his first captor instinctively, a mighty fisticuff driven by fear and anger. KEERAAACK! One down. Maybe they’d show respect – no.

Shadow!

His being flickered, confusing them. Dragons grabbed each other, champed down on fresh air, cried out in surprise and even panic as Ardan un-Shadowed and lashed out with his tail, claws and fangs. He was a Dragon-warrior. He’d teach these slugs!

Ardan snapped left and right, Give me space! Back, thou worms!

Now he was channelling Rider Nak?

What fun!

Low, vicious Dragonsong burbled out of his throat as Ardan swirled through the heat of battle, all Dragon-reactions and ire. He crushed a Dragon’s windpipe with a bite. Ha-ha-harrrr! He whirled, striking with a combination of open-taloned slaps. Wham! Bla-da-bam-bam-bam! He tore bloody, fifteen-foot stripes through a Dragon’s primary starboard flight-muscles and found an eye-orb stuck to his talon.

Tasty! he grinned, popping the morsel into his mouth. Actually, it was vile. He spat it at another Dragon, who ducked in surprise, perhaps expecting a fireball. Have at me then, you puny butterflies.

Take him alive, you worthless sons of slugs! roared the female. What do I pay you for, Hor’tax’tix? Get in there before I skin you alive! Morons! Null-fire jumbuki slugs! Fight!

Curse it, he had no magic! His Shadow power guttered like a dying candle, just enough to slide him through the fray for a half-breath, tricking the enemy. Attack a Dragon without exchanging pleasantries? Ardan caved in a Dragon’s ribs with a mighty back-kick, smashed the bone of the outer third of a wing with a cunning flick of his tail, and tossed another hulking hundred-and-thirty foot female over his shoulder with a monk-inspired twirl that bodily slammed that tonnage into two of the brute’s friends.

KEERAAACK! Ah, the sweet snap of breaking bones.

For the Onyx! roared Ardan, trying to rouse his fires. Not a whole lot of fireball inside, either. What did a Dragon have fangs for? Decoration?

The Shadow Dragon corkscrewed between three converging fireballs, deliberately deflecting one off his belly into the face of an attacker. Oddly, these Dragonkind were all the same unsightly Grey-Green colour except for the Red, the vast female who commanded this motley gang of four-pawed bandits. She cursed up a colourful storm as Ardan took pleasure in thrashing her Dragonwing, making mistakes and taking a severe beating himself, but they were hampered by this crazy desire to capture him, while he had no such reservations. Four Dragons had already dropped to the … floating Island! Freaky!

Ardan smashed a hopeful Grey-Green across the nose. Down, you bleating lamb!

What – floating Islands everywhere? He must have taken a harder blow to the skull than he had imagined.

Execrations flowed in a foul river from the Red. Must I do everything for you scum-born, null-fire dimwits? He did hear one thing, however. A phrase in a strange, twisted dialect of Dragonish. Power drain!

His strength evaporated.

Unholy windrocs! Ardan gasped as the sky tipped up and he dropped like a stone.

Fourteen Dragons shepherded him down to the nearest Island, a jade-green, verdant mass of jungle vegetation that reminded him favourably of Naphtha Cluster. Ardan’s eye-orbs slowly rolled in his head. Islands above. Islands below. A Dragonwing at least fifty strong trailed the commanding female. Peculiar draconic creatures swarmed all over the base of each Island. Millions of sparks of life. Where was he? And more importantly, where were Aranya and Leandrial and the others?

The Dragons holding him dumped Ardan onto his nose in a meadow of blue grass and unfamiliar yellow flowers that smelled, incongruously, like Aranya’s magic.

He surged – Power drain. Power drain!

Ardan slumped.

Landing, the Red Dragoness stalked him with a limber flexion of her chunky body. Her eyes were shaded with the green of draconic avarice. Oh, he’s a fighter, this unknown Black, she purred. An unexpected boon for our House. Which lineage is his? We shall find out. We shall have plenty of time to know each other, Black.

He could not lift a wingtip. How had she stolen his magic? Ardan’s head lolled aside. He spied Sapphire lurking in a stand of bushes nearby. By shielded telepathy, he cautioned, Be shrewd, little one. Stay hidden.

The Red loomed over him, her strangely spiky scales standing out against a cloudless noon sky. Noon? Where had the time fled? All he had was useless questions.

Come, Black, wheedled the Red Dragoness. I am Yar’nax’tix, or Tixi, which is the last word my enemies breathe across their perishing lips. Enough fighting. You’re my captive and I shall place you in my harem for safekeeping – Changu! A collar from the supply-depot. Triple-strong, for this one.

At once, Mistress.

Wings beat the air.

Her Dragonish was harsh upon the ear, all unfamiliar gutturals and nuance-indicators Ardan did not understand. A harem? What was that? He stared upward, held splayed upon his back by eight Dragons as the Red looked him over lasciviously.

I like taming strong Shapeshifters, she continued. Your glamour is unusually powerful, so unique! I shall taste your magic and have it for my own, o Black. You shall give it up willingly.

How did she know he was a Dragon Shapeshifter?

Ardan began, In your dreams, you yapping cur –

Sleep, she said, touching his neck delicately with two extended talons. Sleep, and wake as a man, Black Dragon.

* * * *

Waking, Ardan found himself trapped beneath a Dragon’s paw. His day had just continued its descent into the vortex. He was a man. Naked, and furious. He stirred.

Lie still, or I’ll squash you like a bug, growled the fifty-tonne Grey-Green Dragon standing on his chest.

Power – cried the Red Dragoness.

He appeared beside her, and snapped her jaw shut with a perfect right cross. By way of rejoinder, she swatted him so hard with her clenched knuckles that Ardan’s flying body cracked the rib of a Grey-Green standing guard nearby. Ardan bounced, shook his head, and charged the shocked Red. She belted him again. Instinctively twisting in the air as a male Dragon tried to snap him up in his jaw, Ardan the man landed instead on the Dragon’s tongue. The mouth ground closed, trapping his foot between a set of age-chipped fangs. He put his fist through the Dragon’s upper palette.

Spat out together with a gobbet of golden Dragon blood and a furious fireball, Ardan found himself snaffled by the Red, away from the flames. Power drain, she commanded, and flung him onto the sward with a snort of disgust. Hold the bastard son of a goat, you weaklings!

Ardan fought off two Dragons.

Power drain. Ruddy power drain – so strong, Black? snarled Tixi, as he kicked about in their grasp and then, with a flexion of his arms, pounded two disconcerted Dragons together above his head. Power freaking drain … better. Power drain! Where the poxy hells is that collar? Get me that thrice-accursed collar!

How does he yet fight? asked one of the males.

Another Dragon, standing on Ardan’s left arm, growled, A skin-hardening glamour, Kuratarr? And not only illusion, but teleport –

Shut your blaspheming tongue, Taragarr! snarled the other, shifting his grip on Ardan’s legs. The effect must have been achieved by mass hypnosis. Killed five on his own – and not even a full-grown male, the foul scale-biting Nurakik-slime!

Shapeshifter secrets, hissed Taraggar, making a superstitious clucking noise with his tongue.

Yet Ardan detected nuances in their manner he had very seldom observed in the Dragonkind. A grin touched his lips. Fear.

Summoning up the hard-learned lessons of Ri’arion’s mental disciplines, Ardan tried to section off whatever the Red’s magic had done to his ability to resist, but he could not find a clear path. The suns slowly tracked across an eggshell-blue sky as he lay in the grip of three Dragons. Every so often, Tixi snapped her power-sucking command and whatever of his power was available, including his physical strength, seeped away. He was not about to be tamed by anyone. He’d made the mistake of pursuing a relationship with Kylara before. Ardan could not even grind his teeth together – freaking Red! Suddenly, insight dawned. She was a Shifter – she had to be, for the way she eyeballed him left no possible doubt. If she desired a toy, Tixi would learn the hard way he was for one Shapeshifter Dragoness only.

Perhaps an hour later, Changu reappeared, flying at high speed – most probably, he didn’t want his backside shredded by his larger leader. In fact, Tixi was easily the biggest, most dominant Dragon of a physically impressive crew. How large did they grow these grubby farmer-Dragons in Herimor?

The sight of that collar in Changu’s paw put the freakish shivers into his bones, however. Ardan had no other word for it than evil. There was nothing externally noteworthy about the three-stranded, braided metal circlet that he should feel this way. The metal was a silver-gold alloy, with no visible clasp. It was a fine piece of workmanship, fine enough to pass for jewellery. Yet when Tixi clasped it in her paw, the metal appeared to stretch. Ardan eyed the thing with horror. Its aura! Darkness, dominance, a brand of magic he immediately wished he had never sensed …

As the Dragons’ hold intensified, Tixi reached down. He screamed, Aranya!

There was no answer from his oath-magic, not from anywhere in the Island-World. Devastation crushed his spirit. No. No! She could not be gone. The fight deserted him; Ardan slumped as the Red Dragoness worked the circlet down to his neck. For the first time in his life, his Dragon vanished. He had never realised how close that second-soul was, but its absence left a frozen void. Gone. Snuffed out. The hateful collar clasped his neck delicately, so cold it made him shiver. He gripped it with his hands, and the jolt he received knocked him flat on his back. Ardan tasted blood.

If I were you, I wouldn’t try that again, said the Red Shapeshifter, clearly well contented with her capture. Take him to the lair, and enclose him in my harem. I’ll question the Black later.

Aloud, Ardan croaked, “What the sulphurous hells is this thing?”

He dared not touch it again.

“You fool, it’s a Lavanias collar,” she replied scornfully. “It suppresses Shapeshifter powers. I look forward to interrogating you later, Black. Once I find out your bloodline and your powers, I’ll have your oath of service. And if you keep resisting, that will be … interesting, for me. Excruciating for you. I’m sure you’re well aware of the ways that a Lavanias collar can be used to break the mind. I almost hope you don’t cooperate. Almost.”

He shuddered at the malice in her tone.

* * * *

The Dragonwing took off with Ardan ensconced in Kuratarr’s right paw. The Grey-Green leaned in close to hiss, “You’re a dead Shifter!” Tixi overheard, and promised to flay his scales if he harmed so much as a hair on Ardan’s head. Suddenly, it struck him. He could see Dragons speaking to each other telepathically, for the shade and nuances of their eye-fires changed as they communicated, but he heard not a sound. The collar had even cut off his ability to hear Dragonish. This boded ill!

His head swivelled surreptitiously, looking for Sapphire. Would she understand? These mangy windrocs would not hesitate to squash … the dragonet casually hitching a ride on Taraggar’s shoulder, two hundred feet aft and below! His eyes popped like a land-snail’s roving eye-stalks. Clearly, he had underestimated the mite’s resourcefulness by a mere thousand leagues. Instinctively, he tried to focus his eyes, but he was reduced to Human sight now. Nonetheless, he checked Sapphire carefully; she seemed unharmed. Aranya would never forgive him if – he clenched his fists – if she were still alive.

Ardan went through the motions. He could not ignore his warrior heritage. His eyes roamed his surrounds, cataloguing, checking, forming hypotheses relentlessly, even as his sundered heart bled. O Amethyst! O Immadia!

The Dragonwing flew two compass points south of due west through a varied terrain of Islands which floated on thin air, clustered and clumped together in groups for no apparent reason. Some were linked by foliage – perhaps vines – or bands of long, thin yethiragions, a subdraconic life-form Leandrial had described to them as ‘Island-binders’. They hung like purple hawsers between groups of Islands, twined together in strands up to fifty creatures thick. The Islands floated courtesy of the gas-producing hentioragions swarming on their undersides. There were literally thousands of different types, all of which apparently enjoyed the singular distinction of producing enormous quantities of lighter-than-air gases for flotation purposes. Ardan could not remember the major subclasses Leandrial had described, for he might have been guilty of not paying much attention at that point of her lecture. He saw other pod-like Dragonkind drifting between the floating Islands, and smaller types of Dragons that flocked like birds, boasting wingspans of twenty feet or more, and worm-like, flightless Dragons that lived in and quarried caves on the lower sides of Islands.

No dragonets, however. His gaze returned speculatively to Sapphire.

The Islands themselves came in every conceivable shape and size, thickly overgrown with trailing, fernlike vegetation characterised by very fine leaves, some types sporting leaf-blades over thirty feet long, and thick sprays of tubular flowers. Insects abounded, most of species he did not recognise, but far too many of the annoying flying midge-types seemed to wish to investigate the back of his throat. Higher up on the Islands, he saw forests of succulents and even a few white-striped barrel cacti in the driest patches of exposed, russet-coloured sandstone, enjoying the ferocious heat that simmered relentlessly over this peculiar archipelago.

No single Island stood where it should in the Cloudlands. His Western Isles sensibilities crawled beneath his skin like an infestation of maggots. What manner of realm was this, where Islands sailed the skies and Dragons all boasted a single colour – apart from the Shapeshifter Red? Interesting. So, his sooty black colour had instantly marked him for a Dragon from one of Herimor’s noble lines. He chuckled softly. Noble-blooded Ardan – a noble warrior for a noble Princess. Could he turn this to his advantage?

They said there was a first time for every hand and paw.

They flew on for five days, traversing four such floating clusters of Islands, and even a few that stood in the Cloudlands for variety’s sake, it seemed, for despite his light-headed state, Ardan was convinced he saw one of them slowly drifting southward. Impossible soaring Islands! This place was like a distorted mirror, toying with his sense of reality.

Escape was impossible. Aranya’s continued silence ravaged his hopes – yet he refused to mourn. Not yet.

As the shadows lengthened on that fifth day, they came at last to a place patrolled by many Dragons, and the military man in Ardan sat up to take notice. Tixi the Red commanded some one hundred and ninety able-bodied fighters in her Dragonwings. Patrols were thick in the air for leagues about her fortress, a state of alert that placed them on a war footing, he judged. He noted two Red Dragons that bore a familial likeness to Tixi, who was hailed as ‘Marshal’ or ‘Mistress’ by the passing Dragons, with palpable respect. She ran a tight operation. He approved of the way her eyes assessed her troops and their deployment, around a single, dense archipelago he estimated to be two leagues tall, four wide and ten long. Some Islands had clearly been turned to farming or animal husbandry, mostly ox-like creatures with a quadruple set of broad and wicked-looking horns, and the workers he saw were Humans, small and tan-skinned like the Southerners around Remoy, but with uniformly dark hair and slanted eyes that reminded him of Doctor Chikkan. Ardan also noted heavier, unintelligent-looking Dragonkind that appeared to serve as transport. He goggled at their triple pairs of wings and the additional, vestigial set of legs tucked up near the base of the tail.

As Marshal Tixi took reports on the fly, Ardan listened closely. She had recently sealed alliances with Marshals Yuxor, Sabara and Hatuzzar; they requested Dragonwings to protect against the advance of ‘the old Marshal’, who had invaded five Island-Clusters and defeated two Marshals in battle with powerful psychic attacks, before seizing their Islands, Dragonwings and resources. Ardan’s neck prickled. If this was Thoralian’s work, he had certainly wasted not a minute since crossing the Rift. In fact, as the reports and rapid discussion continued, Ardan worked out that the Yellow-White Dragon would have had to travel through time to accomplish all of these achievements. A mystery.

Yet he had no more time for contemplation.

Tixi snapped at Kuratarr, “Take him to the harem. Bid them secure him to the house wards.”

“Aye, Marshal,” growled the Dragon.

“And tell the Curator I want him kept for me alone. Any shim-shamming with another shall attract an uninhibited ward-punishment.”

Kuratarr’s grin twisted into an evil leer. “You are cruel, Marshal Tixi.”

“Cruel and selfish,” she growled, so deeply that Ardan was left in no doubt as to her intent. It only remained to see what his captivity would be, but the Marshal had already staked her hegemony over his life. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

The Grey-Green Dragon flew swiftly down to the entryway of what he assumed was the Marshal’s dwelling, far more an armoured fortress than the descriptor ‘House’ suggested. The great, shimmering brass doors stood fully open to the Marshal’s environment. The pillars housing those massive, sliding outer doors stood one hundred and twenty feet tall and were liberally decorated from top to bottom with inset friezes depicting Dragons in battle. Warm sandstone corridors delved deep into the rock of the Island, but not before Ardan saw that four further layers of armour encased the house itself – natural rock on the outside, then more metal, a space holding thousands of unfamiliar, subdraconic cave-dwelling lizards whose cherry-red eyes burned upon him with dull, monotonous hatred, then a further double-layer of rock and metal which he estimated to be two hundred feet thick. What did this Marshal fear?

Within, the House was lavishly decorated with fanciful, swirling artwork in earthy ochre, tan and cream colours, and bright chequered hangings, all set within a surprisingly airy layout of vaulting ceilings and broad hallways, staircases and vestibules. They passed barracks and bathing facilities for Dragons, a fully-equipped infirmary and a circular meeting-chamber large enough to hold a hundred Dragonkind – or perhaps, to host single combat before an audience, he wondered – before ascending a sandstone staircase that curved past a row of marble sculptures depicting Tixi’s relatives or ancestors, according to the inscriptions chiselled on their bases. Each statue stood thirty feet tall. On the landing above, they passed more Human-sized accommodation. Slave quarters, he suspected, sized for thousands of workers. All wore metal collars similar to his, but of a less elaborate design; each stamped with a rune he did not recognise, which Ardan assumed denoted House ownership. Charming. A slave culture. This level was redolent with fragrant oils and tasty odours wafting from a kitchen complex, while tall brass braziers billowed the smoke of a complex incense that made his eyes water.

Kuratarr stumped past vast storage chambers for grains, dried fruits and herbs, and up a third staircase, this one guarded by a trio of bored-looking shell-brothers, hulking Grey-Greens who visibly stiffened as they looked him over. Hmm. Thoughts of escape would have to entail a better disguise than everyone instantly recognising him for a Shapeshifter.

Observing the subtle signs of deference accorded to his captor, Ardan noted their scars and mien – the Grey-Greens were not battle-ready. A lame wing, paralysed hindquarters … one was blind. His lip curled unconsciously. House-Dragons. Low growls and a warning snap toward his head modified Ardan’s expression. Vicious threats followed him up the staircase as Kuratarr took the steps ten at a time, clearly impatient to complete his task. Even he had to knock at the fifty-foot wide doors at the top – again, gorgeously decorated brass relief-work touched with artistic tints worked into the metal in ways beyond his knowledge. Aranya would have been delighted.

A faint prickle upon his skin warned him of magic. Ruddy spitting cobras, so the collar had not removed all sensation – or more likely, it was the extraordinary power of whatever wards guarded the House here. He knew enough of ward-lore to be extremely wary. Often, Dragons renewed wards over the years, creating a layering effect of power upon power that was almost unbreakable if one did not possess the key.

With a low rumbling of well-oiled rollers, the doors cracked open upon a new realm. Living and entertainment quarters. And a girl.

Ardan’s eyes popped at her costume, a silky blue negligee that hid – well, absolutely nothing at all. She looked him over with prurient curiosity enough to make the most hard-bitten warrior blush.

“Ooh, fresh meat for the table, Kuratarr?” she drawled. “You’re far too kind.”

Fresh meat? Ardan tested the lay of his molars once more. Pretty, but as hard as the blade of Kylara’s scimitar, if he was not mistaken.

“Fetch the Curator, Shizina,” Kuratarr growled, not relinquishing his Dragon’s-fist hold on Ardan for a second.

“Alright, mighty Kuratarr,” Shizina lisped, making moon-eyes at him over her shoulder, “keep your gorgeous scales on. Your wish is forever my bidding.”

Ardan’s scarified eyebrows crawled as the woman blatantly flirted with the Dragon! What the hells? That tone would have earned a fisticuff from Ja’arrion. She sashayed away in a trail of cloying perfume, to the tinkling of the tiny golden bells on her indecent clothing. Ardan could not help but stare.

A talon flicked his head. “Enjoy looking, Shifter, but no touching or the wards will zap your worthless hide to cinders,” growled the Grey-Green. “Since you pretend ignorance of Yandoon Archipelago customs, allow me to elucidate. The harem is where Tixi keeps her personal menagerie of Humans to entertain her guests – male and female, old and young, fat ones, dwarves, whatever takes their fancy. The Curator is your god, your master and the hand of life and death behind these doors. You’ll learn obedience, and fast.”

“When I escape, I’ll stuff your wings down your throat and choke you with them, Kuratarr,” Ardan replied politely.

A twitch of Kuratarr’s paw caused Ardan’s ribs to creak. He bit back a groan.

“Kuratarr. Orders?”

The Western Isles warrior saw a short, round woman clad in enough silk to robe a Dragonship. Yellow, catlike eyes appraised him – the eyes of a predator. He’d underestimate this one at his peril, Ardan deduced immediately. Dark curls framed a face that might have been sweet, save for the burning eyes. Dragoness? Almost certainly.

The Curator waggled her be-ringed fingers in his direction. Ardan felt unseen magic pluck the ring upon his neck. Cold speared into his breast. “Alright, the initial wards are set. Name?”

Ardan clamped his jaw shut.

“Any special remarks?” the Curator asked coldly.

“Kept for Tixi alone. Full ward-punishment. She will interrogate him later,” said Kuratarr, unconsciously mimicking the Curator’s blunt style of delivery. “He’s a Black Dragon Shapeshifter wearing a triple-strong Lavanias collar. He has unique powers to modify his body shape and nature. Be wary of this one.”

The fingers waggled languidly once more, but at greater length than before. Ardan shook his head as a sensation like a borer wasp dug into his skull. Meantime, Shizina mooched up behind the Curator, openly ogling Ardan with her dark, moody gaze and an inviting pout pasted on her painted lips. Both of the women wore their curly black hair very short and heavily oiled. Ardan pictured an Amethyst Dragoness in his mind.

“Oh, is she the one?” the Curator said playfully. “Mistress Tixi will have the truth out of you in two shakes of a hummingbird’s wing. There, nameless man, you’re all set to join our happy little brood. By way of welcome, I think we should test the wards.”

Without any warning whatsoever, the woman’s left hand shot forward to clasp Ardan’s groin!

A yelp had just begun to form in his throat when lightning struck him fifteen feet across the hall. The warrior barely felt his body strike the ground; his skull rang as if he had been blasted by an Aranya-style blue-hot fireball. The Curator eyed him coldly. “You’ll find answering my questions by far the easier option, Shapeshifter Dragon. Name?”

He gritted his teeth. “Dragon.”

Her eyes, however, flicked to follow Sapphire’s entry to the harem. “What’s this? A dragonet?”

Kuratarr purred, “Goes with him, apparently. Good luck, that is.”

The woman’s eyes gleamed with draconic interest. “I’m well acquainted with superstitions regarding dragonets, Kuratarr. His pet can stay for now – we’ll see if dragonets are as beneficial as everyone says they are. Shizina, help this wretch understand what’ll happen if he tries to step beyond the ward’s bounds.”

Ardan had struggled into a sitting position, his limbs trembling like leaves in a strong breeze, when Shizina knelt before him. Freaking windroc of a woman! Fear churned his belly as her lips pursed … he jerked his head away, but the plush lips brushed his earlobe.

KAAABOOOM! Ardan felt his body convulse as though he were caught in the throes of a violent epileptic fit. Darkness pounded him into oblivion.

Chapter 19: Hair and More

TRansforming so HARD and fast that the air snapped away from her with a sharp whap! Zuziana plucked her flying monk away half a foot above a boulder and jinked speedily, her hasty mind-meld allowing them to anticipate and avoid the attack.

Superheated orange fire hosed across the rock they had just vacated, blasting the ultra-dry skortik-flowers into oblivion and giving Ri’arion’s trousers an undeserved cremation.

My sword! he pulsed.

The Azure asked, Go back?

At the speed of thought, they agreed. Zuziana folded herself almost in half, deftly using her lithe fledgling-size to outmanoeuvre their stalwart Grey-Green attacker. He thundered by, striking with his talons and lacerating only the air behind her smartly departing haunches.

GRRROOAARR!! the Dragon howled.

Amidst the smoke and ruin, the Azure Dragoness caught sight of a wink of metal. Ri’arion’s favourite sword, the massive two-handed weapon he favoured in combat. The rest of their effects had safely been deposited in one of Leandrial’s increasingly handy cheek-pockets, and a boon that was too, since the massive male had spared no iota of his powerful Dragon fire blast. Zip snatched up the weapon, tossed the monk into the air, and landed him neatly between her spine-spikes.

Feral! he gasped.

The Azure Dragoness briefly eyed the monster as he braked smoothly and swivelled on a wingtip, returning for his quarry. Strange how she could pick out the qualities that marked the male as feral – strangely fixed crimson elements in the eye-orbs, an unblinking stare and the stiff flexion of his talons – but her eyes were drawn more urgently to a Dragonwing arrowing down from the south-eastern quarter, barely a mile above and closing fast. They could not fight twenty-two adult Dragons, beasts closely matched in size and power, each one fully a third larger than Ardan. Only the leader stood out, a bright, belligerent Green.

She broke for the Cloudlands.

Stop the feral one! roared the Green. Halt, strangers.

Halt? Ri’arion scoffed.

Zip said one word, Opportunity …

The monk nodded, understanding at once the flow of her thoughts. Zip-Zip, get us close to the feral Dragon. I’ll try to turn him. Watch that the others don’t cut off our escape.

Close? Too close? The Azure squirmed out of the path of a fireball, plucked a stunning, twisting somersault out of the bag of tricks she did not know she was capable of, and practically landed on the outraged feral Dragon’s back. Whoops.

Aye, touch him! cried Ri’arion.

Gripping the strange Dragon’s spine-spikes briefly with her talons, Zuziana’s hearts jolted as the massive power of the monk’s psychic command surged through her paws and into the Dragon beneath them.

The powerful Fra’aniorian Enchanter bawled, Desist, mighty Dragon, and remember thyself!

The Grey-Green blinked half a dozen times, very rapidly. I … remember.

Declare thy name! demanded the monk.

I am Tux’tarax! he growled, shaking himself from wingtip to tail. I thank thee for thy rescue, strange sojourners. What is thy Name and Line, Dragoness? And which Archipelago canst claim thy fame? Thou art of one mind with this Human?

He is my mate, Zuziana said without thinking.

However, the Dragon only performed an unfamiliar genuflection of his eye-fires. He is almost a Dragon in power. Now, here comes my mate, the peerless Suk’itarix of Ralladoon. Do tarry, that we might share fresh kill together, for the Dragonsong of thy praises shall be my cry.

By which, Zuziana deduced that the incoming Dragonwing might be friendly, and he intended to compliment Ri’arion by comparing him to the Dragonkind. Tux’tarax spoke an exotic dialect of Dragonish, if she understood the context-indicators and shades of his speech correctly; thus, he must also instantly identify her as a foreigner. Would these Dragons side with Thoralian and his ilk? They had not the first notion of Herimor’s political situation. Could they turn the act of succouring a feral Dragon to their advantage?

Ri’arion’s presence enfolded her in strength as the Azure Dragoness sideslipped slightly away from Tux’tarax, a draconic politeness. His orientation bespoke calm. Her Dragon-sight read the indicators with preternatural speed – checking the set of his muscles, the slight smile revealing his fangs, the sheathed talons, the speed of his breathing and the dull rumbling of his belly-fires. This Dragon worked to calm himself from full battle-readiness, and was manifestly delighted to see his mate.

Suk’itarix, the fragrant smoke of my soul, he bugled powerfully, making the Azure’s wings twitch. I am hale once more.

Tux’tarax, mine unshakable right paw, she sang back. Flying at once to her mate, the Green exchanged swift wingtip-touches and a fond nip that clashed against his right shoulder. Mine fires sing an ode of Dragonsong – for roost-less we might be, but none the poorer for each other’s company. Who are these you attacked, mine third heart?

Many fire-eyes turned upon Zuziana and Ri’arion as Tux’tarax said, This noble Dragoness and her Rider succoured me from my feral battle-state, but I know them not. Shall we become acquainted?

Suk’itarix added, The fruit of our hunt is yet unplucked, yet we would share fresh kill with thee, strangers, for my mate’s sake. But first, tell us – who are you for? And how came you to the Northern Kahilate?

Zuziana consulted Ri’arion, but neither of them could deduce from the Dragoness’ manner what an honest reply might gain them – friend or foe?

Finally, Zip said, We seek a Marshal of old called Thoralian. We heard he travelled from the North.

As one, the Dragonwing stiffened. Fires rose to battle-pitch. The Azure back-winged to keep a few Dragon-lengths between her and the encircling Dragonwing.

Wait! cried Tux’tarax, flapping hard to position himself protectively in front of the Remoyan Dragoness. There is no glamour about this fledgling.

The Green snarled, Or, her protections are so perfect, we cannot detect her glamour.

Ri’arion meantime fed Zuziana a highly compressed account of his reading the Dragons. Each mind was protected with ward-like magic he concluded must be the mysterious Herimor ‘glamour’, which he pictured as a shifting multi-layered set of veils like silk blown in a breeze. They had seen her chestnut locks and thereby knew she was no denizen of the Kahilate, for Humans and Shifters had tight black curls. Long hair provoked their minds to taboo-shades, which neither of them understood. Would they trust Zuziana at all? When he penetrated one of the weaker Dragon-minds, but for a millisecond, the monk saw they had been in a battle with a Dragonwing perhaps sent by Thoralian. Good.

Their mental conversation was so rapid, the Grey-Green was still busy interrupting his mate when Zip and Ri’arion reached their conclusion.

Not even a breath of glamour-magic? snarled Tux’tarax.

At the same time, a grizzled female in the Dragonwing snarled, But the Human’s unusual psychic probe has penetrated our thoughts. See? He’s the true danger.

At this, the Azure Dragoness’ belly-fires roiled thunderously. Was she always to be the little one, discounted, unremarked amongst her more illustrious peers? She snapped, The truth? We’ve no love for Thoralian! Oath-bound, we have journeyed from afar to seek his demise. I am Zuziana of Remoy and my companion’s name is Ri’arion.

While many of the Dragonwing raised growls and bugles of approval, the Green eyed them with palpable fury. REMOY?

Remoy, Zuziana repeated. White-fires truth, Dragoness.

I know my histories, even if you do not, little one, the Green snapped, all acid in keeping with her colour.

The Azure lifted her muzzle, riled beyond any possible politeness. Then accuse me of a lie, Suk’itarix. Did you not see my hair? Where in Herimor would you say I hail from, according to your extensive knowledge of the histories?

You crossed the Rift? The Azure ducked as acid spit sprayed out of the Green’s mouth, but Suk’itarix was not apparently aiming at her. Thoralian –

Crossed from the North, three to four weeks ago. We hunt him, said Ri’arion, as bluntly as his Dragoness. If you would like, we will open our memories to you to prove our heritage. I am a native of Fra’anior Cluster, once their Nameless Man. Now I am Zuziana’s Dragon Rider and … roost-mate. Ri’arion reddened as he found no equivalent in Dragonish for ‘husband’. Very recently, we … uh, well. And – he pulled himself back from a clear case of distraction – we defeated Thoralian and his forces in battle, but he escaped South across the Rift.

As he spoke, the Grey-Greens of the Dragonwing exchanged disconcerted exclamations and glances, but Zuziana also observed a certain lack of surprise in their manner. They knew Thoralian. They hated him. But what was this telepathic whispering among these draconic behemoths? Most were four times her size; the older Grey-Green who had detected Ri’arion’s mental probing, she estimated at a perfectly colossal hundred and fifty feet from muzzle to tail. A Lesser Dragon of greater stature, Zip had never seen. Her thighs were comfortably thicker than the entire girth of the Azure’s torso.

The Princess of Remoy said, It is worse than you might think, for we believe –

Worse than the Thoralians reunited? snarled Suk’itarix, spitting more acid.

Ri’arion voiced a startled expletive.

Thoralian – uh, what the plural hells? gasped Zip, fluttering her wings as she inadvertently stalled. Her breath rasped in her throat like Aranya’s poor impaired lungs, but Ri’arion steadied her with a warm mental hug.

Easy, petal, he soothed.

I believe you may have just proven an old legend of Herimor, the elderly Grey-Green stated. Addressing Suk’itarix, she added, Tari, my shell-daughter, the brave Shapeshifter fledgling speaks only white-fires truth. Let us act accordingly.

Haste. We should speak out of sight, hissed the Green, approaching the Azure precipitately. Her eye-orbs flared orange-yellow, indicating alert interest. A Dragonwing of Thoralian’s command hunts the remnants of our wing-brothers and sisters, for we hid our young before the battle. If you bring information, we shall return every favour fire for fire. Allies?

Zuziana regarded the Green’s forward-swept wingtip with a spontaneous burble of delight. Dragon-direct! One thing about the Dragonkind – while they loved subtlety and nuance, when it came to action, they did not wait for rainbows to form over Islands.

Aye, whispered Ri’arion.

The Azure Dragoness touched wingtips with a pert flick. Allies, for the price of a story.

* * * *

Ardan’s new world was perfumed perversity.

He had never imagined himself a prudish man, but what he saw enacted in the halls and bedchambers of Tixi’s harem – a sophisticated brothel – stretched his forbearance beyond any sane or conceivable limit. The consorts, male and female, made him welcome by sneaking in quick kisses when he least expected them, even when he was asleep, to trigger the House wards. Hazing, he could handle. Their antics with each other, he could not. They turned his stomach.

Any and every act of disobedience was penalised by the Curator or her two assistants, with levels of pain he could not believe. The Lavanias collar ensnared him like a noose secured around the font of his life, squeezing, repressing and moulding in ways he loathed. The promised interrogation from Marshal Tixi did not materialise, for she immediately flew off to war once more, but his ‘breaking in’ to harem life was more than enough degradation for a Western Isles warrior. Even his assigned outfit seemed a calculated provocation – how Aranya would have blushed at the sight of him wearing skin-tight, diamond-encrusted burgundy briefs. Or, she would have jilted him faster than the shot of a crossbow quarrel!

The consorts bathed in the cool interior pools four times a day, at dawn, noon, mid-afternoon and evening, which was a blessing given the stultifying heat. The balance of the day was divided between mandatory exercise, eating a strict diet of fruit, vegetables and lean cuts of meat Ardan did not recognise, and indolence. Endless hours of indolence for the consorts to torment him, the relentless heat to drain his energy, and Ardan’s mind to turn over the problem of Aranya over and over until he wanted to scream at his ill fortune. He spent the cooler morning hours in the garden chatting to Sapphire and teaching her Island Standard, such as was spoken in the Western Isles, until the dragonet’s cutesy-baby voice started to take on a blunt, flat accent in keeping with his heritage. They chuckled over this together.

Oddly, if Sapphire touched his collar, there was no effect. She spent hours trying to pick it apart with her talons as he rested out of the afternoon heat, sweating and cursing his inescapable fate. In the evenings he returned to the garden to watch the flotilla of Islands endlessly following its quadrennial course according to a Blue Moon cycle. Essentially the rooftop of Tixi’s fortress, the outside garden stood atop the Isle upon a small but fertile butte, divided from the rest of the Island by a three-foot wall. No more was needed, for the wall demarcated the line where the House wards took effect – thus, a barless cage held him. He could gaze longingly at the ragion-floated Islands and boulders slowly wheeling through the sky and on all sides, and dream of flying away.

The Islands never bumped into each other. The ragions apparently exerted a mass-effect that made this impossible. What if a storm came, he wondered?

On his seventh day in the harem, Ardan woke to find two pre-adolescent boys sharing his bed.

Yelling incoherently, he charged up the circular stairway to the gardens, sprinted for the wall and dived headlong over it.

BLAM!

Ardan woke with an Island-splitting headache, back in his bed. One of the boys adjusted a cool towel on his forehead, the other was patiently stitching a four-inch, bone-deep cut on the warrior’s left elbow with a fine needle and gut thread, his slim fingers working dextrously at the task.

“We didn’t mean to cause no trouble,” said the first boy, changing the cloth on Ardan’s brow. He was short and chunky, with a softness about his frame that Ardan had learned some of the men – perverts, one and all – prized.

“You’re jumpy,” said the other, tightening a stitch.

Ardan scowled at them through the lights playing havoc with his vision. “Get out.”

“I’m Bane,” said the first boy. “Lurax here thinks –”

“Get the hells out of my room!”

“Strike my soul, you’re scary, warrior-Dragon,” said Lurax, blinking his long, curling eyelashes as he made a strange flicking gesture with the fingers of his left hand. With high, slanted cheekbones and wide, soulful eyes, Ardan knew he had been chosen for his looks – the curse of a pretty face. “Blessed be, you’ve a dragonet.”

“Lucky, aren’t I?” said Ardan. His neck hurt as though a Dragon had taken care to rearrange the bones into an artistic sculpture. He could not even raise his head off the hard pallet, which rather left him at the mercy of Bane and Lurax.

Lurax asked shyly, “Are you a Granite Dragon? A Shapeshifter?”

“Not Granite,” said Ardan, wondering what a Granite Dragon was. “My power is Shadow.”

Bane chipped in, “You’re not like the other men. You treat us nice.”

“Like we matter,” the other boy whispered.

Suddenly, Lurax’s beautiful eyes brimmed with moisture and Ardan’s heart channelled molten fury. Curse it! He should have kicked them out faster. He felt the collar reacting, cooling against his skin as the magic responded to the core of fire within him. Somehow, the circlet’s magic sensed his Dragon’s subdued presence. Mercy! The Lavanias collar did not break a Shapeshifter’s soul – it only changed his ability to manifest or to use his magic. It could be resisted! Hope! Sweet hope pitched its tent within his heart.

Ardan squeezed his eyes shut, but felt tears leaking out anyways.

Prick, prick went the needle. Thud, thud, beat his heart. He groaned, “Alright. What the hells do you kids want?”

“Not what you think,” Bane stated.

Bane was always very definite with his opinions. He growled, “Oh? What should I think, finding you two in my bed?”

“We seen you walking these halls like you want to be blindfolded,” Bane said doggedly. “They say you’re a Dragon and a warrior; you’re restless, like a wild bird, caged. What’s it like being a warrior? You strong. They’ve hazed you like nothing else and you never react, never beat up the women, never talk less than polite-like to the Curator.” He shivered. “You don’t use us kids. We seen your eyes, warrior-man. Lurax’s right. You’re scary.”

“Good-scary,” said Lurax, bending his dark head over the task once more. He was almost as dark as Ardan himself … he jumped as the needle pierced his skin once more. “We’re sorry you gone feral like a Dragon on our account.”

“I need my personal space,” Ardan growled.

“Space? You call this your space?” asked Bane, suddenly transformed into the wisest nine year-old who had ever lived. “You ever belonged to another, bone and blood, warrior-man?”

“Aye. Twice, if you count this period of slavery; thrice, including love,” Ardan replied gruffly. What business was it of theirs? They were only boys – harem boys. Who was he to judge? Easing up on the tetchiness, he said, “Tell me what you want, please. Be honest.”

“We’ll keep off your pallet and you’ll keep off ours,” Bane said. “You teach us how to be warriors. Real warriors.”

Ardan hated having his mind read so accurately, but he had to admit his behaviour had been more than revealing. He must be smarter, not angrier. Did he smell opportunity? “Very well,” he said. “I’ll need you to go into battle for me, though.”

“Battle?” they chorused.

“Aye. Help me petition the Curator to grant me access to the library –”

“After today?” Bane snorted. “You mad, warrior-man?”

“Aye.” He grinned fiercely at the boys. “A warrior never gives up. I need knowledge. A wise warrior never stops training, and he uses his brain – unlike what I showed you today. If you’re willing to give your all, I’ll train you as best I know how. We might not have weapons, but we can make use of what we find here in the harem. Deal?”

The boys glanced at each other. To Ardan’s surprise, it was shy Lurax who replied, “Only if you promise us something else, warrior-man.”

“What?”

“Promise us that when you escape, you’ll take us with you.”

Ardan gave them his fiercest, most searching gaze, “You sure? Out there, there are worse dangers than the Curator.”

A voice from the doorway said, “Aye, so there are. Marshal Tixi is back. She wants to see you, Dragon.” The Curator laughed horribly. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear you’ve been playing with the boys. Up, nameless man. This is the Marshal’s hour.”

Talons of ice sank into his neck.

* * * *

Barely had Zuziana touched wingtips with the Green Dragoness, when Ri’arion hissed, Dragons incoming! Can’t see them, but I sense –

You sense glamour? snapped Tari the Green.

There! Dragon fire! cried several of the Dragonwing. Our younglings!

With me! Tari bellowed.

In a mad scramble, the Dragonwing accelerated away. Zip belatedly trailed them. With the benefit of Ri’arion’s special perception, she saw cohorts of Dragons hunting among the floating Islands. Forty Dragons broke through a mile-wide series of waterfalls to the North. Another Dragonwing came in high, also forty beasts strong. Still more Dragons, upward of a hundred, the monk estimated rapidly, approached in a wide, sweeping arc from the East. Each Dragonwing had a Red leader. Not good. They were outnumbered six to one. Perhaps more.

Tari’s command jinked rapidly between the floating Islands, sprinting for the point where they had spotted the unmistakable orange spurts of Dragon fire. The Green leader marshalled her force with the ease and urgency of long command, pointing out the forces attacking the cavern where they had left the fledglings, hatchlings and egg-clutches under guard. Where she indicated, Zip saw Jagok lizards, squat, powerful subdraconic beasts with armour tough enough to survive a direct blast of Dragon fire, and Heripedes, the centipede-like creatures which were Thoralian’s preferred weapon for penetrating cave-systems. Vicious carnivores with a particular fondness for Dragon eggs, they grew up to twenty-five feet in length and sported highly noxious paralytic or necrotic bites, depending on their subspecies. Charming, Ri’arion muttered.

This was all the briefing they had time for. The cavern-mouth was a mad scramble of beastly madness as Dragon tore into Dragon and dozens of Heripedes made merry. Zip saw nine Jagok lizards – the six-legged violet nasties down there – tearing into an adult Dragoness’ abdomen as she blocked the cavern entrance with her bulk. The Heripedes poured over her like torrents of molten metal, their flexible segments allowing them ease of movement over almost any terrain, including Dragon scales.

There’s a gap above her, Zip pulsed to the monk. Heripedes inside already.

Do it, Ri’arion approved.

ATTACK! The Azure Dragoness launched herself into a wing-straining sprint, using the shaped aerodynamic shielding they had perfected beneath the Clouds to help adjust her path between the Islands into screamingly tight turns and powerful acceleration. She easily outstripped the startled Dragons of Tari’s command.

Ri’arion melded neatly with her mind. They pinpointed the narrowness of the cave entrance. He took four running steps over her shoulder and leaped into her upraised paw as Zuziana approached the narrow but tall cave-mouth. Leaving the battle in the gully leading to the cave for the other Dragons to deal with, Zip tucked in her wings and half-rolled to whip through the remaining space above the Dragoness, taking four Heripedes with her on the nose of her shaped shield. She body-slammed them into the side-wall with a borrowed flick of monk-mind power before Dragoness and Rider burst into the main cavern, a long, sandy space surmounted by many stalactites and downward-hanging crystalline formations.

The Azure had eyes only for the scrimmage on the cavern floor. Fledglings wrestling with Heripedes. Tiny hatchlings mewling in pain. Four adult Dragons brawling near the entrance. Jewel-like Dragon eggs cracked open, their egglings spilled out and partly eaten …

Thinking to see crimson, Zuziana found her vision sheeting white-blue. Her breast stung as though she had swallowed a bushel of spears. Even as she obeyed Ri’arion’s instinct to fling him at one of the enemy adult males, her Blue Dragon power surged so violently out of her throat, Zip thought at first she had turned her stomach inside-out. Lightning coursed out of her throat in a single, endless blast, dividing at the speed of thought as each jagged branch unerringly picked out Heripedes and Jagok lizards and fried them in their own juices.

GRRRAAARRRGH! thundered the petite Remoyan Dragoness.

Spitting and sparking with power, the Azure became her own storm as Ri’arion dealt with a Grey-Green Dragoness and three Jagok lizards in double-quick time, his massive blade spinning and winking back the radiance of her lightning-strikes. Then the monk fell to levitating lizards and Heripedes in her direction, pitching them low and hard as if for catching practice. Zuziana’s Dragon-laugher belled over the fray, still notably soprano compared to the lower register of bigger Dragons, but no less appalling. She realised belatedly that Ri’arion had used their magical shield in a new way to magnify the punitive power of his blade; it sliced cleanly through Dragon scale armour and hacked chitinous chunks out of Heripedes at considerable magical cost, but great efficiency.

He expected a short battle, but her mind was still on the hunting Dragonwings.

With a united roar, Tari the Green’s Dragonwing descended without, snapping and snarling and blasting. Waves of suffocating heat rolled into the cavern. Ri’arion sprinted between the hatchlings, moving as fast as the Dragons themselves, tangling with three half-Heripedes as their mandibles continued to champ at victims despite lacking significant portions of their bodies.

The two defending Grey-Greens finished the last Dragon attacker inside the cave. They turned simultaneously to watch Ri’arion casting himself into Zip’s paw. He levitated three of the remaining Heripedes; Zip sautéed them with psychically-enhanced spears of lightning.

The Azure shook her muzzle violently. Cooked enemy didn’t smell half bad to a battle-maddened Dragoness.

What? gasped the defending Dragons, apparently twins. Who are you?

Enemy Dragonwings incoming, snarled Zuziana. Gather the hatchlings and eggs. Help me move the Dragoness at the entrance.

General Zuziana, Ri’arion teased as she fell to organising Dragons who were not hers to command. They obeyed with alacrity, perhaps recognising her authority or responding because she was a powerful Shapeshifter, he thought to her.

Shut the yapping and help! she shot back, all blaze and brimstone.

The monk decamped in a heartbeat, running amongst the clusters of eggs and bidding the living and able fledglings and hatchlings to take the undamaged eggs in paw. Zuziana meantime directed the bigger Dragons to help move the critically injured Dragoness, who had given her life to protect the eggs and younglings; bellows and gouts of fire still resounded sporadically outside near the cavern, but Tari alighted, her fire-eyes raging crimson at the carnage within the cavern.

Too many, she muttered. Thoralian’s Dragonwings will shred us if we try to escape with so many young and injured. I have failed … but we must try, or we are no Dragonkind.

I can see you safe, said the Azure Dragoness.

Suk’itarix the Green snarled furiously, How can I trust a Dragoness I met but a half-hour ago?

I am Brityx, said her shell-mother, her bulk obscuring the suns. I say her fires burn white. What is this idea, little one?

Zip grinned fiercely. I propose to snaffle you away below the Cloudlands, in the mouth of a Land Dragoness.

Chapter 20: Defiance

After his first interview with the Marshal, four servants dumped Ardan inside the harem’s doorway. The proud warrior of Ur-Naphtha tried to arrest his slide against a wall, but fell against an ornamental plinth. A priceless golden vase by a Fendoon Master toppled. “No!”

Lurax caught the vase, averting disaster. “It were bad?”

Ardan spat blood. “Piece of sweetbread.”

“Bane. Bane!” called the boy.

Shizina and four other small, dark women emerged from a nearby chamber to ogle at the source of the commotion, but they turned at once and disappeared, giggling – as usual. He tried not to blush. Shizina had loudly proclaimed her opinion of the contents of his briefs the previous evening, during dinner, and exactly what she would like to do with a muscled warrior. Grr. He was admittedly a head taller than any of these Herimor men or women, and probably twice their body weight, but that exacting commentary on all of his dimensions made him squirm like a rat trapped in a python’s grasp.

“I’ll walk,” said Ardan.

Lurax helped him stand; it took three tries just to find his feet. Ardan wobbled a few steps before Bane ran up and shoved his shoulder beneath the Western Isles warrior’s left armpit, saying, “Being a warrior mean acting more stubborn than a hunk of week-old flatbread?”

“Aye. Crust like granite.”

“Mistress didn’t like your answers?”

Ardan laughed painfully. “I think it was when I said I’d rather pillow-roll with a scabby windroc’s regurgitated breakfast –”

“Pillow-roll?” puzzled Lurax.

Bane translated, “Shim-shamming, like you refused us last time. That what you mean?”

“I don’t – curse it, I’d rather slit my own throat than do that with children!”

His horror only made the boys look downcast. In silence, they helped him to his pallet, where Ardan collapsed. Bane brought water to wash his blood-gummed mouth; Lurax fetched a cup of spiced hoosik-milk yoghurt from the cold store. Ardan had the impression a hoosik was some kind of hexapede related to the common goat. He swilled water and allowed the tart yoghurt to cool his throat.

Finally, he said, “I’m Ardan of Naphtha Cluster.”

The boys clasped forearms with him, although they clearly did not know what the gesture meant. Herimor culture – at least in the harem – appeared to major on different kisses upon the cheek, ears or shoulders, which was rather unfortunate, since even a casual kiss triggered his wards.

Tixi had found out his name, but only that much. She had demonstrated, at length and in sadistic detail, the ways in which the Lavanias collar could be used to torture a Shapeshifter Dragon.

More gently, Ardan said, “Mostly, in this Island-World, children are allowed to be children. At least, they should be. The stronger should protect the weaker, not take advantage. In my culture what passes in this harem would be beyond taboo. It’s unthinkable. What happened to you, Bane? Lurax? How did you enter the Marshal’s service?”

Bane said, “I was the spoils of war. Started here when I was five.” He laughed bitterly, Islands away in his memories. “I thought I was meant to sing nicely for the Marshal’s guests. Fool I was.”

Lurax added in his sweet, piping voice, “My family were in debt to a landowner. One day, a trader came by. He said, ‘A pretty price for a pretty boy.’ Took me to the back room to … to check the goods. My father told me not to cry. But I cried a lot … ’cause … and my father were ashamed. He beat me for making the trader drop his price.”

“I guess your body get used to it,” Bane reflected.

“Your soul don’t,” Lurax put in, rubbing his eyes fiercely with his knuckles. “Tears? As Bane says, tears are for fools.”

“You think boys like us got souls, warrior-man? After what we done?” Again, Ardan squirmed at the knowing sneer in Bane’s voice, an old man speaking from a child’s mouth. “In this House, we’re nought but toys and baubles. We sold to the spirits of volcanoes, man. We’ll burn forever.”

Ardan looked from Bane, all bitterness and fire, to the haunted depths of Lurax’s eyes, and he wondered what he would not do to rescue such as these.

“Take my hands,” Ardan said, reaching toward them. The boys flinched in concert. “See? You’re afraid I’ll drag you down right now. I can say what I like, right? Promise you the five Moons, and you still wouldn’t trust me after what you’ve been through. Never mind I couldn’t rise off my pallet lest you tied my nostril hairs to a passing meteorite.”

Silence trembled between them.

With a snort of laughter that sounded agonised, Bane touched Ardan’s hand with his. He seemed ready to bolt. After a moment, Lurax did the same.

Gazing at their linked hands, Ardan said, “We all have souls, but none of us is perfect. I wish I could teach you that there are different kinds of touch to what you have experienced, and regard that respects a person, even soul-deep. People can love each other without it being about shim-shamming, or abuse. Touch can be precious, true-fires loving and affirming. I know you don’t see that now, Bane, or you, Lurax, but you can learn another way. We can all learn. Dragons say it with different words, but they mean the same. Their young are precious, never to be ill-treated or molested.”

A flash of deep blue scales announced Sapphire’s arrival in his small chamber, barely large enough for a sleeping pallet and a rickety commode. Without pause, she curved down to land neatly beside Ardan, and laid her muzzle upon his chest with a contented sigh. Her eyes shuttered.

What did the dragonet mean by this? The boys were intrigued …

“Love is meant to be true-fires,” Ardan continued, finally, more intent upon impressing his views on his own heart than upon listening ears. “It nurtures and ennobles the spirit. As I said, we all fail to love rightly. But the point is …” Aranya’s smile, her sorrow, her futile horror played through his memory. Ardan whispered, “I will tell you how I have failed. The point is, when we set ourselves heart, soul and sinew to love, we become more. That is life’s greatest and worthiest labour.”

* * * *

I need ten volunteers to fly interference, snarled Tari. The rest, line up with me. Smaller hatchlings? Find yourself an adult partner. Fledglings, you will fly in compact formation. I don’t want heroes, I want you watching each other’s hides. Azure?

Aye, Marshal? said Zip, flaring her wings in surprise.

Lead out.

I’m … honoured.

Her expression said, ‘Shut the trap and fly,’ but the Green Dragoness inclined a wingtip. Then summon us unto battle, o lightning from clear skies!

Zip bellowed, Dragons, let’s burn the deeps!

She beat her wings with rapid quarter-strokes, launching out of the narrow gully. At once the Dragons following the Azure raised a great windstorm of wingbeats, rising into the air as they formed up around the fledglings. Those carrying hatchlings and eggs flew lower in the formation, as the traditional angle of Dragon attack was to dive from a height.

The compact Dragonwing broke out of cover from the side of the floating Island, diving in a low, shallow arc almost directly southward to give the illusion of fleeing for the next archipelago. Meantime, ten Dragons drove skyward to engage the Dragons wheeling above. The massive Dragonwing stalking from the suns-rise side reoriented immediately, keeping the jaws of their trap tight. Meantime, Ri’arion wasted no time, instructing the Grey-Green Dragons capable of shielding in the arts of filtering poisons. They would have to do their utmost until they reached the safety of Leandrial’s powerful shield.

Only one issue. Zip did not know where the Land Dragoness was. By shielded telepathy, she cried, Leandrial! We need you!

The ochre Cloudlands remained silent.

One hundred and eighty pursuing Dragons did not. The voice of their fury and battle-lust was as thunder shaking the Islands. Ignoring the frantic drumbeat of her Dragon-hearts, Zuziana slowed a little so that she did not pull too far ahead of her more heavily-laden charges.

She yelled with her utmost mental strength, LEANDRIAL!

Ri’arion did not even blink.

Discouraged, the Azure scanned the soon-to-be battlefield rapidly. Those Dragons were too close. Dragon-fire flared in the upper corner of her vision. Zip held course, weaving between the verdant Islands as Thoralian’s Dragonwings belled out their challenges. Grey-Greens lurched as an airstream buffeted them, but Tari’s command held true, flying three or four abreast as they poured between the Islands floating five miles above the Cloudlands like a dark, scaly river. There was no bad weather to provide cover. For the first time, Zuziana appreciated what it meant to be hunted by Dragons. Where could one hide? By all accounts, the Yellow-White Marshal had dispatched his Dragonwings far and wide in the preceding months, hunting … what? A wing-brother? Sign of pursuit from the North? The First Egg itself? Whatever the case, Thoralian’s forces had thrown the entire Northern Kahilate area, the surrounding Vassal States and most of the Southern Kahilate into chaos.

The executions of Humans, Dragons and Shapeshifters already numbered in the tens of thousands, Tari had informed them.

The encircling Dragons were less than half a mile distant. The small covering Dragonwing raced westward, trying to outrun four times their number of fire-belching Dragon-warriors.

She steadied a wingtip. Ready … dive!

Every Dragon in the command tossed their tails up and their muzzles down, and pumped their wings.

Dragonkind plummeted like rain between the great ruddy Island cliffs. Vegetation flashed by. Vines. Burrowing Dragons. Legion greyish ragions holding entire Islands aloft in their limpet-like paws. The Azure Dragoness risked a sideways glance. The chasing Dragons belatedly gave chase – would the gap be large enough? The Grey-Green Dragons surged, taking huge, sweeping strokes of their wings as they evidently realised the sprint was on. They were not quite fast enough, Ri’arion judged within her mind. The slower fledglings would be caught.

Wheeling, Zip said. Azure flashed beneath an Island, so close that she smelled the musty scent of the ragions. Her wingtips brushed their backs.

Stay the course! the monk cried to Tari, his hands clawed as he rose to his feet upon Zip’s back. My magic is ready. Steady, girl. Let’s wake these lizards to a volcanic Fra’aniorian morning!

Multiple billows of Dragon fire greeted the Azure Dragoness as she speared out of cover, one Dragoness assaulting thirty. Ri’arion muttered away like a demented man talking to his invisible friend, making sweeping motions of his hands.

Sensing the power coalescing around them, Zip hissed, Brace for backlash …

Oh, manky windrocs that won’t – I’ve a better idea, the monk chuckled unexpectedly. Watch this.

Sweeping up hundreds of ragions with the shaped shield he had intended to thrust at the incoming Dragonwing, Ri’arion set about firing the bulbous subdraconic creatures across the divide five at a time, then in tens as he found his rhythm, crying, Stick, my beauties! Stick!

The Azure goggled as the ragions, clearly confused by Ri’arion’s overriding mental command, frantically clasped whatever they could catch with their multitude of small, hook-like talons – wings, scales, toes, it did not seem to matter. They stuck like the finest glue – apparently, some subspecies boasted sizeable suckers on their bellies as well as talons, ensuring that they never fell off an Island once attached. The startled, be-suckered Grey-Greens swerved and bellowed and tangled with each other, raising a comical chorus of complaint – Zip occupied herself, however, with repaying lightning-strikes for fireballs with a quintet of enemy Dragons who managed to avoid the irate snarl. Several Dragons, swamped in ragions, floated helplessly up past the Islands, tearing off their own scales in an attempt to loosen the pests.

Zuziana cooed, Creative as well as handsome? What a man!

Her kind of man very nearly lost his head as an unseen Dragon ambushed them from below, driving the smaller Azure against the flank of a small Island. Wing-struts snapped; Ri’arion cursed, holding the Dragon at bay with a swipe of his sword aimed at the searching muzzle. Zip skittered away, running upside-down over the bubbly ragions’ backs before throwing herself into a sweeping backward dive. Furious Dragons roared port and starboard as her abrupt manoeuvre whipped her out from beneath their noses, causing a decent collision between several hundred tonnes of indignant Dragonflesh.

Slobs. Your mothers whelped dim-witted boulders, sneered her Dragoness as the Azure gave them the slip.

Wow, said the Human within. We need to work on our insults, Dragoness.

Freaking Ancient Dragons, this was the time to learn to talk to herself? Zuziana furled her wings and let her superior aerodynamic shape sweep her away from the conflict, meantime panting hard to replenish her oxygen. The hard part lay just ahead.

LEANDRIAL!!

A faraway bellow shook her from tail to wingtips. White flared, together with a gorgeous yet deadly crescendo of Harmonic magic, only Leandrial had somehow contrived to modulate her attack to perfectly wash past the fleeing Azure Dragoness. Crazy. Ragions evaporated. Islands exploded. Boulders and entire chunks of Island came spinning out of the boiling black smoke overhead.

Suk’itarix rallied her Dragons with a fierce cry. Our ally! Be strong, my kin!

Leandrial surged out of the Cloudlands ten miles distant as though she were a freshwater trout leaping for a tasty fly.

Two fledglings bolted and were snaffled up by Thoralian’s Dragons, those neither caught up by the wash nor fleeing the flying debris. The rest drew in tighter, faithfully chasing the Green and her Dragonwing down into the Cloudlands. Fireballs vanished in the murk as the dank clouds closed overhead, and the Lesser Dragons hurtled down into a realm none of them had ever seen, bar Zuziana.

Yet as she descended, she heard one of the Dragons cry out in a harsh, guttural language, Chase them, my kin. Destroy!

Dark, chittering magic surged against her mind, carrying echoes of the Rift-Storm. Ri’arion shouted angrily as their shields guttered; only a massive rallying effort prevented wholesale collapse. He kept their Dragonwing on song with a steely touch of his mind, drawing the command close, warning against predators. Yet Zip was searching ahead with her senses, hearing an echo of urzul from somewhere faraway, below. Mercy. What did Western Islanders say – meat fallen from the spit-roast into the flames was best eaten charred?

They broke into the upper layers to the awesome sight of Leandrial’s paws churning toward them and many huge, shadowy bodies closing in from the South.

The Land Dragoness’ mouth yawned hugely. In here. Quick!

Fra’anior’s teeth, what are those? Ri’arion gritted out, before yelling at a Grey-Green, Hold that hatchling! This is Leandrial.

And those others? Tari snarled.

Theadurial-infested hunters, Leandrial thundered. Deep-Runners of enemy Clans. Now, are you with me?

Her mouth loomed over the Dragonwing, then gently drew shut as the Dragons made their landings on her tongue.

Leandrial declared, Now, I shall show these ugly flatfish that I am not for nought called a Welkin-Runner. The beat of her tail lashed them away, back toward the North and the safety of greater depth.

Zip’s relieved laughter startled more than a few of the Dragons. She said, Little ones, climb into the cheek-pockets for safety. There. Go there. Organise yourselves, Dragons, and place the eggs carefully. Those who are able, join Ri’arion in the shielding. For Leandrial alone, she added, Today, thou shalt succour eggs and younglings by thy mighty right paw, Leandrial. Thus, thou art mother to us all.

* * * *

Ardan’s defiance brought out the Dragoness in Tixi. The Marshal had thought to break him, but she had many other problems, for the war swept ever closer. He endured two more cruel torture-sessions with her before she left for the war, and the boys finally prevailed upon the Curator to allow Ardan access to the library on the third level below the harem living-quarters.

Often, he gazed to the far North, where Aranya had disappeared. How could star-life, or Dragon-life, be snuffed out so abruptly? Surely her fate was not thus circumscribed? The Amethyst Dragoness had always risen before. She possessed a talent for surviving the most improbable adversity, such as being chained to a rock and tossed off a league-tall cliff by that traitorous Jeradian who had dared to court her afterward. Blunder, o Princess. Especially since he was so unbiased in all matters pertaining to the Immadian beauty, and his own history … Ardan gritted his teeth. He believed her beauty would rise like the fabled dawn-star discussed in the ballad he was just reading.

To rise anew.

Ardan himself had risen from the flames of Naphtha Cluster. He still healed at Dragon speed. Whence emerged the strength of Shadow, if not from the Great Onyx himself?

If only Fra’anior would speak to set him free of this bondage.

His eyes flicked back to the scrolleaf. Arm thyself with knowledge, warrior. He must learn the history of Thoralian, but so far, the Curator chose to deny him access to the genealogies. How long since they had crossed the Rift? Three weeks?

Sapphire nosed the scroll, saying, “Hoo-lee.”

“What?”

A dagger-sharp claw rose to tap a precise spot on the text. “Hoo-lee,” said the dragonet, firmly.

The dawn-star rune! Cold sweat pearled Ardan’s brow.

* * * *

For eight days there was little time or energy for detailed discussion. They fled, hunted by the relentless pack of Deep-Runners. Leandrial wanted to break out of the Northern Kahilate through the Vassal States that pinched in along its south-western border Islands, to where she said the voices of Welkin-Runners had identified the rising of a ‘great power from the deep’. From the snippets and sounds of battle she had overheard from thousands of leagues away, Leandrial posited that the Shell Clan Land Dragons had laid siege to the S’gulzzi, seeking the First Egg, while the S’gulzzi employed the Egg’s magic to raise themselves up out of their habitual cracks on the floor of the Island-World, and strengthened their slaves, the Theadurial, for the fight. All-out war raged beneath the Vassal States and the Southern Kahilate, perhaps spreading as far afield as Garashoon, Indaroon with its famously red Fire-People, and The Immovables, an Island-Cluster which six centuries before had settled in a favourable location above the largest gold, diamond and meriatite mines in Herimor, and refused to budge ever since.

Just around the time of the Dragonfriend, Leandrial intoned with inflated draconic inscrutability.

Zip kicked Leandrial’s cheek, despite knowing that in her Human form she could not possibly do the slightest damage with such a gesture.

The Land Dragoness thereupon added that The Immovables were also called the ‘Inscrutables’ for their unique population of Lesser Dragons who excelled at the art of glamour. No living creature knew what the Immovable Dragons looked like, only that any army which had ever tried to invade, had been annihilated and sunk without a trace.

Perfect allies, Ri’arion suggested dryly.

The Princess kissed him until she deemed herself satisfied, leaving a gasping, red-faced, speechless monk in her wake. Ha. Who ruled his Islands?

Besides, she was addicted to mischief-making. Turn Leandrial into a living nursery? Marvellous! The Land Dragoness seemed quite tickled – literally and figuratively – to have seventeen eggs tucked into her cheek-pockets, and fourteen hatchlings playing wingtips-and-tumbling across the breadth of her tongue. They were awfully cute little fire-breathers, Zip agreed; only, some of the adults insisted on treating her as one of the fledglings. At least they were impressed with her scales, her inner Dragoness snorted fierily. And her battle technique. That had sealed her status in the group as just below massive Tari and her even more gargantuan shell-mother, Brityx.

Around Brityx, she was so overshadowed that Zip had an odd impression of being a toddler needing to hug the nearest knee.

Right now, Brityx cracked open an eye right behind Ri’arion and said, without preamble or warning, “Legend has it that Thoralian belonged to a line of powerful Eastern Shapeshifters, hailing from a little-known leeward quaternary pro-cyclical Island-system on a three-decade diurnal Blue-linked migratory pattern, called Sonax, which –”

“Uh … slow down,” said Zip, trying to sort out the little Herimor geography she knew, in her mind.

Leandrial showed her a mental map of the Northern Kahilate. Three-quarters of the way down on its far eastern flank, she drew a flat, intersecting oval with bright arrows. In comparison to the main territory, her demarcation was tiny. Here, little one. This is the basic orbital cycle of Sonax, as best it is understood. The Archipelago crosses into the Kahilate for two years, two months and five days of every thirty years, approximately. This is due to an additional semi-harmonic magical factor which causes the Islands to misbehave … she laughed brightly. Alright, Azure. Little wingflips for hatchlings.

Zip scowled sullenly at Leandrial’s cheek-wall, flicking her long chestnut locks out of her face. Thanks, mighty teacher.

Ri’arion said, “I love draconic detail, Brityx. Can we speak later?”

“Shapeshifters,” sniffed Brityx, clearly underwhelmed by Zip’s reaction, even though she appeared to have a fiery spot for the Azure Dragoness. “Briefly, the Sonaxite star began to wax brightly perhaps two hundred years ago under the leadership of a powerful old Marshal named Thoralian. But the Marshal was betrayed and mortally wounded in battle with his arch-enemy and shell-uncle, Goralian. In the simplified version of the legend, Thoralian returned to a secret clutch and breathed of his draconic fire-spirit into three eggs, each of which hatched a perfect replica of the original Thoralian.”

The huge Dragoness turned to regard her shell-daughter. “Any Dragon worth their wings will tell you Thoralian – be he one or three – was able to evade first deadly nursery battles, then multiple attempts at assassination and poisonings, then the combined ire of other Marshals living on the fringe of the Kahilate. He seemed untouchable. Perhaps six or seven times, entire Dragonwings saw the Yellow-White Dragon struck down and killed, only for Thoralian to reappear in another place, or to apparently fight two battles simultaneously. Unfortunately, the old Marshal ruthlessly destroyed any who knew him in his hatchling or fledgling years, and all records. The legends are fragmentary and confused at best. They say he’s invincible; that he sucks the fire-souls out of egglings –” she shuddered involuntarily “– and inserts his own in their place. So powerful is that spirit, that he reappears in exactly the same form, power and size just a pawful of years later.”

Zuziana squeezed her monk’s fingers. Mercy.

“Having conquered mighty territories over the course of fifty years, Thoralian’s greed waxed greatly regarding the First Egg,” Brityx continued. “It is said he schemed and connived and corrupted Land Dragons to his cause, masterminding the situation in which the traitor Shurgal first retrieved the Egg, then betrayed all of the Dragonkind by availing himself of the corruption of urzul. By unknown means – doubtless great draconic trickery – it was the unremarkable Marshal Re’akka who prevailed in the battle for the First Egg. Harnessing its powers, he devoured his enemies including the Thoralians, and fled across the Rift before any could follow.”

“We can tell you something of that tale,” said Ri’arion. “As best we know, the Pygmy Dragoness defeated Re’akka and his armies of corrupt Dragon Assassins, after they murdered ninety-nine percent of the Dragonkind North of the Rift, but she lost the Egg once more to Shurgal –”

“Cursed be his name for all eternity!” rumbled Leandrial.

“– and the Egg is now back in Herimor,” the monk summarised. “Somehow, we ended up with a Marshal Thoralian North of the Rift –”

“While one or more Thoralians endured and laid the groundwork here in Herimor,” snarled Suk’itarix. “The timing of his renewed rise to power over the last decades is otherwise impossible.”

The companions exchanged troubled glances in the gloomy interior of Leandrial’s mouth.

“Or, once our Thoralian returned, and reunited with his shell-brothers, they became stronger than ever before,” suggested Ri’arion. “Trebly strong. It is a mystery to me how a Dragon could pass on his spirit like that, spawning perfect copies of himself as he wishes.”

Leandrial said, “She who holds the Egg, holds power. We must recapture the First Egg before Thoralian does. He is clearly allied with the S’gulzzi – but why should they gift the Egg to him? What would it benefit their kind, apart from domination of all Dragonkind South of the Rift-Storm? It seems too mean an ambition for a Dragon of Thoralian’s foul ilk.”

“Immortality?” said Zip.

“Thoralian seems to have that conundrum firmly in paw,” the monk snapped bitterly. He massaged his temples, wincing. “Sorry, love. Need to detoxify.”

“How I wish I’d had access to your penetrating insights a hundred years ago, Suk’itarix,” sighed Leandrial. “I can shed fire upon this matter of Thoralian’s proliferation, however. There’s an ancient word in the annals of my people; I know not the Island Standard equivalent, but in Dragonish, we say daimon. It translates as ‘ravaging spirit’, or ‘spirit of darkness’ – the exact converse of angel, which means ‘star spirit.’ In draconic lore, angel signifies the eternal light- or fire-spirit of the Dragonkind in a poetic or transcendental sense. A daimon is like the ravaging, unstoppable Nurguz of old – a daimonic spirit which was perhaps the very reason Fra’anior and his brethren fled our Island-World. Regardless, I propose that the Thoralians essentially consume or corrupt eggling-spirits as a vile form of procreation – accursed daimon-spawn!”

Of one accord, every Dragon listening shuddered, even the Land Dragoness.

Leandrial mused gloomily, “Still, I cannot penetrate the nature of his need for the First Egg.”

“It’s simple,” said Zip.

For once, she had the jump on her sharp-as-talons companions and she could not celebrate it. She wrapped her arms around her torso, shivering with a chill that settled deeper than her marrow. No, no, no …

“What? What, precious Remoy?” Ri’arion asked, drawing her against his hard-muscled chest.

“It’s an egg. Consider what’s inside. What would Thoralian most want to daimonize – if that’s the right word – if not the young of the Ancient Dragonkind?”

* * * *

Chained to a dungeon-like wall by manacles at wrist and ankle designed to contain a Shapeshifter’s Dragon-enhanced strength, Ardan faced Marshal Yar’nax’tix. Through bleeding lips, he said, “I am addicted to powerful women, just not to you.”

The Marshal reeked of glamour-magic. She had dressed up for the occasion – filmy silks, perfume, jewelled slippers, the whole seductive approach. The Lavanias collar compressed his mind like the business end of a blacksmith’s vice, promising him realms of endless ecstasy if he would only yield to her charms.

Thankfully, Ardan had learned a few of Ri’arion’s mind tricks. Not that she was a bad-looking woman. She was short, muscular and curvaceous, which the silks made amply clear. Tixi looked every inch the Shapeshifter Dragoness, with a magical spark in her arresting dark eyes, set off by high cheekbones and the longest hair he had yet seen in Herimor, two inches of black curls framing a cruel yet somehow alluring visage. Crudely put, he had placed a vascular restriction on that part of him which she hoped would salute her glamour-enhanced appeal, magnified many-fold by the collar’s power. He clung onto the ward controlling his physiological response, but concealed it behind thoughts of the scrolls contained in Gi’ishior’s library.

How did she achieve that amplifying effect? Did the collar feed off his innate magic?

Ardan allowed a smirk to touch his lips. “Well, this is getting us precisely nowhere, isn’t it, Marshal? Don’t take it personally.”

“I interviewed your boys,” she snarled maliciously.

“You hurt them?” he blurted out.

Tixi laughed mockingly. “No. Nor your dragonet, though I considered both avenues. But Lurax, with some encouragement at the tip of my Dragoness’ fore-talon –” she supplied a crude, universally abhorrent gesture “– told me everything.”

Ardan threw himself against the manacles, screaming every foul curse he knew.

The Marshal let him rage for a minute, before calling upon the House wards. Ardan’s body convulsed helplessly against the manacles as a sensation like a Dragon’s lightning attack jangled his nerves. His teeth smashed together and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Even when she stopped, his body continued to spasm and twitch for over two minutes.

“I know about this Aranya, this Amethyst Dragoness you hold in such high regard,” sneered the Marshal. “I’m hunting her already. And when I find her …”

Spears of pain pierced his mind, followed by a rain of excruciating fire. His body streamed with sweat, which now steamed off his skin as the heat built beyond endurance.

“I’ll burn her like I’m burning you now. How’s this, Dragon. Feel like a volcano?”

GRRAAAARRRGGH!!

Dimly, faraway, he heard her say, “Yield, Dragon, before you break your own bones.”

Crimson washed his vision; tears as thick as blood; perhaps they were blood, squeezed from his bulging eyes as Ardan fought the pain. Every tendon in his body thrummed under the terrible, wracking impetus of the collar’s untrammelled command of his body and mind; every muscle tried to twist itself around its neighbour. Warmth leaked down his leg. Ardan had thought himself too strong, incapable of ever losing control of his bodily functions, but the agony drove rational thought from his mind, a wedge between body and soul. Tixi bore down even more heavily. He jerked against the manacles over and over, tearing his own skin. He was losing, losing the will to survive, to stand against …

Fra’anior …

His was the final cry of a despairing, broken soul.

Open the fonts of thy power, o shell-son of mine spirit.

I cannot. He must be raving; over the cliff-edge of sanity. Father-mine, I cannot stand … let me die … please.

A keening sound of many throats raised in grief washed his awareness. This maggot torments without reason. You must teach her to fear and respect a child of my spirit – SHA’ALDIOR!

Ardan’s world resounded with the violent roaring of many throats. With a scream of metal, he ripped the deeply-embedded manacles out of the wall. All was dark, leaping flames of fire. Marshal Tixi’s face became a rictus of effort as she plundered the House wards for the strength to keep him from transforming. The collar’s furnace-heart pain battled with the black fire within him. Something had to give. Ardan tore a leg free. Then he ripped down the wall as he started for Marshal Tixi.

SNUFF HIM! she cried, herself turning white as she gave the last of her strength to bolster the House’s ancient magic.

All went mercifully dark, and fireless.

Chapter 21: A Star Descended

ARanya Smiled at her shell-mother. Why am I not breathing?

Izariela’s expression had never seemed more inscrutably draconic. The White Dragoness shrugged, drawing her wings up. Though she had no need of physical flight, her spirit-form still mimicked the right actions. Time passes strangely in a Shapeshifter’s soul.

We’re … inside my soul?

In a manner of speaking. We commune. All else is extraneous, as you say. Even breathing.

O mystical mother! Aranya chuckled softly, Or, actually being alive? I’ve heard it’s not the worst state of being. Oh mercy, no …

Her mother’s state was the worst. Trapped between life and death. Aranya hung her head, but Izariela chucked her beneath the chin with a fond talon-touch. No – oh, please don’t look so woebegone, Aranyi. You didn’t mean it that way. You’re alive, petal. Take it from someone who knows the difference. I’ve missed you so. I remember you as just a little girl with a crazy-beautiful wealth of hair. Now, you’re a grown-up Dragoness and you’d take my breath away – if I were actually breathing.

Over Izariela’s musical chuckle, Aranya growled, I’m half-grown, and ugly.

She did not mean to sour their time together. Pain lanced into her breast as Aranya thought upon the years they had lost, the march of time to her seventeenth year; her mother entrapped in that almost-tomb behind the royal palace of Immadia.

Yet her mother’s wings enfolded her tenderly. I believe you will overcome, Aranya, if you’re even half the Shapeshifter Dragoness I think you are. Remember all I have taught you.

I – I don’t remember. Have we talked? How long have I been here, mother?

Not long enough, Izariela sighed mightily. Aye, we’ve spoken all this while. Suddenly, Aranya knew suspicion. Her mother sneaked soft-pawed around fate, around that always-hinted-at ability of Hualiama or Fra’anior or Izariela to speak across time and space, thereby threatening the march of destiny. What exactly had the White Dragoness done?

Aye? Aranya purred back.

Izariela’s eye-fires mellowed into pearlescent beauty. Good, you understand.

I don’t, but I’m almost as stubborn as you, mother.

I love it when you jut out your chin like that, petal. You always did that, even as a girl. Izariela’s gaze was melancholy; so fond and profound that Aranya could hardly bear to face it. You’ve evidently inherited a double portion of stubbornness, both maternal and paternal. How is my Beran?

He’s … good. He married again, Mom. I’m sorry.

He couldn’t have known.

None of us knew. Silha’s a sweet petal, but it’s not the same as … as my real mother. Aranya ran her eyes one more time over the Dragoness, memorising every detail of her slender form and her perfect white scales. I gather sullen teenage Shapeshifters can be more than a little feisty.

I’ll remind you of that one day when you’ve a beautiful brood of your own, Izariela chuckled. Now, it is time for a Star Dragoness to descend from the heavens. It has been four weeks, Aranyi.

Four? But, Thoralian – but I – mother! Four! How could you?

Affecting unconcern, Izariela said, Don’t tell your grandsire, alright?

Don’t tell? Aranya gasped. Fra’anior would strip all the scales off her with his bellowing. Oh, she was so in for a sevenfold roasting this time …

I will be with you, Aranyi. You must grasp that conviction in all your hearts! Fly strong and true, my treasure. She began to fade. Aranya pressed her close, her head pillowed on her mother’s shoulder. You must fly for me, Aranyi. Fly for one who cannot.

Mom. MOM!

Her head rested on air. As her scream faded, Aranya felt gravity reassert its usual place in the Universe. With a surprised gurgle, she began to fall.

Sideways.

* * * *

Tixi and her Dragons took a week to re-establish the House wards, struggling and failing to keep Ardan unconscious all that while. Unfortunately for them, he continued to heal at Dragon-speed. Great weals adorned his wrists where he had broken the allegedly unbreakable manacles, but his injuries were nothing. Lurax, having suffered the Marshal’s abominable interrogation, lay abed on the cusp of death. He was tougher than Ardan could have hoped for, but infection raged unchecked in his body – and who valued the life of a slave-boy?

He swore revenge on his Dragon’s soul-fires.

The Marshal had not interrogated him since, but he daily felt her hatred as a physical force.

Legs splayed, right palm firm upon the ground and the left clenched behind the small of his back, Ardan ground his way through the fiftieth consecutive one-handed press-up with his left arm. Not bad. Ever since he had turned into a Dragon, at some point prior to his escape from the Sylakian genocide at Naphtha Cluster, his physical strength had been growing. And if he was ever to escape this place – and the diamond-trimmed, ornamental briefs that constituted his allowable day-clothing – he would need to be in top form. As usual, a dozen or so of the harem’s inhabitants lazed in the shade or beneath richly ornamented umbrellas nearby. Even in the early evening, the day’s heat was formidable, like a Western Isles hot season shoved inside a bread-oven for additional roasting power. The male consorts sipped iced fruit juices, while the female consorts occasionally roused themselves to a sultry waggle in their scanty finery and lashings of jewels, and made moon-eyes at him over the tops of their fans.

Predictably, giggles followed as he switched hands and set to work on the right.

‘One, two, three for Aranya. Four, five, six for her love,’ he counted silently. ‘Seven, eight … may I be faithful, even in my mind … nine, ten – ’

“Look. A shooting star,” said Shizina. “It’s … low.”

The note of alarm in her voice stopped Ardan in his tracks. He peered up past the indolent harem consorts, over the Island’s low, mounded green hills, to the skies beyond. Opaque skies. Storm. Where had those clouds suddenly appeared from, brooding and majestic in their serried ranks, like a dark army gathered to salute the pinpoint of brilliant light that hurtled from the storm’s heart? Curtains of sable swept aside to make obeisance to her, the star descending in the train of her majesty.

Mawkish fool. No way that was Aranya. It must be a meteorite … then why had his heart risen to strangle his throat? His pulse ran wild. He could not breathe. All his world was that star, and the hope it epitomised.

She blazed across the sky from the direction of the Rift. Low, as Shizina had said. Rocketing toward the Shadow Dragon as if expressly aimed at his inflamed forehead. Inanely, Ardan remembered Ri’arion explaining how if a shooting star came in at a shallow angle, it should either glance off the Island-World’s atmosphere like a river-stone skipped across the water, or burn up entirely. There was nothing about that approaching light that suggested a Dragoness, only the wild intuition of his heart. The rejoicing. The mad twitching of his toes.

Sapphire came to him, and he clutched the dragonet against his neck. Habit made him careful not to touch the Lavanias collar, but Sapphire could. He glanced at Bane. Rapt. And why ever not?

“It’s her,” he whispered to the dragonet.

“Ari?” squeaked Sapphire.

Immense speed. Eerie silence. The star drew a white streak across the sky, drawing closer at a velocity that beggared belief. Was it slowing? Trails of gossamer light seemed to hang off the star’s skirts, creating a shimmering silver-white veil that elongated before his astonished eyes.

As the apparition hurtled overhead, unknowable leagues above the Isle of his captivity, Ardan and everyone else watching, ducked reflexively and turned to watch it pass.

A high-pitched whistle followed, then the shockwave. KAABOOOMM!!

Pounded to his knees, he could not have heard a Dragon roar right in his earhole, but the Island swayed violently, knocking up against its neighbour as a tremor passed through the Archipelago. Rocks and ragions fluttered down into the Cloudlands, followed by fresh rivers as reservoirs within the dragonworm-honeycombed Islands cracked and spilled their contents. The shooting star vanished into the distance, below the horizon. Its echoes faded like choleric thunder, lingering far longer than the lustre of her presence.

Ardan found his feet. “Mercy. Was that you, Aranya?”

Then he saw a Red Shapeshifter Dragoness rising into the evening sky, her murderous gaze fixed upon him. He was deaf, but she had clearly overheard.

His brow drew down defiantly. Make of that what you wish, Marshal Tixi.

And tremble.

* * * *

Hold on, Star Dragoness. Keep your cool. Preserve your fires.

Strange, whispery voices surrounded her. Cajoling. Reassuring. Laughing in wild, stormy glissades of sound; caressing her scales with paws of wind.

Stay with us, Star Dragoness. Enjoying the ride?

Aranya tried to open her eyes, but immediately had to resort to squeezing her membranes shut and slitting her primary eyelids to combat the windstorm surrounding her. All was white. Gloriously white, in the way that starlight surpassed understanding, singing directly to her soul. Instinctively, she pressed up a tapered shield and was immediately rewarded by the sight of Islands swishing by. Whap. One Island. Whap, whap-whap. She blasted past them with outrageous abandon.

Another voice chimed in, Clouds are never rough, but she’s travelling too fast for one of her kind. Shake one of their hard little Islands, she will.

The Amethyst Dragoness gazed around her in wonder. Cloud-Dragons, she breathed. Are you –

Of course, sweet low-dweller, said one of the wispy clouds-with-wings, Dragons of the greatest heights are we, incarnate of the winds, blowing where we please. We call ourselves … how may we explain in your dialect? Perhaps, Wisp-Dragons. Wisps.

The Amethyst Dragoness had the barest impression of filmy wings, of insubstantial threads of draconic fire-life, incongruously, speaking to her with chiming clarity. They were as puffy as clouds, myriad lives sporting around her as she imagined Dragons might play together in a terrace lake, spinning and leaping and shooting through the waters. Their speech was as ephemeral as their chosen environment, like a high, tumultuous descant that added musical runs of notes to denote nuances of meaning she could only guess at. Nevertheless, she sensed that they intended to help her.

She began to say, Thank you …

Compress her velocity, my cloud-brethren, came a cry. Compress, shield, bring her down where the Star indicated. Shape her flight.

Aranya blew past many strange, floating Islands, seeing waterfalls tumbling into space off their edges and new forms of draconic life lurking in cave-mouths and lumbering Dragons transporting weapons and floating Human cities and once, on a rocky isthmus, a dark, upturned face – Ardan! She ripped past him so fast that she could not tell through the bright light, even with her Dragoness’ eyes, if it was truly him she had seen. All she saw was a group of Humans flattened in her wake and an angry-looking Red Dragoness, already a speck on the horizon.

She flashed past mountains, hurtling along a trajectory that would have been fatal had she so much as clipped a single peak, but she passed between them by a miracle of precision. Suddenly the Amethyst felt as if she had pitched headlong into a bale of cotton wool. Feathers. Wings brushing her face, bodies folding more softly than the down of the finest royal bed, all around her muzzle and wings, not hurting – assisting. Tearing when they needed to tear, only to reform and leap alongside her with joyful shouts and bugles. Hundreds. Thousands. Together, the Wisps cushioned her headlong rush, and that was for the best, for Aranya flew so low now, leaves whipped her body and Islands rocked in her supersonic wake.

WHAM-BLAM-BLAM! She and her muffling Wisps ripped a canyon of destruction through the forest atop a large Island.

BOOM! She skidded off the surface of a lake, blasting water hundreds of feet into the air.

The water crystallised around her body as a sheath of ice.

More, sang the Wisp-Dragons. Pile in thick, pile her high! More, my wing-brothers!

She felt as if she must suffocate beneath the manifold layers of their presence, but she did not. Where was the heat of her draconic life? She was still colder than ice, so cold, she sensed the air whipping over her left behind a trail of crystals … Aranya tried to gaze about her, but the ice was so dense she could not shift her head. What she saw was as through the thickest pane of crysglass, her gaze fixed upon a great building ahead of her, atop an Island. No, five rows of buildings as large as warehouses … the Amethyst wished to shut her eyes, but could not. They were forced open by the freeze.

The impact was indescribable. Shocking. Battering her body and mind as though Fra’anior himself punched her repeatedly across his caldera. The first building imploded, as did the second. The third closed around her slowly, the fourth collapsed upon her sliding course. Debris rained down, thick beams and stone walls trapping the Amethyst amidst a maze of ice, rubble and ruin.

An unknowable time later, Aranya found herself staring at her left forepaw, counting talons. Five perfect, steaming claws. A whole pawful.

We’ll leave you now, whispered the Wisps. You must change yourself, precious Star. Hide amongst these Dragons for a time. Veil your nature. Hear us? Hide!

Their commands washed upon ears that heeded, but did not understand. Aranya knew she had travelled from a place outside of experience or imagination. She was a star descended to the Island-World, beaten and bruised, and weaker than any hatchling, yet magical fire-life wuthered within her hearts and for that, her soul sang its thankfulness.

Debris avalanched to a standstill all around her. The Star Dragoness had come to rest within the caved-in shell of the fifth building. Nothing smelled familiar. Shards of ice surrounded her prone form, shattered by the impact. Smoke and steam drifted languidly over the scene. Her dulled senses took in splintered beams. A cart-wheel, slowly spinning on its axis. Mounds of rubble lit by flickering fires, juxtaposed with towering shards of ice. She had a narrow field of vision through the debris to an Island-forest that stood riven, as though a mad barber had shaved a path through its hair.

Aranya shuttered her eyes. Izariela, whatever this plan was, I salute thee. And we shall have words when you rise from your tomb – beautiful, aching words.

She wept without tears.

* * * *

Dragon voices roused the Dragon-Princess. Dragons! Petulant, hot-tempered words washed into her ear-canals, cursing the destruction, the fires, the wreckage of the barracks. The speaker was an Orange Dragon of a size that made her brow-ridges twitch, stumping around in the devastation with a furious curl of his lip and lava-like orange fires leaking constantly from his nostrils. Her own nostrils twitched, taking in hundreds of evocative odours. Tropical vegetation. Unfamiliar Dragon-scent. Sulphur. Unknown timbers. And her own scent, like pure starlight …

The Orange Dragon was a bruiser, scarred by many battles, missing much of his left mid-wing near the secondary wing-joint. His helpers were all … Grey-Green? Aranya stared through her narrow peephole. All of them? Weird.

Hide, the Wisps’ last words echoed in her mind. Hide amongst these Dragons for a time.

How was she supposed to hide? She was a unique colour.

Dimly, her mind creaked into motion, as if her body were waking from hibernation – which perhaps, it was. Pathways long unused groaned and tingled as novel sensations spread through her listless limbs and unfeeling wings. Colour? The Dragons were discussing the probable path of the meteorite, eyeing the rapidly melting ice and fires with patent amazement. Mercy, they were all … monsters. Bigger than Ardan, and she had thought him – Ardan!

The Orange Dragon’s muzzle jerked about. Over here! The rubble trembled and collapsed as his massive tonnage pounded toward her. He pounced two hundred feet. KABOOM! A beam dug painfully into her flank. Dig here! I hear hearts. Dig, you scale-less drago-malworms! Curse your sires, your dark fires, the blighted wombs that deformed your eggs …

Hide? When her every fibre screamed from the renewal of blood and fire-life?

Aranya tasted this idea, watching as Grey-Green paws scooped up rubble and tossed aside beams the size of trees. The Orange was certainly feared, his rough commands sparking instant obedience. But if she became just like one of the rest … aye. Magic swelled within her being. That, unlike the rest of her, seemed primed for use. Aranya concentrated on her strange, Chameleon-like power. She must be just like them. Sleeker, perhaps, but exactly the same colouration. Her scales tingled as the change rippled through her body – a shame she could not just Chameleon away her ugliness …

The rubble shifted. Steam hissed somewhere. Her body was rapidly heating toward its proper draconic temperature, now, melting the last of the ice rimed around her legs and wings.

With a heave, four Grey-Greens levered half a roof off of the no-longer-Amethyst Dragoness. The Orange loomed overhead, scowling fit to set her tail alight. He cursed luridly. Dragonish so rough it made her talons curl, beat upon her freshly opened ear-canals. Why, it’s the ugliest freaking piece of windroc-filth I ever did see. Ugh! He spat sideways, a glob of molten rock. Get over here, you spukkuri flatworm!

A massive paw seized her throat and hauled her unceremoniously out of the debris. In a moment, Aranya found herself dangling in the air like a chastised puppy, given as the Orange was four times her size. With the air of a grizzled commander, he vented his spleen upon her at considerable, obscene and ear-splitting volume. His accent was so thick, Aranya understood barely a word in four, but those were enough to singe her ear-canals.

Eventually, a question emerged amidst the execrations. Where did you fly from, you pox-blasted wretch?

The sky, the Amethyst replied before sense intruded.

Bellowing in affront, the Orange shook her like a rat. Fire roared over her, but Aranya was too disoriented to do anything but let his rage slide over a tiny shield she managed to form around her head. Perhaps it was a mercy she was so limp; his ire did not appear to damage anything too badly.

Stupid, fire-spitting bully! Her fires rebelled, but Aranya withheld. She must not reveal any secrets. That was paramount.

When she emerged from a sea of roiling orange-gold flames, it was with a firm chin and steely mien. Aranya eyeballed the Orange, measure for measure, from a distance of twenty feet. The Orange Dragon’s mountainous shoulders stiffened perceptibly, a battle-reaction. Whatever he saw in her, the Dragon was not unimpressed, but he disguised it well.

With a grunt, Huh! Sputum-flecked piece of fodder! he tossed her to one of his minions. We’ve matches tomorrow and one more piece of windroc bait shall serve to fatten the lists. Blasted expensive to buy fodder nowadays. Put her in with – his craggy jaw cracked into possibly the most unnerving Dragon-grin Aranya had ever seen – aye. Lock this gruesome eyesore in with Gangurtharr. A well-matched pair.

His booming laughter hounded Aranya for long minutes as two Grey-Greens dragged her off by the wings, down a wide tunnel, and into their underground lair.

* * * *

The cell door clanged shut behind her tail. Enjoy, stupid fodder.

I’m not fodder! Aranya snapped, stung. What the volcanic hells was it with the name-calling?

The two huge Dragons moved off with mirthful snorts of fire, leaving her behind a locked, Dragon-sized cell door furnished with bars eight inches thick. Grief. At least her fine dungeon was clean. And occupied by the fattest Dragon she had seen since Thoralian’s oversized kin had emerged from their enforced hibernation at Yorbik. The male Dragon’s hide was a horrible mass of trench-deep scars, as though he had been burned by acid in his youth and never recovered. The scars ran over his left eye, leaving it a milky, fireless white.

The other glared at her. Seen an uglier Dragon somewhere?

She did not know why exactly, but Aranya swung her muzzle about so that he could appreciate the bone-deep crater in her cheek. Seen an uglier Dragoness somewhere, Gangurtharr?

He made a noise between a startled howl and a derisive growl. Then, he snapped, I’m napping, dead-meat. Don’t disturb.

I have a name!

Truly shocking. Fodder, was it? Shut your unsightly fangs, witless fodder. His right eye closed; the left, apparently lidless, remained staring at her. Freaky. Aranya had never been dismissed quite so crassly. She had no rejoinder.

In the end, she packed away the huffy Princess of Immadia and her even huffier Dragon Shapeshifter, and pressed her muzzle against the cell’s talon-scored, granite flagstone floor. Aranya breathed in the scents of dust, Dragon blood and death.

Soon, her eyes lidded.

* * * *

Aranya clawed her way up the impossible mountain. Who waited above, Thoralian or … her Human form? She regarded her paws in surprise. This time it was her Dragoness’ turn to crawl up the mountainside, bellying along like a worm? On cue, her fire-stomach punctuated her thoughts with spurts of fire from her nostrils.

She spread her wings to wheel away.

So there was a storm up there – she lurched again, more violently than the snap-catch of her wings against the breeze. A storm of amethyst clouds and distinctly violet lightning. Now what? One day, she really must spend a few minutes trying to actually understand what was happening to her, instead of just flying slap into trouble. Actually, that was the best part. Trimming her wings to an acute angle of attack, Aranya stormed up her peak. If the Yellow-White cannibal was up there, even in this spirit-world, then she would greet him with a fistful of talons and a super-hot fireball up the left nostril.

Storm was her realm. The Amethyst Dragoness did not slow in the slightest as she whipped into the storm. The wind promptly seized her and tried to splatter her against the mountainside.

What? Flying is cheating? she laughed as lightning skittered off her scales. Riding the blast, she looped around the thin column of black rock. The wind changed direction. With a cunning cupping action of her wings, Aranya harnessed its power to launch herself higher. Ha! Want to fight? I’ll just –

Aranya yelped as a violet lightning-barrage smacked her against the cliff. Half-dazed, she fluttered away, only for the wind to seize her by the scruff of the neck and dash her against the rock a second time. Clucking hubris, hubris, o Immadia, to herself, Aranya spread her talons and gripped the cliff once more. Lightning skittered off her scales. Perhaps Dragons needed the odd lesson in humility – something along the lines of keeping their fires honest, or white, or whatever the equivalent saying was.

If she had to crawl to save her Island-World, she would bloody her knees crawling.

If she had to inch along, she would inch her way into eternity.

Perhaps an hour later, or perhaps ten, for she had no way of knowing the passage of time in this place, Aranya’s outstretched paw clutched only a fresh breeze. No more lightning, she realised, tiredly. The wind had vanished. The scent of ozone faded from her nostrils. The Dragoness hauled herself over the edge like a wet hound exhausted from swimming.

“Petal!” A scream!

A different kind of lightning struck her then, a blur of multi-coloured hair and laughter and sobbing and incoherent exclamations. Delicate Human hands touched her scales, caressed her muzzle and then hugged her neck awkwardly. The cinnamon-vanilla fragrance of her own magic tantalised the Dragoness’ nostrils. She was so … small. So Human! A Dragonsong of wonder carolled in her third heart and rippled out of her throat. Was this …

The girl cried breathlessly, “Oh, precious Dragonsoul, I’ve waited for so long. Now we can –”

CLANG!

Aranya screamed in frustration as reality intruded in the form of a large grey foot introducing itself to her ribcage. Get up, fodder!

Leaping to her feet, the Star Dragoness gazed about in shock. Gangurtharr had managed to bestir his indolent bulk to tuck into a tasty-looking – well, judging by the horns, some kind of buck – but he lowered his muzzle and snarled at her over the remains. She stopped, one foot poised ahead of the other.

Time to meet your fate, fodder, snapped one of the guard-Dragons.

Aranya snarled, My name is –

Fodder, said the monstrous Grey-Green, curling his paw around his meal. Alright, he probably outweighed her by fifty or sixty tonnes, all of it blubber. It’s not a joke.

She stared at him. Her stomach wanted to pounce on that buck so badly, it vented a Leandrial-sized gurgle of famishment.

Are you as gormless as you look? continued Gangurtharr. Haven’t you ever heard of the gladiator-pits of Wyldaroon? She shook her muzzle slightly. Your job is to be fodder for the bigger Dragons, warming up our happy customers by your honourable demise. Shake a paw, dead-meat. Combat is to the death. No exceptions.

The guard-Dragon’s claws clamped around her neck, not at all gently. He half-strangled Aranya as he dragged her out of the cell and kicked the door shut behind her. It locked by no mechanism she could detect.

She choked out, Save a haunch for me?

Sardonic laughter followed her down the long, cell-lined corridor. Dead, dead meat. Nice knowing you.

Chapter 22: Gladiatrix

ARANYA BLINKED IN the firelight of five huge braziers arranged around the perimeter of a vaulting underground amphitheatre. The floor was rock. The walls, two hundred feet tall, were solid, unbroken red-speckled granite. Above, a domed metal cage enclosed the arena. She sensed its magic from where she stood. Beyond that cage? Tiers and rafters for the sparse scattering of Human, draconic and … other, spectators. Species and creatures she did not begin to recognise. Many Dragons perched above her on purpose-built metal railings. A low, uninterested murmur greeted her arrival through a pair of metal doors four feet thick and fifty feet tall.

The arena stank of death.

The guard-Dragon cuffed her shoulder brusquely. No rules but one: fight to the death. Understood?

Aranya gazed across the arena at the Dragon swaggering through the opposite doorway.

“Ecuradox the Executioner!” roared an unseen announcer, clearly a Dragon.

Her first thought was neither a pretty nor a Princess-like word. Besides being armoured in solid plate metal, Ecuradox looked as if he ate metal for breakfast – metal stanchions, perhaps, or the swords and shields of his luckless victims, before cleaning his fangs with strips of their flayed hides.

A ripple of approval rose from the crowd. They clearly knew this Dragon; they knew what to expect.

Windrocs could sup on her entrails before that day came!

Ecuradox played up to the crowd, swaggering into the arena with a lithe flexion of his muscle-bound, ridiculously over-armoured hundred-and-forty feet of draconic arrogance. He expectorated a fireball and limbered up his spine luxuriously. Aranya saw through that. He was bored by the whole affair. Ecuradox probably dined on fodder, or dead-meat, five times a week. He flexed his talons, six-foot scimitars compared to Aranya’s razor-sharp but foot-long, upsettingly girlish talons.

She stiffened. What? Where had that thought –

Wake up, Dragonsoul, said a snarky little voice within. We’re about to beat the stuffing out of this thug.

Whaaa … what the – Humansoul?

Glad you know me, the voice audibly smirked.

Aranya’s fires boiled. Stop that.

Stop what? The Human part of her managed to sound exactly like Zip. Just don’t show off too much, alright? We don’t want them to know what an adorable, teensy little Shapeshifter-petal we are.

Infuriated beyond reason, the Amethyst Dragoness saw white. Blistering, pure white. Recognising Humansoul’s unsubtle plan was no panacea for her rage.

Turning slightly toward the guard-Dragon in order to ask him if she would be introduced, Aranya yelped as he gripped her once more by the neck and tossed her out into the arena, thundering, Fight, you cowardly piece of fodder!

She would so slingshot that beast like –

Dodge, Dragonsoul!

Aranya sprang aside, but not fast enough. Ecuradox’s casual passing paw-slap tossed her two hundred feet across the arena; she felt as if she had flown headlong into an Island. Her Human form was distinctly underwhelmed, snapping something about focussing on staying alive being the wing-shape of wisdom. The inner presence immediately merged into her, somehow, lending strength rather than sniping from the sidelines – which might have sparked a raging argument at a better time and place.

The Star Dragoness checked her left shoulder. Three five-foot gashes adorned her hide. She licked the spot instinctively, allowing the rich, complex taste of Dragon blood to galvanise her Dragon battle-reactions. Her hearts-beat surged. Potentials coalesced behind tightly-clamped control valves. Eyes ablaze, Aranya stalked Ecuradox.

He pretended unconcern.

Yet the gleaming, red-tinged eyes watched with a slight gleam. Perhaps being stalked by so-called fodder was a novel experience. Perhaps he expected her to try to fly through that strange magical mesh, or to hide behind a brazier, or to do something fodder-idiotic. Well, perhaps the unforeseen …

The Star Dragoness charged!

Ecuradox whirled in a blur, bringing up his right forepaw to swat her back whence she came.

Unfortunately for him, a deft touch of pneumatic shielding delayed her strike by a quarter-second, ensuring his fisted forepaw swished past her nose-scales by the width of a Human hand. She did not miss. Flaring her wings to aid a forceful landing smack upon his muzzle, Aranya commandeered the insides of his nostrils with her hind talons. Then, she used her perch for a springboard. Her claws gouged golden furrows in the sensitive tissue and muscle. Ecuradox’s instinctive follow-up blow comically clobbered the bleeding point of his own nose. He vented an almighty roar of discontent.

Already having dashed a sensible fifty paces away as the hulking Grey-Green bellowed his injured pride until the stands fairly trembled, Aranya braked on a brass dral and pointed her left wingtip dramatically at her opponent. Channelling her inner Nak, she boomed, “Thou feckless, emasculated cow! Thou weeping excuse for last week’s soggy, maggot-ridden fodder –”

With a staggering roar, sixty tonnes of armoured fury hurled itself across the arena.

Mercy! yelped her Human.

Dragonsoul was more intent on getting out of his way, when Humansoul interjected a cunning idea. Aranya jinked sharply and fled toward the far wall, stopping short before whirling in apparent terror as Ecuradox the Executioner, charging full bore toward her, pounced in a feral, flaming fury.

She ducked at the last millisecond.

It was an intelligent duck, so to speak. A whirl of Ri’arion-inspired martial arts coupled with a half-panicked touch of shielding constituted her riposte right beneath the juggernaut of a Dragon, causing Ecuradox to skitter over her back with a screech of talons against scales. He pounded into the wall behind her like a berserker, striking square-on with the full tonnage of his body behind the collision. His thick neck twisted, and snapped with an audible retort.

There was a shocked silence in which, Dragon Rider Nak would doubtless have opined, one could have heard a mouse break wind. Dead.

The announcer-Dragon blurted out an amplified expletive.

Buzzing so hard she could not even hear the crowd, the Amethyst Dragoness walked back down from the arena with her two escorts, her thoughts a-whirl. She puffed hard to regain her breath. Great leaping Islands, she had done it! Grumbling like a pair of loquacious parakeets, the guard-Dragons booted her inside the cell and clanged the door shut.

Gangurtharr’s good eye cracked open. “Oh, it’s you – dead-meat.”

“That’s live-meat to you, Dragon.”

He flicked a talon derisively, in and out, and drawled, “As I said, truly shocking. What did you do, tickle his belly?”

Aranya’s fires blushed heatedly. “No.”

“Sang Ecuradox an ode?”

“He had an unfortunate accident with a wall. End of fires.” She gestured flatly with her wingtip. With a rough laugh that sounded forced to her ears, she added, “Where’s my haunch?”

Aranya had already decided to make herself sound gruffer and more worldly-wise, like Ardan. Her Princess would have to take the rear saddle position in this strange environment. Besides, she suspected this Dragon was putting on a show to impress the newcomer. She needed to find a way to win his trust, so that she could learn enough to escape and find her friends. Poor Sapphire … and Ardan, had she truly spied him as she blazed across Herimor? What manner of bizarre coincidence was that?

To her surprise, Gangurtharr made her wait a breath or two, before lifting his cupped paw. “I’m fat enough already. Eat, dead-meat.”

She sidled across to him, trying to ooze confidence as she snaffled her meal. “Don’t I get a promotion for my efforts?”

“Oh? Well … aye. I hereby promote you to ‘windroc bait’. Hearty felicitations.”

Aranya swallowed her fury. Heavens and ruddy enigmatic Star Dragons burning in those heavens, she was starving! She bolted the entire haunch without so much as a by-your-leave, and belched afterward with a mental nod of approbation to Nak. Ah, her tutor in all things lewd and uncouth. Awesome teacher; even better friend. She missed him.

Gangurtharr appeared to have nodded off once more.

She said, “My name’s Aranya.”

“Windroc bait,” he murmured, clearly signalling his desire for sleep.

“What is this place, Gangurtharr?”

“Call me Gang rather than that mouthful of cherk-cherbuck entrails,” he yawned, as lazy as a rajal sunning itself on hot bricks. He had a strange accent, very different to her guards or to the Orange who had captured her in the rubble. That yawn also revealed he was missing at least twenty fangs and a large, bite-sized piece of his tongue. “Welcome to Marshal Montorix’s Gladiator Pit, windroc bait, where Gladiator Dragons fight to the death for the entertainment of a diverse crowd of high-class citizens. The Marshal makes plenty of money off the spillage of Dragon blood. Plenty.”

“So I’m a Gladiator?” Aranya asked, smiling at his heavy sarcasm.

Quietly, but with wing-shivering menace, Gang snarled, “The word for a female Gladiator is Gladiatrix, but you will not sully the title with its mention, or I swear on my mother’s egg I will squash you like the bug you are. You are windroc bait, and you’re annoying me. Shut your feckless chattering, windroc bait.”

Aranya’s lower jaw thumped against the flagstones. Doubtless this was his intent, but did Gang have to be such a crusty old bastard – oh, fireballs blast it! The Immadian felt ashamed at cursing like a soldier. Beran watched from the halls of her memory. Yet still, did morals arise from fear of what others might think, nurture, or from within oneself? How could she know the difference? Pondering this, Aranya curled up with feline grace in the quarter of the cell left for her. Gang’s bulk filled the rest. She observed his smoothly muscled shoulders and limbs, so unlike Ardan’s eye-popping striations. Fat, or muscle? She had to wonder. Was it merely her imagination, her desire to think the best of others, that she hoped there would be more to his Island than a bitter, middle-aged Dragon-warrior fond of verbally excoriating fledglings?

She had to work out how she could Shapeshift safely in this place in order to keep feeding her Human form. Why did Dragons languish in a gladiator pit if fights were to the death? What was a gladiator – just another word for a warrior? Was she trapped inside one of Herimor’s celebrated floating Islands? She did not remember seeing Wyldaroon on any map. A den of cutthroats, thieves and shady business-uh, business-Dragons, she judged, from the glimpses she had caught of the purportedly ‘high-class’ punters. And species she had never seen before – an elongated Dragon with four wings whose blue-yellow colouration had been striped like a poisonous reptile, another creature with waving pink tentacles, something that apparently hid inside a blue bush for fun …

Why had the Wisps enjoined her to hide? Was she in danger? Mercy, had she erred in giving Gang her correct name? Thoralian would know it in a heartbeat. Aranya champed her fangs.

Well, she was not in the best shape after her enforced four-week sojourn with Izariela. Which she failed to remember in any great detail! Grr. She should sleep. Missing her companions sorely, Aranya lidded her eyes. Questions could wait for the morning. Doubtless, she would have a few days to find her paws while Thoralian wreaked his merry vengeance on Herimor.

Toasty. Just toasty.

* * * *

“Good afternoon, fodder!”

The guard-Dragon kicked her in the ribs, waking Aranya from her favourite nightmare of Fra’anior – the one where seven pitiless mouths chased her around the Islands as if she were a dragonfly fleeing from a flock of champing beaks. The one where she woke in spine-freezing terror without the slightest inkling what His Thunderous Majesty’s bellowing had been about.

Of course, bruised ribs improved her mood.

Marshal Montorix reached into the cell and dragged the Dragoness out by her neck. The Amethyst fledgling’s involuntary squeal drew a snort of laughter from Gangurtharr. She hung her head as the Orange Dragon indulged in his shake-a-rat routine.

He roared, “You were supposed to lose!”

“Sorry,” Aranya sulked.

He bellowed, “Where did you learn moves like that?”

“Blind luck.”

He raged, “I bet against the fodder, of course! What sane Shapeshifter Dragon wouldn’t?”

Aye, only a madman would bet on a fledgling beating a Dragon four times her size. Or a Star Dragoness. Aranya suppressed a violent urge to turn purple. Not yet. Not before she understood why she was hiding and when was the right moment to emerge. Until then, she would simply have to earn her right to stand with these Dragons. Fodder, indeed. Someone would pay.

Montorix flung her to the ground, wrenching her left shoulder in the process, the one which Thoralian had speared with his ice. “Thankfully, my associate made a mistake! A mark in the wrong column and he bet on you. Five thousand to one!”

The Orange Dragon’s rough chortling rattled bars up and down the underground corridor, which served thirty cells. Eighteen housed Gladiator Dragons. And a couple set aside for fodder. Aranya found her paws, only for his enthusiastic back-slap to summarily flatten her. She wheezed in pain. Yet, could this be good news? Might he set her free?

“That’s a platoon-weight of the sweetest, finest Dragon gold in Herimor, fodder! You cleaned out the entire House of Fadootar!” Suddenly, his muzzle thrust right in her face. Fire bathed her lower jaw. “One way to make enemies. Think you can repeat that?”

“I, uh …”

“Course you can’t! You’re just rip-and-rend fodder, as stupid as you are ugly.”

Well, Montorix certainly knew how to build up a girl’s self-esteem. Aranya surreptitiously checked her colour. Perfect. Encouraged by another kick, this time bruising her right hip-bone, she followed the Marshal up toward the noisy arena.

Even a Star Dragoness could not burn through solid rock. Oh, for Ardan’s Shadow power! Everything was under-Island, save the arena. Could she break through there? The cage possessed an unfamiliar magic, however; her regard through the foot-wide gap in the doors leading onto the arena floor provoked an eerie tendril of unease against her mind. Careful. Aranya knew she must not touch that cage. As before, the smells of death and dry blood made her nostrils burn. Ugh.

“Flamgurtharr Flame-Breath!” howled the announcer.

Imaginative names. Aranya grinned privately. Nevertheless, she wrenched her wayward attention toward the pressing matter of staying alive. Fight! Every nerve in her body buzzed. Her stomachs clenched. The Amethyst grimly cleared her mind with a meditation routine Ri’arion had taught her. Focus. Channel her powers into heightened awareness. Stillness pooled in her mind; fires churned her belly into overheated soup.

“Facing the Flame-Breath today in the first match of a thrilling line-up, is the fodder who triumphed against Ecuradox the Executioner just last night! Bend your burning eyes upon this spectacle, noble Dragons, mighty Shifters and great Chaos-Beasts of Wyldaroon! Who will thunder for the undefeated champion of fifty-three bouts, the mighty master of lava, the awesome, the fabulous phenomenon who is Flamgurtharr Flame-Breath?”

A roar surged around the arena – far more packed than the previous day, Aranya saw, although there were still many benches and rafters left unoccupied – as a massive, visibly smoking Grey-Green Dragon burst through a wall of flame into the arena. His battle-challenge rocked the roof: FLAMGURTHAR!!

Aranya’s hearts leaped into her throat as one. What a beast! Nevertheless, she turned to Montorix. “Hope you made the right bet, Orange D –”

A huge paw curled around her throat. “Remember, the Flame-Breath prefers his fodder well-roasted!”

Banging the doors wide open with his paw, Montorix the Orange hurled Aranya at her opponent. An entrance worthy of a Princess, she thought. Her wings tangled together as the Amethyst tried to sort out her flailing body, which saved her from the brunt of the Flame-Breath’s superheated opening salvo. She fell hard. The Dragon stalked her fluidly, firing fireballs faster than she could either run or fly. Each measured twenty feet across and was a roiling, liquid mass of lava and fire that detonated against her shield with explosive power. Despite her resistance, the onslaught tumbled Aranya head-over heels to the far end of the arena. She fetched up with an almighty head-butt against one of the towering braziers. Smoking, gasping and coughing, the Dragoness tried to find her paws.

A rope-like curl of flame promptly leashed her tail and dragged her ignominiously backward across the stone, talons screeching, as Flamgurtharr set about roasting the Princess’ scaly, tethered buttocks with volley after volley of the hottest Dragon fire Aranya had yet experienced. Shielding frantically, she recognised in horror that he was just warming up, the temperature of his fires rising through oranges and yellows to an ultra-hot yellow-white. His flame could vaporise rock.

But Flamgurtharr voiced a gurgle of surprise as the fledgling Dragoness emerged from his assault smoking from every scale, literally aglow; bruised yet otherwise unharmed.

Pfft! Pfft! Aranya announced her intentions with a double-strike of her own.

Her fireballs burst against his chest and upper left thigh, knocking him awry just enough that the Fire-Breather missed his attempted stomp on her neck. That could have been ugly.

The Amethyst backed up as Flamgurtharr inhaled cavernously, stoking his furnaces. Mercy! The crowd’s roaring washed over her ear-canals like a vast waterfall. Aranya’s talons flexed. This Dragon seemed unwilling to close with her, because …

GRRAAARRRGGH! The Grey-Green let rip with everything he had, a firestorm that chased her around the arena like an animate Storm Elemental, and not just fire, but a blistering wash of wind that swept her off her paws, churning and rolling her in a maelstrom of heat that lapped up to the mesh cage topping the arena and – KABOOM!! Dragoness or not, Aranya felt as though she had been struck by a sledgehammer the size of Fra’anior’s paw. The backlash through her shield stunned her.

Black, white and crimson speckled her vision as she came to beneath Flamgurtharr’s forepaw.

I don’t kill fodder when they’re unconscious, he growled. Ruins the fun.

Aranya tried to writhe against the talons gripping her neck, but she was no match for all that tonnage and strength. Not after an explosion like that. The cage must have amplified the blast. Amplified? Her eyes bulged beneath the pressure as the small Dragoness twisted her neck desperately, searching for an angle. Any angle. Her ears rang with aftershocks.

“Shall I kill her?” roared Flamgurtharr.

The crowd roared back.

“SHALL I KILL THE FODDER?”

Shrieks and strange hoots of delirious joy resounded from the crowd.

Aranya formed a tiny, tight fireball in her throat. She’d have just one shot, or this beast would grill her royal behind to cinders. Bending his neck slowly, Flamgurtharr pursed his lips a mere foot from her face. His throat was the white heart of a furnace, filled with Dragon-fire.

Her own throat-muscles worked. Pfft!

A blue-hot spark shot seventy feet across the arena, whanged off the rounded base of a brazier, raced upward, and rebounded off the cage-magic – exactly as she had planned. The cage was some kind of reflective-magnifying construct, doubtless designed to heighten the entertainment value below. At the same instant, Aranya shielded with everything she had learned from Leandrial, Ri’arion and Va’assia, and even the Wisps – not a hard-shelled shield, but a slightly yielding, aerodynamically shaped shield that would allow her to ride the resulting detonation.

GRRAAA-BOOOMM!!

In a flash, her tightly concentrated fireball, massively magnified, blasted Flamgurtharr’s right foreleg, shoulder and wing off his body. The concussion hurled the Amethyst across the arena in a spray of charred flesh, scales and bone fragments, splattering her muzzle and wings with gore. She fetched up in a heap three-quarters of the way across the arena; the Amethyst Dragoness instinctively flicked the severed remains of the Dragon’s forepaw off her head.

The Grey-Green stared at her. His throat worked. How …

Like a felled tree, he collapsed.

Aranya was appalled.

Roar your victory, said Humansoul, in a small voice. Show them we’re no fodder. We’re a royal Shapeshifter of Immadia, and we give quarter neither to Man nor to Dragon.

This isn’t me, Humansoul.

We know, precious petal. But necessity is a brutal taskmaster. I love you.

I … me … too! She what? Her? Me? Loved herself in a battle’s aftermath? Aranya shook her head in confusion, trying to find a way to balance on all four paws without falling over once more.

Mournfully, her Dragoness howled, GRRAAARRRGGH!

* * * *

Leaving the arena, Aranya came nose-to-nose with Gang. He snorted like a dyspeptic volcano, “Freaking hookworms take it, another promotion?”

A slow wink of his good eye appraised her of his joke, and the fires of his vast, ground-scraping belly were more purr than roar. He was pleased? Aranya kept her reaction well-guarded, choosing to wag a brow-ridge by way of reply.

He growled, “Alright. I dub thee, ‘fresh kill’. Satisfied?”

Aranya bared her fangs at him. “They’re still scraping up the mess I left behind. Don’t step in anything nasty.”

Gang flexed his shoulders, making the strangely smooth muscles roll like wineskins full of soft fruit, as best Aranya could describe it. Clearing his throat, he snarled at the guard-Dragon, “Take this fresh kill to a portal so that she can watch a real Dragon fight.”

The Amethyst Dragoness watched the match from behind a magic-armoured porthole in the arena wall. She had not realised that the Gladiators could watch other fights, but it made sense. Knowledge was advantage. She was soon gaping and wincing as Gang turned his opponent from another Pit into his personal punching-bag. She had never seen a Dragon fight like him, leveraging his bulk with breathtaking skill. By the end, he was swinging the hapless Dragon – who was no stripling, being a fifty-tonne veteran of thirty-nine successful combats – about by his tail and body-slamming him against the walls and floor of the arena to the rhythm of the audience’s rapturous approval. Awesome. Horrifying. Stylish in a way that made her vacillate between admiration and wanting to hurl the queasy contents of her stomach into the nearest midden.

She doubted there was a whole bone left in that Dragon’s body.

Finished playing with his victim, Gang swaggered back down the corridor, grunting, “Hey, fresh kill. Been taking notes?”

Smartly avoiding a guard-Dragon’s kick aimed at her tail, Aranya fell into step with Gangurtharr. She cooed, “Does your shell-mother still masticate your food for you, big fellow?”

With a roar of laughter, he shoulder-slapped her so hard, her teeth rattled in her head. “Good one! I like your spirit, fresh kill. Let’s go bathe. Spoils to the victors.”

Life as a Dragoness was odd. The Princess of Immadia was not exactly accustomed to bathing in steaming pools with five husky exemplars of the opposite gender. Part of her wanted to run to fetch clothing, or slink behind the nearest pillar to conceal her modesty. She chuckled inwardly at Humansoul’s antiphon of glee, ‘who’s a bashful little Dragoness, then?’ She submitted to the indignity of having to listen to various gruff and lecherous comments, fired across the pool with apparent respect for Gangurtharr’s subtly protective manner. Aranya wondered at this. Ardan might have clawed out his own liver in a jealous rage, but amongst Dragons, this communal behaviour seemed normal.

After Gang moved to another room, the vast hot-oil pool, several of the others cracked jokes about his being a eunuch; that she could sleep cosily in his roost without due service. They chuckled coarsely so as to remove any doubt regarding their meaning.

Damaged – like her? She had observed Gang’s scarring, but had no idea his injuries had been so severe. Was that one source of the camaraderie she sensed between them, so at odds with his gruff, socially inept manner? When she asked, the Dragons told her of an abusive Green shell-uncle who had tortured Gang as a fledgling for a period of four years, as part of his nursery hazing, with the avowed intent of ‘strengthening’ a chubby youngster. In Gang’s culture, one of the males added, with dark-fires indicators shading his low speech, excess weight was abhorrent. Somehow, Gangurtharr had survived cruelty, endless physical abuse, and even a deadly attack by five of his Dragon Elders, after which his kin had sold him to the Gladiator Pits as fodder. A dangerous beast, they warned.

Meantime, Aranya observed her environs closely. Where could a Dragoness Shapeshift safely? There were smaller doors for Human-sized servants around the rooms and corridors, and even serving the individual Dragon holding-cells. There was no need for locks, for no Gladiator Dragon could hope to fit much more than their paw through a Human doorway. An option? Yet she sensed much magic about the place. She would have to watch her wingtips.

As her days in the Pit stretched into weeks, Aranya’s patience thinned commensurately. Montorix seemed content to build her reputation by careful degrees, pitting her against Gladiator Dragons every two or three days, packs of spiky red drakes or other fodder, and once, three ‘glamour-entranced’ Dragons which had fallen prey to a mysterious magical illness native to Wyldaroon, that drove Dragons insane. During their periods of mandatory training, Gang taught her how to ‘fight messy’, or inside fighting, as he called it. She learned points where Dragons were vulnerable, and the tricks of a Gladiator who had spent three-quarters of his lifetime in the Pits. Gang described how the cage amplified magic tenfold and how to turn that to her advantage. She also learned how the Pits were built and secured. Few Dragons had ever escaped, because her magical imprint was tied to the House Wards, meaning that the only way to avoid triggering pursuit and protections was to change her fundamental nature. Oh, for Ardan’s powers!

The oath-magic remained mute.

She kept winning. After several weeks, her new friend promoted her to ‘scrap’. Great.

News filtered through their bars like the most excruciating drip-torture. Disturbances among the Land Dragons. Rumours of the First Egg controlling the mighty denizens of the deeps. War swept across the Southern Kahilate, led by legions of Dragons loyal to the ‘old Marshal’. Thoralian, Gang spat. Evil on wings. Yet their area of Wyldaroon was so remote and little-regarded, he saw no reason war should approach them; still, the conversation triggered Aranya’s nightmares. Every night, she suffered Fra’anior’s endless roaring, battled nameless enemies or Thoralian, and for variety’s sake, myriad white-hot flame-drakes nightly laid waste to her soul.

Occasionally, she caught Gang glancing strangely at her, especially after she transformed, sneaked out during one of his fights and returned to their cell with her Human fed and watered. Had Gang sensed something? Aye, she had literally come within an inch of being caught by several servants, but a Ri’arion-special opaque shield had protected her.

She felt so thin inside. Aflame. Friable of mind. What was the matter? Why could she not understand the detail of Fra’anior’s warnings? Perhaps it was that the fate of her friends consumed her every waking moment. She worried herself into queasiness. Ardan. Zuziana. Precious Sapphire – she dreamed of them often. Leandrial had not come for her. All that Ardan had been to her before, was a void, now. Echoing emptiness. Why? Why should she hide while the Island-World teetered on the brink of destruction? What, by the fiery, Island-raising breath of Fra’anior himself, was she waiting for?

Then, there came the day the announcer-Dragon bellowed a new title, and she learned the true impact of her mistake in revealing her name to Gangurtharr.

“Aranya the Assassin!”

Chapter 23: The Thunderous Thirty

ZUziana The Azure regarded her monk archly in the semidarkness of Leandrial’s cheek-pocket. “So, we’re agreed? No less than fifteen children …”

Ri’arion’s eyes cracked open. “I’m listening. I do need to meditate to keep these poisons at bay, and to try to figure out a way three powerful but essentially isolated creatures can break through the urzul-tainted ranks of Thoralian’s under-Cloudlands army. Still, I’m weary of being beaten, Dragoness-love. I am, quite frankly, bored rigid of running and skulking and having to apologise for my failings to my volcanically gorgeous wife!”

“Who happens to think you’ve nothing to apologise for, volcanically or otherwise.”

He made a gargling noise in his throat.

“I do love your spontaneously pre-planned compliments,” she said, preening while contorting her mouth to make a range of outrageous, come-hither lip-smacking noises.

A grin cracked his oftentimes forbidding visage. “Zuziana, if you know me this well after just a few months –”

“Tremble, little Human!”

“Ah, thou pyretic beauty, that the conflagration of thine eyes shouldst ignite mine heart!”

The Azure Dragoness purred happily, “Ooh, shall I call you Nakarion?”

With studied dignity, the monk unfolded his legs and approached his Dragoness. “I’ll admit, Nak did suggest that phrase as a kind of poetic shield against the depredations of certain sky-blue Dragonesses.”

“Depredations?” Her eyes brightened perceptibly, deepening Ri’arion’s shadow against the wall of Leandrial’s cheek. “A word with a fine ring, I’ve always thought!”

“Dictionary words turn Dragoness-hearts to prekki-fruit mush?” inquired the monk. “Duly noted, you recidivistic rapscallion.”

“Flatterer.”

“Intemperate thermogenic quadruped.”

“Aw, yours forever, witnessed by the people and warranted by fifteen royal signatures and seals upon an official scroll duly lodged in the secret vaults of royal Remoy –”

“How’s about I stage a raid on your vault?” Ri’arion interjected.

“Ri’arion!” The Azure blushed furiously.

“Oh … I didn’t quite mean … uh …” The monk’s entire pate turned a fine shade of crimson. “Mercy.”

Coyly, the Dragoness suggested, “Actually, I rather hope you did. Fifteen’s a big number.”

“Zuziana!”

Once they had finished blushing, and laughing at each other’s blushing, the monk said, “Leandrial and I did make a breakthrough in identifying the mental signatures of Theadurial-infected Land Dragons, the other day. We were able to identify that for all practical purposes, we’re prancing about on the wrong side of an army of ten thousand hostile, parasite-toting Land Dragons and every time we try to break out they pummel us worse than the granddaddy of those Storm Elementals. Our allies lie in the Southern Kahilate and we’re in the North. Stranded. Fabulous scientific advance. Utterly useless. This would be why we’re running for our lives and I’m being more miserable than a monk’s soggy blanket.”

He sounded so despondent, Zip wanted nothing more than to snuggle him – which was unlikely to be received well. She remembered First-mother Yuhina’s detailed lecture on the responsibilities of a good Remoyan wife, the day before their wedding. Good? Be a good little Shapeshifter Princess?

Faced with images of floury baking, flawless hostessing and popping out babies according to a regular schedule, Zuziana snorted, “I should think not!”

Ri’arion patted her neck fondly. “You think not what, o pride of Remoy?”

“Without disrespect to your rather intimidating intellect, monk-love, I fear we might be going about this problem entirely too logically.”

“Logically?” He stroked his beard. “You have a feeling?”

He contrived to iron any hint of sarcasm out of his voice. Zuziana loved him fiercely for that. “I think I do. I think I can test it on Leandrial. Aye. We should test my feelings.”

Gripping her jaw in both hands, Ri’arion peered inside, musing, “Feelings? Indeed, violent inner turbulence. Oodles of sulphurous mischief and a clear hint of future hijinks …”

This time her hearts, Dragoness and Human, leaped about inside of her like overexcited dragonets indulging in aerial acrobatics. Swoon-worthy leopard-man! Her knees were in serious danger of collapse in four different directions at once. The only thing that saved her was a Dragoness’ sense of incipient humiliation, and Humansoul alternately chortling at her and demanding to be let out for some ‘love-birding’. As if!

Quietly, Zip said to Leandrial, Noble Dragoness, during these weeks of running, there was one occasion when you claimed you felt a hint of Balance drawing you somewhere. That’s the place I’m feeling we should go. Do you still feel the same? Do you remember?

The Land Dragoness lay silent for a long time, rocking gently due to the constant upwelling action of the fumarole-ridden area where she had chosen to hide. Hiding an eight-thousand-foot waltzing nursery took some doing. There were Islands smaller than Leandrial. But with Thoralian’s allies patrolling northern Herimor twenty-seven hours per day, the companions had soon concluded that there was a strong reason that Thoralian did not want them to penetrate the Southern Kahilate – or perhaps, he expected Aranya?

Finally, Leandrial said, “The star over the Rift is gone.”

Zip and Ri’arion yelped simultaneously, “What?”

Cue pandemonium. Ten minutes passed before everyone found themselves on the same piece of scrolleaf. In that time, Tari had to shoo away five hatchlings who wanted to play with Zuziana, Ri’arion explained thirteen times to twenty curious Dragons what they were trying to do and Leandrial lost her temper the fourth time the monk asked her to clarify exactly how and when one lost a star.

Finally, Zuziana extracted from Leandrial the admission that there was a Balance-trail which by some fiendishly complex Land Dragon metaphysical speculation led her to conclude that Aranya – if the star had indeed been their friend – had departed her station seven days before, and with a seventy-one point six four three percent probability had ended up somewhere in Wyldaroon, the largest, harshest and most dangerous realm in all of Herimor. Besides, it was also famously inaccessible, being hidden behind a mountain range so massive, it shaped the primary weather-cycles across the breadth of its five-thousand-league, permafrost-capped ramparts.

Zuziana was debating throwing a properly draconic temper-tantrum at this point, when Ri’arion brought the conversation around full circle.

The monk said, “I propose that we follow your Dragon-sense and see where it leads us. Logic is often linked to Balance and as you rightly point out, logic has availed us little thus far. What is needed is a grain of Imbalance, methinks. My Zuziana is just the Dragoness to bring that about.”

“Er … how?” asked the Azure Dragoness, uncertain if she detected a whiff of compliment, or a nasty rodent-like odour beneath Ri’arion’s words.

“Your talent for mischief creates Imbalance,” Ri’arion grinned.

Definitely the latter.

With a dignified sniff, she replied, “The only Imbalance that exists around lies between your ears, my very dear but sadly deluded bipedal life-form of the masculine persuasion. Allow Leandrial and I to bedazzle you with the mysteries of feminine intuition, that most Balance-honouring of all the senses.”

He bowed gravely. “Logic is Balance. Illogic is Balance. How do you propose to resolve this conundrum?”

The Dragoness pursed her lips. “It is only a conundrum to lesser minds.”

“Oh?”

“What is illogical about intuition, Ri’arion? Unless your methods of proof are so rigid as to exclude the admission based on some preconceived notion of testability.”

Ri’arion flexed his neck cheerfully. “Why, a rare woman with whom I can debate philosophy! See, I knew I hadn’t married you solely for your incomparable smile. This is bound to be a fascinating side-trip in entirely the wrong direction to the impassable Mesas. But –” he forestalled Zip’s irascible growling with a hand placed perilously on the fiery end of her muzzle “– I am always open to correction. Grumpy when corrected, naturally, but open to the possibility.”

Thus, they travelled directly westward for five straight days across the northernmost reaches of Herimor, braving an under-Cloudlands storm, a feral Water-Runner and three encounters with Thoralian’s Land Dragon forces, and after much philosophical debate, discovered a situation that made Ri’arion distinctly grumpy.

“What did you call them?” huffed the monk.

“Blast-Runners,” Leandrial clarified. “Foot for foot, arguably the deadliest of the Land Dragon Clans. They’re famously cantankerous. Just like monks.”

To hear the Land Dragoness chortling up an earthquake at her own joke made everyone inside her mouth laugh too.

Ri’arion said, “So we’re just going to defeat the fifty Mist-Runners having a gentle disagreement with said Blast-Runners, make friends and sail on down through the Northern Kahilate?”

As they peered out of the slit gap between Leandrial’s teeth, a brilliant flash lit the battle, showing a swirling melee of bluish Mist-Runners surrounding a tight knot of the much smaller, luminous violet Blast-Runners. A faraway explosion came to ears and ear-canals as a dull thud.

“That’s three less Mist-Runners,” said Leandrial, matter-of-factly.

“What’s the plan?” asked Tari.

“Mist-Runners are biters, with a touch of Harmonic magic, but no eye-cannon like my Clan,” said Leandrial. “I say you little ones go distract them, and I’ll come in fast from below and ambush any you deign to leave for me. We then join together and rescue those Blast-Runners. They’re untainted.”

Distraction or bait, Zip wondered privately as Dragon and Rider stormed out of Leandrial’s mouth, followed by twenty-four battle-ready individuals from Tari’s Dragonwing. Ri’arion helped the weaker Dragons form their camouflage shields.

Seven miles off, pressed against a vast, shadowy escarpment, the so-called ‘minnows’ engaged the compact, salamander-like Blast-Runners as if seeking to cut individuals out of the compact mass. The Mist-Runners attacked in tight groups of two or three individuals, each one and a half to two thousand feet long, but their quarry held together with tenacity that was frankly astonishing, given the disparity in size – almost as if they were one mind. Meantime, Leandrial’s wash bobbed them about as the huge Dragoness dived to take up her position.

Five minutes passed.

Now, said Tari.

The Azure Dragoness took up a flanking position on the Green Shapeshifter’s starboard side, with Brityx to port and Tux’tarax a muzzle-length behind and above Tari. The rest of the Dragonwing formed a dense wedge around them, adjusting to keep clear wingtips and an open field of fire.

BOOM! The Mist-Runners dodged as though slapped by an invisible hand, but not before one lost its head and another, split in half, raised a dying howl that was audible five miles off.

Slow-firing but deadly, Ri’arion commented, his mind filled with strategic computations. Imagine that power magnified? Or focussed upon a different vector?

You’re the one being distracted, not them, Zip sniped.

I promise to ogle thy impertinent haunches later, Remoy, he grinned, drawing a sharp but amused reproof from Brityx.

Tari counted down, Three, two, one …

The Dragonwing shook the torpid air with their powerful challenges. Fighting under-Cloudlands was an idea none of them had ever envisaged, but Ri’arion and Leandrial had taken the time to instruct them while Thoralian’s Dragonwings fruitlessly watched the Islands floating above. They closed in with a steady sweep, not at their top speed, aiming to draw Mist-Runners into the open. It worked. A dozen of the carnivorous lizards peeled away from the battle, co-ordinating their movements with guttural cries and clear surprise at being faced by Lesser Dragons. Fangs flashed in the semidarkness. Harmonic magic probed, but Ri’arion had them shielded tighter than a Dragonship battened down for a storm.

Try not to become a morsel, Brityx said drolly to Zuziana, eyeing the enemies’ fangs with respect.

Mighty Dragoness, I shall slip between their fangs and tear their tongues out by the roots.

I never understood the attraction of having a Rider like the Dragon Rider forces stationed – well, across the Vassal States but especially in Wyldaroon – until I saw the strength of your meld with this Fra’aniorian Enchanter, said Brityx, with a throaty laugh. The Thoralians of old were never enamoured of Dragon Riding, regarding them as a plague or an aberration, and a threat to Shapeshifter dominance of the Lesser Dragonkind. Why form a mutualistic relationship with a species one sees as needing to be stamped out, or at least, held in abject slavery to draconic rulership?

History repeated, said Zuziana, shuddering. I was once Human.

Tari snorted, You were never Human. You’re a Shapeshifter.

I am a Shapeshifter made, not born, said Zuziana, explaining about Aranya’s tears before she thought the better of spilling that secret.

The Dragons around them shook their muzzles in astonishment, and Brityx murmured, Wondrous indeed are the ways of Star Dragonesses.

Aye, but Aranya had Named Ri’arion and bidden him follow her! Zip’s paws clenched jealously. Arrogant Immadia, tromping about in all her pomp, expecting the Island-World to swoon at the merest flash of her scales – only, Aranya’s first thought as a Dragoness had been to save her Remoyan friend from Sylakia’s Tower. Zip hated that wheedling, envious inner voice as much as she hated being little Zuziana, the oft-overlooked. Aranya did not mean to overshadow; besides, she was loyal to a fault. Best friends with a star, Zip? A blemished star …

Battle-cries shocked her out of her cesspit of unworthy reflections.

The Azure held back slightly, shaping a lightning-bolt in her mind as she allowed her powers to taste battle, to imbibe the roaring of fireballs and the air trembling as if in fright as the Dragonwing launched their attacks, to scent Mist-Runner blood and to know the chittering, oily presence of the Theadurial concealed within their flesh, linked to the spinal column and brain-stem of these luckless beasts. So many infected! Leandrial said she had never known such a state of affairs in her four centuries of life.

Zip picked a target. SSSKKIIISSSS!!

A Mist-Runner jerked horribly as his muscles locked up in spasms induced by electrical overload.

BOOM! BOOM!

Light flashed from below, carving up the Mist-Runners before they knew what had hit them. Harmonic shock-waves belted the Lesser Dragons’ bodies, but Ri’arion drew them together with the steel of his mental presence. Tari’s group closed with the nearest Mist-Runner, targeting its head and three eyes. Acid! Fire! Lightning! Brityx’s shaped lava-bolt exploded on impact, knocking out one of the beasts before light flashed again from below, finishing the job in a flesh-vaporising flash.

The Mist-Runners scattered with gruff barks of alarm.

The Blast-Runner group gave them a rousing send-off, pulverising five departing tails with a perfectly synchronised psychic discharge, while Leandrial cleaned up the stragglers. By the time she was done, only two or three Mist-Runners escaped.

Withering cowards! snarled Leandrial.

The Blast-Runners turned with the same peculiar timing as the Land Dragoness approached. Up close, Zuziana thought, they were only a little larger than her. The largest individuals approached sixty feet. Their hides were a perfectly smooth, eye-watering violet hue that almost screamed ‘venomous!’ Certainly, the opposite of disguise.

Then, thirty-one sets of eyes blinked in chorus and Zip’s scales crawled. What?

Leandrial seemed unperturbed. Inhaling so mightily that the Blast-Runners had to backpedal or face being sucked into her nostrils, she cried in audible Dragonish, May the scent of blast-power ever char thy nostrils, explosive kin!

A decent bid to deafen them all.

Thirty-one muzzles bowed as one. I honour thee, greatly aged one. I am the Thunderous Thirty, the most explosive independent troop of Blast-Runners south of the Rift!

BLAST-FIRES FOREVER! roared Leandrial. This time, Ri’arion dampened her enthusiasm. Still, Zip’s wings shuddered as though caught by storm winds.

They fired a thirty-one mind-cannon salute upward, well away from the curious Lesser Dragons. Still, fangs rattled and wings flared in shock. Wow! The Azure observed inquisitively. So, they were a communal mind? Extraordinary, the level of melding she sensed within them – far beyond anything she and Ri’arion had achieved so far.

The Welkin-Runner inclined her muzzle. Who is your Primacy?

One Blast-Runner made a swirling gesture with his left forepaw. Blast-honour scorch your nostrils, great one. You are deeply cognizant of our ways. Are you the Primacy of these kindred species? His speech was given in sharp staccato bursts, like drums rattling to foreign rhythms.

Nay, I am the … federation leader, Leandrial replied, clearly translating with care for cross-cultural clarity. These are federated creatures with loose non-controlling mind-links characterised by shared purpose and practical imperatives.

Except for this pair, said the Primacy, waving a talon toward Zuziana and Ri’arion.

They are roost-mates and mind-mates when they choose, said Leandrial.

They follow the excellence of our model, the Primacy boasted. You are the young-mother-nurturer for all these?

Aye, I am. Opening her mouth, Leandrial showed them the hatchlings tumbling over her tongue. When they noticed all the attention, the tussling hatchlings squealed in surprise and dived for shell-mothers or flexed their muscles bravely, trying to look large and important. Our enemies sought to destroy these younglings and many eggs, and they would have succeeded save for the brave actions of this Azure Shapeshifter known as Zuziana, and her mighty-in-magic mate, named Ri’arion.

What is your purpose here? rapped the Primacy. You saved our Thunderous Thirty. We are not ungrateful.

I would ally you to my federation and heap massively explosive blast-honour upon the cannonade of your future deeds, Leandrial replied directly.

Oh? Describe this blast-honour, aged one. I shall consider your proposal.

Zuziana almost chuckled aloud as thirty-one openly sceptical muzzles spoke like a class of Remoyan schoolchildren reciting their lessons. The huge Welkin-Runner took another cavernous breath, and launched into a rendition of the deeds, exploits and glories of the magnificent quest she had dedicated her fire-life to, delivered in a flowery style suited to the most loquacious, adjective-happy balladeer. Zuziana was the ‘irrepressible Welkin-Runner of the skies’, Leandrial crowned Ri’arion ‘King of the monk-Enchanters of ancient Fra’anior’ and Aranya became ‘the glorious starsong of the heavens’. Beginning with her reasons for leaving Herimor, the Land Dragoness skilfully laid out the history and many trials and triumphs of their quest to defeat Thoralian, return the First Egg to its rightful home at Fra’anior, and restore the Dragon Rider Academy of Jeradia and by extension, the races of Lesser Dragons and Shapeshifters to the North.

Three hours of non-stop story-spinning followed. Zip very badly wanted to turn Ri’arion over her knee for chuckling periodically at her twitches of impatience. Sudden cries of oath-fires and a celebratory cannonade startled her into paying attention.

Oh, time to leave? she grumbled.

O Dragoness of mighty snoozing, her Human chuckled.

I was not snoozing! I am … well, a little more tired than usual. Nothing a decent nap won’t fix.

Ha, said the inner voice. Naps and constant snacking. Must be all this trotting around strange parts of Herimor. Are we a growing little Dragoness?

The Azure flexed her wings as best she could. About ruddy time I added a few inches.

Ri’arion, evidently unawares of this soul-deep conversation between her two Shifter forms, replied, Aye, Princess. Aren’t we glad one of us pays attention to the nuances of protocol?

You don’t pay me for those skills, said the Azure Dragoness, managing to turn her statement into a lewd proposal. Ha. Another day, another monkish tongue-tied moment. She was so good at this. And her Dragoness was so awfully modest.

Leandrial and Ri’arion conferred and quickly proposed a new travel arrangement that suited the slow-moving Blast-Runners perfectly. The ‘Thunderous Thirty’ took up residence in Leandrial’s relatively modest neck-ruff – modest in that it could shelter entire villages – which protected the single-minded Thirty from the wash of her passage. The Lesser Dragons retreated to her mouth. The beat of the Land Dragoness’ tail picked up as she poured southward.

The Land Dragoness immediately fell to interrogating Ri’arion about his strategy.

He said, “Our first priority should be to track down Aranya. The geography, as I understand it, is that West of us lie the Mesas – a messy, broken wilderness which is too high and cold for most habitation, save subdraconic ice-adapted species. There are Icewurms, ice-dragonets, furry Dragons called Ice-Runners, and a host of other legendary beasts. The Mesas describe the boundary of the Kahilate all the way South to Entorixthu’s Cleft, which lies at the end of a kind of pocket called the Sea of Dragons’ Tears. That is one possible route into Wyldaroon. Extremely difficult for Land Dragons, however.”

“Impassable,” said Leandrial.

Ri’arion smiled thinly. “Aye? So, the Mesas then curve in a great ‘S’-bend, first North, then back South past the Vassal States sandwiched on the border between the Kahilates. That route adds a mere two thousand seven hundred leagues to the journey to the Straits of Hordazar, named for the Blue Ancient Dragon. It’s the traditional route into Wyldaroon. The only worm in that fruit is that Hordazar is a perfect location for the Marshal to ambush us. One of him will be waiting for us there.”

“However, the Vassal States are likely allies, besides boasting the largest population of Dragon Riders in Herimor,” Leandrial pointed out. “We’ve no guarantee Aranya landed in Wyldaroon, although my calculations – as discussed – appear tolerably accurate, if philosophically troubling.”

Zip growled unhappily, not for the first time and certainly not for the last regarding the subject of Her Starship the Amethyst Wonder, whom she missed worse than her Dragoness would miss her third heart. Plainly put, they had no idea how Aranya might have survived a trip into low orbit, where she had apparently languished for four weeks before abruptly making alternative travel plans for a region of Herimor that lay beyond the backside of beyond. How she regretted the loss of the gruff Western Isles warrior and his oath-magic link with her best friend! He would know the truth – but where the volcanic hells was that Shadow lurking?

Her Humansoul suggested, Perhaps a Shadow Dragon might best be found by starlight?

The Azure chuckled inwardly. Certainly a romantic idea, Humansoul.

Aloud, she said, “How close do these Vassal States lie to the Straits of Hordazar?”

“Eight hundred and twenty leagues,” said Tari. “Interesting lands, those. The rule of the Southern Kahilate lies loosely upon that fringe. We’d pass your favourite Cluster, the Inscrutables.”

“I’ve my own handbag-sized Inscrutable right here,” said the Azure, patting Ri’arion’s head fondly.

He took a playful, Dragon-like snap at her paw. “Alright. I’ve a plan that shall whisk the art of the inscrutable right out from under the Thoralians’ collective muzzles.”

“Whatever that means,” Zip said tartly.

“Hmm. Upon reflection, I’m not entirely certain either.” The monk rubbed his bald pate. “It’s risky, however.”

At least fifty Dragons snorted fire at this statement.

“Moving swiftly on,” said the monk. “First, we round up the isolated pockets of Land Dragons left scattered around this province of the Northern Kahilate. We charge South as if aiming for the Vassal States. We don’t skulk – I’ve a few ideas about that, and about how best to use our Blast-Runner allies and the Lesser Dragons to help Leandrial punch through enemy lines.” Suddenly, his mien was as fierce as that of any of the surrounding Dragons. “Then, if we’ve gathered enough allies, we split our force, one group to make the dash for Wyldaroon, the other to make a concerted effort to join the allied Land Dragons near the Vassal States. The medium-term plan is to bring the two forces together in a pincer movement – one group striking from the North, while the other makes a reverse pass through the Straits of Hordazar from the West, attacking the underbelly of Thoralian’s forces. We force the Thoralians to fight a war on two fronts.”

On the face of it, Zip found no fault with the broad brush-strokes of his strategy. There was Leandrial’s objection to Entorixthu’s Cleft, however, which remained to be addressed. Her hearts thrummed joyfully in her throat. Anything that took her closer to finding Aranya felt … right. So right.

Ri’arion cleared his throat and rasped, “Consider my words, noble Dragons. Let us put this strategy to the test. Well is it said that he who holds the First Egg, holds power. But I counsel that he who holds the Star Dragoness, holds the best and only key to that power. Friends, I ask you to bind your fires to the hunt for Aranya. Let us forge a new destiny in the fires of this war.”

“To Wyldaroon,” whispered Zip.

“No,” said Leandrial. “TO BATTLE!”

Chapter 24: A Princess Purchased

LEaving the Forbidding, jagged massif of the Mesas in her wake, Leandrial and her disparate force churned southward with renewed purpose. This area of Herimor was a wasteland, with sparsely-vegetated Islands hanging low above the Cloudlands, trapped in the quaternary sub-cyclical weather system of Northern Herimor, sluggish doldrums confining a churning mass of resource-poor Islands. Many Islands sank below the gritty grey Cloudlands due to that slow churn, making navigation treacherous even for the Land Dragoness.

On the third morning, they ambushed half a dozen infested Welkin-Runners attacking two youngsters, who must have become isolated from the main Welkin-Runner Clan. The parasitic Theadurial drove Leandrial’s erstwhile Clan-kin at once to battle. A brief, sharp skirmish ensued. Those Runners that closed with Leandrial were ambushed by the Thunderous Thirty. Those further afield were harried by Tari’s battle-group of Lesser Dragons; being so much more manoeuvrable than the Land Dragons, they could harass them almost at will, but only the strongest shielding could save a Lesser Dragon caught in the blast of an eye-cannon. They lost four of Tari’s command in the opening salvo.

Then, there was a joyous reunion of Leandrial with her distant kin.

Zuziana paused near Leandrial’s haunches, panting. Oh, I feel … she threw up without warning. Oh dear. Ri’arion, we need to spend some time aloft. Detoxify … gaah, this stomach!

He patted her shoulder fondly. Don’t fret, petal. Probably just a taste of Herimor. I had that vile cold last week, remember?

Ah, the miserable man-fever, she observed, drawing a warm chuckle from her husband.

Having tucked away a few mouthfuls of bitter, thistle-like herbs the Dragons foraged for on Brityx’s orders, Zuziana winged southward with the Dragonwing above the Cloudlands for the balance of that day. To their right wingtips, the relentlessly black, column-fluted massif of the Mesas stretched skyward – the result of recent basalt flows, Ri’arion said, geologically speaking. Soon, Brityx pointed out several live volcanoes perched atop the mighty escarpment, cracked away in aeons past by Hordazar the Night-Blue, so legend told, who had betrayed Fra’anior and attempted to create his own separate Dragondom in Herimor’s far West. The Mesas were still growing.

Ever curious, Ri’arion asked, “What happened to that … ah, Dragondom? The maps never show it.”

Brityx recounted a legendary war between the Ancient Dragons which had sundered Herimor. Fra’anior, his smaller shell-brother Amaryllion, and Immadior the White for whom Immadior’s Sea was named, had trapped Hordazar and his kin-betrayers behind the Mesas and left them to starve. “Dragons don’t take kindly to betrayal,” she finished darkly. “It rings harshly upon the ear-canals now, but we must remember, those tumultuous times were subject to the rule of claw and fang. Fra’anior’s rule was regarded as surprisingly beneficent, even treacherously so, by many of his First Egg Dragon-kin. He famously loved Humans; the Pygmy peoples above all. That you seek to succour this Pygmy Dragoness must generate white-fires to warm every heart of the Great Onyx.”

The Azure yawned, thinking of Aranya’s recounting how Fra’anior had reacted to her apparent betrayal – wrongly, but viciously all the same. “How do you think Shapeshifters came to be, Brityx?”

“By the gift of Hualiama Dragonfriend,” said Brityx.

“How? By her tears?” asked Zip.

The powerful Dragoness regarded Zip with a soft, lemon-yellow tint to her eyes. “No, little one. By the gift of her fire-soul. It is said that when Hualiama breathed her Gift into a person, it roused their inner fires. To adherents of Line-Bound thinking, it is blasphemous to consider that Humans possess fires like unto Dragons, or that Shapeshifters can arise spontaneously, which the monk noted, occurs in the North. Their avowed goal is to procreate widely in order that all Dragonkind and Humankind might become pure – that is, that they might become Shapeshifters like us. I would keep your friend’s tears secret, here in Herimor. To act as the Dragonfriend? That is … heresy. Even, perhaps – or especially so – for a Star Dragoness.”

Hualiama had breathed soul-fires into people? Zip goggled and stretched sleepily. Great leaping Islands! What a gift, even if it might be heresy – and her Amethyst friend clearly followed in those mighty paw-prints.

Brityx added, “Now, you haven’t stopped yawning since midday, Zip. Why don’t you and your monk ride upon my back? I’ve never had a Rider, but considering what you have done for my kith and kin, I would be honoured to bear you aloft. You should sleep.”

Her warm, mother-Dragon manner bore no refusal. Shortly, Zip slept in Human form. She dreamed of her Human and Dragoness hugging each other warmly and doing silly dances all night. How odd.

Come morning, Zip found herself tucked up in Leandrial’s cheek-pocket with a trio of Dragon eggs. So beautiful. She touched their surfaces wonderingly. Like jewels. If Dragon lore held they were so tough that no ordinary force could break through the shell from the outside, how had the Heripedes and Jagok Lizards penetrated them before? Strange.

Where was Ri’arion? Zip stood up, and promptly launched the contents of her stomach over the eggs. Oddly, she immediately felt better. How could she clean up? It seemed wrong to leave the eggs sitting in a messy puddle. Zip slipped out of the pocket and found herself nose-to-muzzle with Brityx.

The Dragoness smiled like a cat, narrowing her eyes as her lips curved upward. “Slept well, little one?”

“Ah, yes?”

“Ri’arion was worried. You slept thirty-nine hours, right through another battle. We have gained six Living Springs. Nice Dragons, but very old, so they aren’t so full of water anymore. But they tell the most marvellous stories.”

Zuziana tugged her hair self-consciously about her body. “Why are you looking at me with that gleam in your eye, Dragoness? Am I not scarred –”

“Not that. How’s the tum, little one?”

“Wobbly.” She grimaced. “Do I have to eat more of those herbs? Mercy, I could eat a whole ralti sheep. I feel bilious but starved at the same time. Is that normal, Brityx? Am I ill?”

“Perfectly normal.”

Zuziana stared at the huge Dragoness. Apricot colours in the eye. Totally unreadable smile. Belly-fires purring like a busy blacksmith’s forge. What under the heavens was she … Brityx was up to something. She touched her stomach self-consciously. She really felt quite peculiar.

“A little bulge there?”

Annoyed, Zip growled, “No, flat as a pancake. I’m a spare sort of girl. Could do with a few bulges elsewhere, but Garthion –”

“Strange flutterings inside?”

“No, nausea.”

“Well, I suppose it’s probably too early for flutterings. But your clever monk could probably tell. Ri’arion! Come here, would you?”

“Tell what?” Zip demanded.

“This mysterious illness,” said the Dragoness, growing less comprehensible by the second. Zip opened her mouth to protest, and promptly doubled over to start retching again. Ugh. Stomach shilly-shallies. Whatever could she have eaten?

Ri’arion trotted over. Brityx had her lie down on her back; Zip tried to ask for clothing but was shushed by the Dragoness. Shortly, the monk was examining her stomach while the Remoyan Princess diffidently rearranged her hair to cover the essentials – one bonus of having Shapeshifter locks. Much more, and she could start selling hanks of hair for spare cloaks.

After thirty seconds or so, the monk’s expression grew considerably more intent than before. Zip yelped in shock as he slumped over her stomach in a dead faint!

“Thought so,” said Brityx, appearing vastly contented.

“He’s heavy!” Zip complained. “Can you help me shift him?” But Ri’arion was already showing signs of revival. She stroked his cheek. “Ri’arion? Monk-love, are you alright? Ri –”

“Whaa!” he spluttered, leaping off her as though burned. She had never seen his eyes appear wilder. “I didn’t … hurt? No? You’re alright, my petal-flower darling girl?”

Zip said acidly, “Has everyone gone stark raving moons-mad? Brityx, explain yourself this instant. Ri’arion, can you stop wringing your hands? Flying monkeys, man, what’s the matter with you?”

Ri’arion spluttered, “She’s p-p-p …”

“Aye,” purred the Dragoness.

He held up three fingers.

“Aye, clever man. No more fainting, alright?” said Brityx.

“No,” said the monk.

CAN SOME DRAGON KINDLY EXPLAIN? roared Zuziana, managing to produce a flare of lightning, and a mini-roll of thunder that silenced every Dragon in the cavern of Leandrial’s jaw.

Brityx was enjoying herself so much, Zip dearly wanted to hit her. Now she knew how Aranya felt when people tugged her hawser. “Hearken, little one,” crooned the Dragoness. “Everyone! Lend your ear-canals to this exciting news! I’ve a mathematical problem for you, Zuziana – add up unusual sleepiness, hunger and cravings, plus a wobbly tummy, and what do you get?”

Zip bit her lip for fear she’d shout something truly regrettable. “Sheer bewilderment?”

The Dragoness rolled her fire-eyes with an exasperated snort. Very slowly and pointedly, she asked, “Doth mine ear-canals thrill to the fluttering of teensy wings in your womb?”

Finally, the twin suns dawned upon her Island. Zip glared at her stomach as if it had risen up to slap her cheek a resounding blow. “Uh … mercy! How did that happen?”

Leandrial’s maw resounded with hoots of laughter and celebratory bugles.

* * * *

Charge!

They charged along with skill, Zuziana thought. Ri’arion was such a bright boy when he was taking orders from his wife. She beamed at him.

The monk sniffed, “Ruddy little genius. Remind me never again to take the deviousness of Remoyans for granted. Telepathic ventriloquism? However did you come up with that Island-slapping, Moons-jangling idea?”

Zip smirked and made monkey noises.

“Right, monkey-mischief,” laughed the most gorgeous hus-bandit in all the Island-World. “Those Theadurial-controlled Land Dragons out there are mighty peeved. Thoralian’s forces are chasing phantoms down every abyss under Herimor or scrapping with each other because they believe they’ve been betrayed, and the good ones join us daily. Two hundred and sixteen allies is the latest count, Snoozy Zuzi. Not counting the nine additional Blast-Runners we picked up an hour ago.”

“Fourteen,” said Leandrial.

“And we have this current sweeping us along at a sweet eleven leagues per hour –”

“Fifteen point two,” said Leandrial.

The monk glowered sagely. “Meaning we cover four hundred and ten point four leagues per day without even trying. We’re outrunning the current at present thanks to shaped shields, and thanks to the Azure Miracle, we don’t even have to fight battles.”

“Except for yesterday,” Leandrial noted.

Ri’arion elected not to lose his rag. “That was a scuffle.”

Clearly amused, the Land Dragoness rumbled, “Tomorrow, we shall split our forces. It is decided that we Welkin Runners, our original Thunderous Thirty and Tari’s Lesser Dragons shall attempt Entorixthu’s Cleft, since the monk has convinced us with his cunning schemes. The balance will try to cut through to reach the allied forces we detected near the Vassal States.”

“Are you alright, Zip?” asked Ri’arion, checking Human-Zip’s forehead with the back of his hand. “A bit clammy –”

“Mercy!” gasped Zip, and threw up over his left foot.

* * * *

Gangurtharr seized Aranya by the throat and squeezed wrathfully. “Fight me! You will fight! This is beyond dishonourable!”

“I will not fight a friend,” she choked out.

He hurled her against the arena wall. Aranya shielded, but the brutal impact still made her see white spots behind her eyelids. “Fight, you null-fires coward!”

“No.”

Gripping her tail, Gang whirled the Amethyst Dragoness around his head and executed his signature body-slam manoeuvre. She rebounded off the unforgiving stone, groaning, but did not lift a talon to protect herself.

The arena was packed. Two powerful Marshals had come to view the fights this day. Montorix had picked an ‘excellent bout’ for her, but both he and Gang had carefully managed not to mention who her listed opponent would be in mortal combat. Now, every creature in the arena booed and hissed and roared their disgust at her shameful display.

Let them. This was wrong.

I’LL KILL YOU! thundered Gangurtharr.

Then I shall die with my honour intact. Let it be.

The oath-magic settled between them as delicately as petals blown on a breeze. The wild, desperate light faded from Gangurtharr’s eyes. His paw unclenched, for his hearts had never been in the fight, Aranya realised. So, let the fates favour the bold, Aranya. I shall not fight you either.

The pitch of the crowd reached a rabid pitch as the massive Grey-Green stood down, genuflecting with his wings.

Aranya’s hide threatened to lift off her skull. Magnificent Gangurtharr!

Suddenly, there was a greater commotion, before silence rippled around the arena. Mentally-induced silence, she recognised.

“I declare the honour of the House of Montorix is a debased, broken vessel!” thundered an Orange-Red Shapeshifter Dragon. Aranya froze. That could not be. A two-headed Dragon? He looked as wide as two Dragons bolted together, which was close to the truth. “By the fires of true Dragonhood, I demand the satisfaction of arena combat against that putrid louse down there!”

His fore-talon picked out Aranya. FIGHT ME, LOUSE!

The crowd exploded in a frenzy of approval. Aranya shook her head. Quietly, to her alone, Gangurtharr said, Well, you certainly pick your battles, Scrap. That’s Tahootax the Terrible, once a Dragon of these Pits, now a Wing-Commander in Marshal Thoralian’s armies – as best I know. He’s probably out recruiting because they like to expend Gladiators as shock-troops. First into battle, first to die. Watch out for his mental capabilities. Beware his meriatite-fuelled explosive attack. It’s deadlier than your fireballs. He’s only the biggest, bloodiest brawler in all of Wyldaroon, so keep your wits sharp and your talons sharper.

He had not seen Leandrial.

The Gladiator-Dragon added, You can defeat him, Scrap. I know you have it within you.

With that, Gang retreated to the observation portholes. Bets raged amongst the crowd. No doubt, Marshal Montorix would be sniffing Dragon gold this day – but would the Great Dragon’s wing tilt for him, or for his enemy?

The two-headed Tahootax was so colossal, he could barely squeeze between the arena doors, and that only by twisting his shoulders sideways. But when he did, he did not wait for the announcer-Dragon to do more than clear his throat before he charged Aranya. She moved fluidly, but the mountain of Dragonflesh adjusted quicker than any Dragon she had ever faced. His shoulder struck true; the impact of her body cracked the arena wall.

Tahootax stood a head taller than Montorix and had to measure a jaw-dropping thirty feet wider across the shoulders, giving room for his two titanic heads. His body-shape made him resemble a squat wedge with two lethal, fang-lined caverns on one end and a powerful tail on the other, but she still recognised the similarly long, distinctive abdomen, akin to Thoralian’s unusual body structure. A relative?

Barely had she thought this, when a Dragon power snatched her up out of the dust and Tahootax whirled beneath, striking a devastating uppercut to her gut, talons fully extended. Her half-formed shield collapsed under a finely-synchronised, overwhelming mental strike. Aranya flew upward in a spray of golden Dragon blood and severed guts to strike the cage.

KAAABOOM!!

The tenfold amplification struck her a concussive blow.

Whiteness. Wisp-Dragons. The sweet flowering of white-fires around her body.

Izariela …

Regaining consciousness with a convulsive jolt, Aranya squirmed to her paws, her nostrils filled with the scents of cinnamon and the freshness of a starlit void. Nonetheless, a mewl of pain escaped her lips. She stood in a four-foot deep crater caused by the impact of her body. Tahootax had strolled off in a celebratory round of the arena, flexing his almighty shoulders and bellowing up a fine thunder.

Aranya promptly slapped him in the buttocks with a lightning bolt. Hey! Aren’t you forgetting something, you … uh, overgrown toad?

Mercy, when would she learn to insult a Dragon properly?

Tahootax whirled, both jaws dropping in astonishment. What?

She grinned like madcap Nak formulating a choice phrase. You dancing fool, are you the local comedian? Aranya flexed her shoulders and impishly waggled her hindquarters for good measure. Cotton-puff kisses are hardly the pith of draconic behaviour.

To her mounting astonishment she felt rattled, but never more alive.

That signature mental power she had sensed so keenly in Thoralian plucked her up again, but this time, Aranya was ready. She blinded Tahootax with a storm of magical petals. Accident? She had been aiming for a real storm, but edgy, low-pitched laughter burbled from her throat as she realised she had no idea what her powers were doing. What fun!

Humansoul danced within her second-soul, free, feisty and furious.

Then, the world seemed to slow. Tahootax charged. His mouths gaped. Her wings unfurled lightly, balancing her on a brass dral. She remembered, with thoughts so languid as to feel pressed through a barrel of sugar bamboo sap, the free dance Hualiama had tried to inspire within a gangly, foot-tied Immadian’s soul. Laughter blossomed. Her wings swished her out from beneath the Orange-Red’s champing muzzles. She somersaulted lithely over a double-fireball so mighty, it washed from the floor of the arena up to the cage. Choking, sulphurous black and yellow smoke billowed like an uncontrolled forge-fire. His talons scythed the air, but the Dragoness folded her wing-struts to pass between them like a speck passing through a sieve, her shaped shield lacerating the webbing of his left forepaw. Tahootax’s aggrieved bellowing rocked the arena.

Aranya bellowed back, and her rage was the sevenfold fury of Fra’anior resounding from one throat. Storm winds blasted the monster backward, opening the Dragon’s wings in an involuntary flaring motion, akin to a draconic surrender. Her intestines spilled out of her gut with the force of her outcry, but Aranya swept them up with the aid of her left forepaw and a hard-pressed pneumatic shield, trying to hold them in. Fire avalanched across the arena toward her, gathering speed even in her hyper-awareness as the firestorm-output of both of his throats mingled into a storm so superheated, it melted granite.

Inanely, she heard Ri’arion’s mental voice pinpointing the blast-temperature of meriatite-extracted hydrogen as exceeding two and a half thousand degrees.

Tahootax possessed so much power. How could she defeat this brute, and quickly?

The cage. It sang of magic.

The Dragoness rode the thunder of Tahootax’s insane battle-rage, slipping like pollen between the avaricious talons of his mental power, borne aloft by the fierce thermals generated by his flaming. His flame stopped for a breath, for him to gather the contents of his stomachs. Aranya sensed the extraordinary heat of those fires, fuelled by meriatite while being both contained and augmented by magic. She drifted on the thermals, plotting.

Four fire-eyes bulged beneath her as the massive Orange’s necks swivelled, orienting him for a strike at her vulnerable underbelly. Tahootax hesitated, searching for the ruse, for the reason Aranya would expose herself. Mentally, she hunkered down behind a veil of deception. Agony flared in her wounded belly. Desperation. Fear, even, of the greater Dragon.

With a low, ugly laugh, Tahootax released the valves controlling his fire- and meriatite stomachs. Pallid yellow flame erupted from his agape throats straight up toward the cage.

The Amethyst swirled through the enveloping fire, controlling the flow with a twisting motion of her wings that parted his shots, and passed them behind her. Her world became yellow flame and stultifying waves of heat. Then, she imagined a dagger spinning toward Zip’s back. She leaped beyond the explosive, compressed hydrogen somehow transported within Tahootax’s shots; unexpectedly removing herself from the path of the impending explosion. A monstrous wave of heat curled her wing-edges and sucked the air out of her lungs. The cage-magic shrieked at the power demanded of it, rattled so powerfully by his blast that the anchoring stonework crumbled.

Quick as flickering flame, Aranya twisted her neck to shoot a tiny, highly pressurised blue fireball of her own straight down his nearest throat.

GRRAAABOOOMM!!

The exponential power of his own blast flattened the mighty Orange-Red Dragon, but perhaps in that entire arena, only Aranya’s ears were quick enough to detect the additional, high-pitched whistle of her fireball passing down the windpipe into his stomach. Compressed hydrogen detonated within his body, blowing a hole the size of a house in his port flank and lower neck region.

Tahootax staggered. Three steps. Four. One mouth gaped, the other slumped to his knee, hanging by a thread of muscle. The stillness that fell over the arena was as thick and hot as the golden Dragon blood flooding out of his shattered hearts. Then, the enormous Orange-Red Dragon fell, shuddered once, and perished.

In a grief-intensified peal of Storm-thunder, the Amethyst Dragoness declared her name, I … AM … ARANYA!!

Sundered, the cage split and fell.

* * * *

“Scrap, you ruddy well destroyed the Pit.”

“I … I don’t understand, Gang. But I remember you flying over; taking the brunt of the cage’s fall for me. Thank you.”

“Aye. Broke four ribs. It was nothing. Now you – you’re a freak! How do you blow up a Tahootax?”

Smarting at the word ‘freak’, Aranya snarled, “I told you. Dragons who swallow meriatite should not play with fire. And it was Tahootax’s attack that broke the cage, not mine. Uh … what’s going on out there?”

“It’s a leveraged buyout,” Gang said with a conspiratorial wink. Outside the infirmary cave where Aranya had been ordered to wait, a hubbub of voices rose and then abruptly faded. “Any Pit that loses its ability to operate can be snaffled up by an available buyer. Marshal Huaricithe happens to be the wealthiest Dragoness in Wyldaroon, besides that she bet a large slice of her sizeable fortune against Tahootax – they hate each other with a legendary passion. They were lovers once, see? Before he jilted her.”

“That bit I understand. Explain the negotiations.”

“Huaricithe proposes to sell the Pit back to Montorix for a tidy profit, minus one Dragoness – you. She commands an all-female Dragonwing. The whisper on the wind is, she came here in search of Montorix’s champion female because she plans to fly Aranya the Assassin against Thoralian.”

Gnaarrrgghhh!

Gangurtharr patted her shoulder. “You really hate the old Marshal, don’t you?”

“Aye.”

“So, while your purchase is being negotiated –”

“Purchase?”

The scarred Gladiator-Dragon looked at her strangely. “You’re a peculiar one, Scrap. Can’t figure you sometimes. Of course she’s buying your sassy hide – think you’re different? Special? In here, we’re all no better than slaves fighting for our lives.”

Sometimes, Aranya felt the isolation of a royal upbringing so acutely. Assumptions. Rights. Privileges she patently took for granted and others could not afford. Her father’s many lectures on the subject suddenly took on a whole new dimension. She understood. Shame made her flush, but Gang did not seem wont to press the point further.

He said, “When Huaricithe comes, treat her respectfully. She’s tougher than Dragon hide but invariably fair – few Dragons are white-fires in all their business dealings, but she is.” He let fire lick between his fangs. “She’s a good owner, Scrap. And you’ve earned your chance at a better life – GRRR – did I just mistakenly compliment you? Advancing senility. Shut your flapping trap and get out of here.”

Aranya touched wingtips fondly with him. “I’ll miss you, Gang.”

“Push off.”

“A remarkable victory, Aranya the Assassin.” Both Dragons whirled as a new voice, as smooth and thick as honey, poured over them. “Gang, you scurvy old reprobate. Stirring up whirlpools of trouble as always?”

“Huaricithe,” he said gruffly.

Aranya almost leaped out of her Dragon hide. Gang? And the powerful Marshal? No flat statement of her name could hide the truth that flashed intuitively into her knowledge. He loved Huaricithe, or had done in the past. Huaricithe was beautiful – a sleek, Navy-Blue Dragoness who carried her presence like an invisible but nonetheless palpable royal robe. Her eyes whirled with effulgent cascades of rainbow colours – Shapeshifter colours, Aranya realised. Like her own hair. Huaricithe was physically smaller than many Herimor Dragons Aranya had faced or rubbed shoulders with in the Pits, but no sane person or Dragon could doubt her authority.

Then, she knew also the peril of this Dragoness’ high intelligence. Secrets would be sniffed out ere they were conceived. Her magic touched subtly, not like Va’assia’s clumsy war-hammer strikes, but with the most extraordinary finesse – a spider’s knack upon silken threads.

Mercy! She had to hide, shield, deflect … Aranya lowered her muzzle and her fires simultaneously. “Marshal Huaricithe. We are honoured.”

“Aranya. Quite the reputation you’ve carved out in just a few weeks in the Pits of Wyldaroon,” purred the Marshal, in a voice rife with exotic, flute-like intonations. “You and I will have to talk … about your origins, and where you contracted such a powerful strain of the pox.”

Shapeshifter pox, her eyes hinted. Aranya bit her tongue. “I am yours to command, Huaricithe, but –”

“Are you?”

Roaring rajals! Ten seconds of conversation and she was more alarmed by this Dragoness than by Montorix, Tahootax and Ecuradox rolled into one. Dragons were not supposed to be able to sweat.

Aranya gave the Marshal the benefit of her best chin-jutting, Princess-of-Immadia scowl. “I want you to purchase Gangurtharr too. Please.”

Huaricithe’s laughter filled the infirmary with rich tones of amusement at the flat non-interrogative. “Oh? Has he worked his old magic upon the Assassin? Aye, I know you’ve been training and roosting together, but Gang … oh, you haven’t changed one scale, have you?”

Gang shuffled his paws. “Not my fault.” To Aranya alone, he thought angrily, What are you doing, Scrap? Stay out of my wing-space, or I swear –

Push off yourself, she returned, feeling discourteous but meaning it. Aloud, the Immadian said, “As you’d expect of an honourable Dragon, Gang advised the contrary. This is my wish.”

“You’d refuse to leave without him?”

Danger! Her scales crawled as Aranya whispered, “I know he’s a dreadful inconvenience, but –”

“Insolent wing-flip!” snorted Gang, clamping his fangs upon her shoulder.

“This young one humbly asks you to consider a boon, o Marshal.” Aranya lowered her muzzle once more, acutely aware of the Blue Dragon’s long, heated glare. Her answer was the perfect middle ground of diplomacy, and they both knew it. Battle joined.

At length, Huaricithe growled, “A boon for a boon, Aranya the Assassin. That is the draconic law in Wyldaroon. Are you quite certain you know what you ask?”

“No,” she said, flaring white-fires honest. “But if you give me a chance to fly at Thoralian, mighty Marshal, then I swear I will not fail you.”

Gangurtharr sniggered, “I’m warning you, Huari. This one’s trouble.”

Chapter 25: The Assassin Unleashed

Smoking wildly at the nostrils, Yar’nax’tix the Red kicked open Ardan’s door and yanked him off his pallet by his left foot. “We’ve found her!”

“Found, uh, whom?”

“Aranya!” snarled the Red Dragoness. “The one you screamed for when we captured you. The image that captures your heart like a warded glamour and keeps it from becoming mine!”

Dangling upside-down in front of an incensed Dragoness’ nose was not the only reason his heart leaped into his throat. Aranya! Alive! Could it be?

Tixi growled, “As mute and stupid as ever, Black? Let me remind you of a little Grey-Green who has all the Pits of the Gladiator Dragons, those filthy hovels of crooks, bandits and lowlifes, in an uproar. Deny you know her. Deny you know Aranya the Assassin, the deadliest fighter in all Wyldaroon!”

“A-Aranya … the Assassin? Did you hit your head on the way in, Marshal?”

His scornful laughter made the Marshal clack her fangs against his skull, but even a Dragon’s bite merely pierced the skin, not his ridiculously armoured cranium. Blood dripped from a spot near his left ear, and another above the right temple. He and Tixi eyeballed each other from a distance of several feet. Her Dragoness-eyes flamed crimson; her breath was like charred anise, an odour he had never quite smelled around a Dragon before. No. That cave where Yolathion had attacked Kylara and Jia-Llonya …

Ardan knew the Dragoness was far beyond any measured approach, now.

She said, “Tell me about this Aranya, Black Dragon. Tell me all. For if you do not, I will bring those two sweet boys before you and I will torture them so horribly, and unhurriedly, that you will never forget their screams as long as you live.”

“Aranya isn’t a brawler,” he said eventually. “She’s a Princess of a faraway realm, not a fighter.”

“The message called her ‘the foulest pox-scarred Grey-Green fledgling you ever saw’,” said the Red. “Sound familiar? Cheekbone shows here. Scars all over the body.”

“Can’t be. Her colour isn’t –” Ardan pulled up, wishing he could have pulled out his tongue by the roots.

The Dragoness purred happily. “Oh? This Dragoness carries a glamour of concealment powerful enough to fool the wards of Montorix’s Pit? Or they know …” She flexed her talons purposely in front of Ardan’s eyes. “What is her true colour?”

He gritted his teeth.

“If you dislocate the jaw, you can slide your smallest talon right down the throat,” Tixi added. “It takes a very long time for a boy to die when impaled that way. Or, you can squeeze the skull in your paw until the eyeballs just –”

“Purple!” he gasped.

“Purple?” The light in her eyes continued to grow stranger and stranger, as if the colour bleached slowly to a ghastly, sallow grey. “What kind of purple, exactly?”

He felt sick. “Amethyst.”

“The prophesied Star Dragoness! She has come!” The Red Shapeshifter seemed enraptured by an all-consuming, private vision. In low, throbbing tones she said, “I knew I smelled fate’s paw upon him the day a Black Dragon fell into our midst; the day a star blazed her trail across the farthest reaches of Herimor. Now, he is the key. For legend teaches us that she who commands a Star Dragoness, commands the very soul of heaven’s riches and glory. Whipped, manipulated, cajoled, he will lead us to the star. But we must be cunning; oh-so-draconic in applying just the right leverage. Oaths, aye, oaths must be made. Fine oaths to bind even a Star Dragoness to us, for she is young. She can be turned if the price … the price is right, the price …”

As she hissed the word ‘price’ three times, her eye-fires fixed upon Ardan, shifting to an avaricious green. “Yeeeesssss … how will you help me find her, Ardan? How? I know you can. I have read the truth in your soul.”

How could Aranya have disguised herself as some kind of fighting Dragoness? That daughter of a royal house – how was it possible? Temptation warred with caution in his heart. Find the Princess, aye. But lead this Red Shapeshifter to her? The stakes were enormously high; one mistake could ruin them all.

“The Lavanias collar constrains me,” he said.

“Remove the collar, he says?” One huge, blood-red paw rose to worry at a loose scale on her jaw. “Oaths first, Black. You will serve me until I have the Star Dragoness in my paw – swear it!”

“I –”

“You will turn Aranya over to me. You will serve my purposes unswervingly until she is mine.”

“You will harm neither the boys nor the dragonet,” said Ardan. Sick? His stomach was tying itself in knots and trying to abscond through his bone-dry throat all at once. Yet via this accursed bargain, could he find freedom? Could he believe he was doing right by returning to the woman who spurned his oath, and rejected his love?

“You can be so amenable when threatened properly,” cooed the Red. “Agreed, Ardan?”

“I will not fight for Marshal Thoralian,” he added.

“Agreed. Now, swear!”

Ardan had to force iron into his reply, for the fear that clenched the innards of his torso and throat rivalled the grip of an angry Dragon’s paw. “I swear upon my fires as a Dragon that I will serve you, Yar’nax’tix the Red, until you have the Star Dragoness in your paw.”

“And I swear I will remove the collar, leave unharmed only those you have named, and release you from this oath the day the Star Dragoness is mine.”

He had never seen Tixi look so satisfied. Her talon slipped coolly up behind his neck, and released the collar with a curl of magic. She said, “On our fast-moving orbital cycle, my Islands already approach the Vassal States. I harbour only hatred for the old Marshal, you can be assured of that. Today we pack. By this evening, we will fly south for the Straits of Hordazar, and Wyldaroon. Meantime, you will tell me everything you know about Aranya.”

She dropped him abruptly; Ardan landed upon flexed arms and rolled smoothly to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he spied Sapphire peeking out from beneath his blanket. A tiny chirrup of telepathic Dragonish entered his mind, Ardan do good. Need Ari.

Great leaping Islands, did he ever …

The Red Dragoness added, sibilantly, “After being suppressed so long by a triple-strong Lavanias collar, Shapeshifter powers return very slowly – if at all.” Ardan gasped, remembering Aranya’s inanition following her period of captivity at Sylakia. His collar had been triple-strong. “Don’t think you’ll be flying away anytime soon, Black Dragon. You are still mine.”

Suddenly, a picture of Aranya entered his mind – eyes flashing with amethyst fire, her gorgeous locks yearning toward his hand, and that assured tilt of the chin that informed anyone who knew her, that this was no woman to be trifled with. Tixi had not the first conception, had she? Like any proud Western Isles woman, Aranya was a warrior in her own right; sharp of scimitar and sharper of deed. To Ardan, that strength was intoxicating.

Smiling as Aranya might, he raised his chin. “You are mistaken in one detail, Marshal. I am not Black. I am the Shadow Dragon, the shadow against which Aranya’s star blazes brightest. You would do well to remember that.”

The Red laughed arrogantly as she departed the harem, but it was poor cover for the disquiet betrayed by her belly-fires. Glamour or no glamour, he had shaken the Marshal to her core.

Retreating to his pallet, Ardan drew Sapphire into his arms. Hey, girl. Aranya’s … alive. There was the abandoned collar. He was unleashed. Hot emotions jammed in his throat. Would she understand, or would she feel betrayed once more?

Sapphire nibbled his earlobe. We find Ari? Good. Ardan marry?

Ardan bent forward, touching his forehead to the dragonet’s febrile scales. Two paws slipped around his neck in a perfectly Human-like hug. Suddenly ambushed by a wild, inexpressible hope, he began to weep as never before.

Aranya!

* * * *

Trying to compare Wyldaroon to anything she had seen before was a futile exercise. Aranya gave up almost as soon as she started. Every time she gazed at something, she saw another wonder. Colourful butterflies the size of dragonets drifted amongst lush, floating Islands which were linked together by a bewildering latticework of greenery – apparently originally draconic in nature, but quickly covered by creeping vines or curling branches. Some Islands caught waterfalls from those above, forming tiered cascades many Islands tall. The foliage was beyond lush. It exploded in every direction in daring sprays of flowers and hanging ferns thousands of feet long and waving, spiky-haired crowns of Islands. There were dragonets – forty different types she had counted so far, with quadruple wings, frills, long flattened bodies, or even something like sails … and creeping forest-Dragons, and tiny Dragonkind no longer than her Human’s finger, which drank nectar and pollinated flowers. Over to her left wing, she saw blue aquatic Dragons racing up a trio of waterfalls in great, joyous sprays. A pair of eyes each fifteen feet wide glared briefly at her from the underside of an Island, before withdrawing languidly.

She flew inside a three-dimensional jungle – how did one navigate this place? The Pygmy girl would have been blown right out of her little stockings. Or had she gone barefoot?

That inane speculation evaporated as they surmounted the Islands of this single Archipelago, one of thousands in Wyldaroon, and entered a realm of rainbows. Oh, and mountains! Aranya gazed at the rolling, white-capped mountain range spanning the horizon from North to South, seemingly close enough to touch, and batted away a treacherous notion that perhaps Immadia was not, after all, the most beautiful location in the Island-World. Nonsense.

She blinked. Ridiculously awesome mountains – four leagues tall? Five? More? Her Dragon sight abruptly zoomed in on what she had taken for a snow-avalanche, and she realised that was an avalanche of White Dragonkind – thousands strong, perhaps a herd on the move?

Before she knew it, a tear squeezed from her left eye and fell. Flying just beneath her, Gang’s tongue flicked in and out instinctively. Mmm? he puzzled, glancing at the clear sky. Magical raindrops?

Aranya winged along, the very paragon of innocence.

Unholy smoking volcanoes, what had she done now? What would her strange tear-magic do to a Dragon? Turn him into a Shapeshifter? Her hearts lurched painfully as a different thought intruded – his scars might be healed. And what of his old wounds that rendered him incapable of roosting with a female, just as the pox had similarly scarred her … there?

Let it be.

Every Dragoness – and the one male Dragon – in the Dragonwing shivered simultaneously and glanced about in evident puzzlement as the oath-magic teased their Dragon senses.

She projected the same surprise as everyone else.

She had to act normal. Aranya must be just one of fifty Dragonesses and two dozen Shapeshifters winging southward toward a similarly tangled group of Islands, this one garbed in vast blue flowers with deep orange hearts. She was the smallest by forty feet, aye, but she pretended the difference did not exist. Her eyes kept searching for the bases of Islands, for the normalcy of Cloudlands lapping around rocky shores, but that was absent. The suns-set colours embellishing the not-too-distant mountains and the vibrant sprays of rainbows adorning myriad waterfalls and drifting clouds of moisture almost undid her soul.

Breathing deep of the pollen-rich air, Aranya said, How does it feel to be out here at last, Gang?

Sacred, he replied.

So, the old fire-blower had a sweet streak? She knew that, of course. Just as she knew he had been watching her and filing away her every action and reaction in that cavernous mind of his. Gang’s suspicion was veiled with plenteous draconic subterfuge, but they had grown close in the past weeks and she, too, was aware of his signals. He might yet be her undoing. And how could she lie to these Dragons? She was the Island-World’s worst liar, bar none.

Therefore, she must not lie.

Late that evening, the Dragons rested in the bowels of a small Archipelago beyond the last of the Gladiator Pits, which occupied a lawless stretch of Archipelagos near the north-western corner of Wyldaroon. They ate, and Huaricithe questioned Aranya.

Half an hour later, the Navy-Blue Dragoness finally lost her temper. That was a long period for a Dragon, but her ensuing effort made the average erupting volcano look extinct. After ten minutes of venting her pique at considerable, creative and fiery length, when threats of a return to the Pits had been made and Aranya’s own fury had risen to a choking boil of its own, Gang stepped in.

He said, One question. One honest answer, Aranya. Can you manage that much?

Depends on the question, she hedged.

Ruddy fledgling doesn’t know her place! grumbled another Shapeshifter. No hint of glamour, expects us to understand her need for ruddy secrecy but not so much as half a scale’s hint as to why!

Strangest accent she has, grunted another. Can’t for my fire-life place it to any region I know.

Some few Dragons were amused, but the majority sided firmly with Marshal Huaricithe – a lynch-mob on paws, Aranya thought. Nonetheless, she had stuck to her line. Secrecy was vital. She could not say, not on pain of all the various torments Huaricithe had just recited.

She fears Thoralian, said Gang, over the rising hubbub.

That silenced the congregation. One, an older female Green called Itomiki, blurted out, Did the old Marshal hurt thee and thy family, little one?

Aye, Aranya growled, seizing a potential way out with relief. But I do not fear him.

No? pressed Gang.

No!

Looming over her, the hulking Gladiator pressed his muzzle right into her face and hissed cruelly, You slimy swamp-dwelling liar, you two-faced undraconic null-fires piddling little weasel – Aranya clamped her jaw shut as her fires surged uncontrollably – you grey-hearted salamander falsely clothed in Dragonskin, you calamitous coward whelped of deserters and runaways – she groaned in pain – you whelp of a diseased caveworm blighted amongst all creatures to a degree of hideousness –

HE DID THIS TO ME!!

Aranya clamped her jaw shut as thunder shook their Island. Huge thunder. Not just an angry-Aranya peal of thunder. Fra’anior’s voice.

Mercy!

Her thighs coiled faster than thought. Aranya sprang seventy feet in a single vertical bound, before her wings wrenched back toward her tail, stabbing pain into her shoulders. Behind her, the sheltered encampment exploded with shouts:

Catch her! Don’t let her escape! Burn the liar!

Fireballs, psychic strikes and even a sharp tugging at her wings, perhaps a Kinetic attack, staggered the young Dragoness as she accelerated away. Aranya slewed violently through a curtain of vegetation, spinning in two complete rotations before she oriented her wings and shot upward with Dragon-swift reactions. She jinked past hanging Islands, sliced through two cool waterfalls and hurtled upside-down through an equally startled flight of red dragonets, who squeaked in annoyance, only to flee as ten larger Dragons hurtled out of the gloom. Leaving a vocally unimpressed chorus eating her dust, Aranya flicked past a flotilla of the strange, bloated Dragons that held Islands upon their massed backs, and out into the open.

What she beheld knocked the fire and the stuffing right out of her.

A storm – an almighty storm!

Filling every horizon in a single, unbroken arc, massive shoulders of lightning-shot black cloud billowed beneath the lustre of a full Yellow Moon. An eruption, her panicked thoughts suggested. Then Aranya paused, her jaw dangling even further in an expression Zip called ‘catching windrocs as opposed to flies’. The lightning glinting behind those malevolent storm battlements was distinctly amethyst – undeniably anomalous and magical in origin, different in character to her shell-grandfather’s signature storm-mantling. The multi-branched, gorgeous amethyst lightning throwing itself across the leagues between the surging, sooty cloud-mountains made that much crystal clear.

The storm intensified as if charged by the electrified response of her speeding hearts-beat. No. This was not her signature, was it?

Aranya’s nostrils flared, taking in more than the storm’s scent. Hints of primal magic, operating at levels of existence she did not understand. Not malevolence so much as … Imbalance? A sense of release? Yet why the knowledge of connection, why this inkling that she could scent her own multifarious Amethyst Shapeshifter scent? Was this the same redolence she had detected in Izariela’s tomb?

Humansoul was dancing! Flying! That uninhibited Hualiama-esque flare and whirl of insubstantial limbs … Dragoness-Aranya glared at herself in perplexity. Lunatic.

Her Human’s laughter welled up like a spring of living water. We are two but one, Dragonsoul. Release your fears. What will be –

Will occur at the verimost talon-flick of a Star Dragoness? If only!

Humansoul’s merriment at her dry sarcasm was unbridled; a strange, fitting counterpoint to the storm’s ominous onset. Her inner voice seemed to fade into a faraway cry, Dance, o Amethyst … all we are asked to do in this life, is to dance …

Suddenly, the Star Dragoness became aware of Gang on her port side and Huaricithe to the starboard, scrutinising the storm with wary attention. Three necks twizzled identically, taking in the unnatural approach of those threatening storm-billows.

By shielded telepathy, Gang whispered to her, ’Tis the Song of the Storm Dragon.

Aranya nearly bit through her tongue. What?

An old legend of the Dragonfriend, the Grey-Green Dragon replied peaceably. A prophecy, indeed, attributed to her roost-mate-soul, Grandion. I know thy scent, Shapeshifter Scrap. I cannot prove anything as yet, but rest assured, I will plumb thy secrets, for I declare, as surely as the Island-World turns about the twin suns, Marshal Thoralian cannot be defeated by subterfuge and secrets kept in darkness, for those secrets will do nought but rend and destroy. All must be light, and white-fires light. Then truth will become our shield, our talon, and the paw of ultimate justice.

She caught herself jaw-dangling again. The soul-quaking power of his words!

Gangurtharr? A croak, nothing more.

He peered at her quizzically, smugly, draconic-mysteriously. Aye, Aranya of no past? Is it not every Dragon’s obligation to seek white-fires? Come. We must shelter from this storm.

With that, he winged away.

* * * *

From North and South came the drakes of Thoralian’s command, appearing from amidst the floating Islands as if a plague peeled off the ravaged backs of its victims. Shapeshifter Dragons flung the drakes into battle in their legions. Twice, Aranya thought she might have caught sight of a Yellow-White Dragon commanding the hordes, but amidst the torrential rain, the continuous hammering of storms and swirling clouds, it was impossible to tell for certain.

That first night, as the storm whipped their surrounds like the strokes of an almighty, many-stranded whip, Aranya feared the Islands must surely be flung back into the Cloudlands whence they came. Trees ripped free of their roots, leaves and whole branches whistled through the air, and stones pelted the sheltering Dragons, who hunkered down and spoke ominously about a type of storm called ‘hurricane’, unfamiliar to Aranya, which flung Archipelagos out of their customary paths, forming entirely new Island-patterns to bemuse and preoccupy the cartographers. Apparently, cartography in Herimor was a celebrated profession requiring a combination of artistry, prescience, magic and hard facts, mostly undertaken by a species called ‘Shurmbikals’, a humanoid reptile of uncertain origin and even more uncertain powers.

Come morning, there was a cheerful wake-up battle against three hundred fang-champing, battle-mad drakes. Aranya flew with Huari’s Dragonwing and fought with all her heart. The second day was a repeat of the first, only this one held two battles, larger than the first, as the powerful Navy-Blue fought to return her Dragonwing to her fortresses some six hundred leagues southwest of the Pits region. On the third day, further waves of titanic lightning-storms swept in, even more impressive than the first.

Unseasonable weather, grumbled the all-female Dragonwing, casting Aranya dark-fires glances.

Late that morning as they took a short rest inside yet another tangled, flying jungle, Gang sneaked up behind Aranya and hissed, Song of the Storm Dragon!

She whirled in a jumble of wings and limbs. Gang! Don’t do that.

Almost scared you into your Human hide, did I?

Go pester Huaricithe. You seem to have a fiery spot for her.

Aye, he growled. You know what, Scrap? I’ve an unaccustomed itch in my – he pointed to a spot that made her fires blush. I haven’t had feeling down there in fifty years. And, my hide seems to be changing. The footprint of each scar is reducing in size, their colour –

What? Oh, Gang, that’s wonderful news!

Gaah, she could barely convince herself, let alone a hyper-aware Herimor Dragon. They all seemed to live and breathe this crazy form of subterfuge they called ‘glamour’. As far as she could tell, they were all born lie-detectors and wrapped themselves in endless onion-like layers of mental shielding meant to keep prying thoughts out of minds. All of that duplicity demanded a great deal of magic and effort.

Ever since I tasted a strange teardrop on the breeze, he snorted. Do you know of a Dragon power that produces tears, Scrapling?

Aranya aimed a fond bite as high up his left thigh as she could reach. I know only that you grow weepy in your senescence. Oh, Gang, you’re as transparent as that pool over there.

And you, my charming little fabricator, could not tell a convincing lie given a hundred years’ training and all the glamour in Herimor, he growled back. Come on. When will you transform for us? I know you can. You smell like Huari and those other Shifters. You reek of Shapeshifter –

TO BATTLE! Huaricithe roared.

Freaking feral windrocs, why had she never considered that Shapeshifters might smell a certain way? Enraged beyond reason, and missing her friends like a hole in her Dragon hearts, Aranya belatedly launched out after the rest of the Dragonwing. A Dragon fell right past her. Not one of their own. The Amethyst Dragoness shot through the foliage out into the open, above the small, nameless cluster of Islands, and gasped.

Fiery red drakes occluded the stormy skies. Counting was pointless. Low, underslung jaws furnished with hooked fangs and bloodshot eyes surrounded them; an overwhelming force. Thoralian must have been breeding again. Their chittering surrounded her like a million insects singing at once, filling the noon skies with an eerie buzzing sound as the drakes clumped together and wheeled into the attack, dive-bombing the much larger Dragons. Wings torn! Eyes ripped from their sockets. Drakes hung off lips and wings, mobbing the much larger Lesser Dragons. In return, mighty jaws champed the smaller, twenty-foot Dragonkind in half and fireballs seared the air, chargrilling their victims. Drakes rained from the skies. Dragons perished. Aranya saw Gangurtharr barrelling into a thick knot of drakes overwhelming a Green Dragoness, and followed.

Useless destruction. If Thoralian had his way, he would destroy every Dragon in the Island-World. In their madness, these drakes even attacked the ragions clamped to the undersides of Islands. Anything that moved.

Her sorrow was her Storm.

Here, the battle raged between pockets of storm-clouds. Aranya knew that this Storm was something linked once more with her emotions, with the burdens that weighed her hearts so heavily, or even with her concern over the fate of her Island-World. These were her creatures. As a Star Dragoness, she was sworn to set this Imbalance to rights.

Suddenly, her scales crawled as if seeking to lift off her back. Ardan. She felt … Ardan! That profound linkage stirred just slightly, so very faraway, in her breast …

Galvanised, Aranya reached for her power. If there was a Storm Dragon, perhaps his legendary power lived in his progeny; if there was a song to be sung, then she must be the singer.

In your honour, grandsire.

She genuflected deeply. Then, the Amethyst Dragoness acquiesced at last. Aranya sang to her Storm. Lightning gathered upon her paws. It sparked in great torrents from the gathered clouds, and played over her scales in crazed, jagged patterns. Come to me, she sang. I shall discharge you in the cause of justice.

Power sizzled across her scales. More, she crooned. Join my fires, my song, my life …

Grief-song. Power-song. Dragonsong!

Coiling lightning about her talons, the Amethyst Dragoness launched into the battle with a melancholy ballad rising upon her lips – one of Hualiama’s favourites, she had read in her Aunt’s writings. It seemed appropriate, the legend of Saggaz Thunderdoom:

Bestriding boiling thunderheads, the Thunderdoom arose,

His roar a trump of thunder,

Like wingéd lightning his mighty paw,

Struck the skies asunder!

And as she sang, she fell upon the drakes and their commanding Shapeshifters like the Thunderdoom of old, flinging lightning across the divide from her talons, aiming her wingtips and muzzle at Shifters, and even striking with mighty bolts shot from her tail. She burned. She blazed. Aranya could not have described the fires that devoured her soul at that moment, only that they were white, excruciatingly white, so beautiful that they consumed, uplifted and inspired all at once, and in that whiteness was a well of truth by which she must fly all the days of the life given to her under the twin suns.

The battle was her song. Wild Dragonsong swelled in her mind, until the swirling of body and tangling of claws became as nothing before the mighty power of her song, and she drew from the surrounding Storm-power all that was to be drawn, and depleted herself in almighty vengeance. She saw Thoralian. She saw him everywhere, in the claws, the fangs and in the faces of their enemies – his foul imprint lived in their souls, and she knew she must expunge every last taint.

Corkscrewing pugnaciously past Gangurtharr, the Star Dragoness cleaned his back and shoulders of drakes with thirteen precision blasts in the space of a quarter-second, leaving the startled Dragon gaping amidst a cloud of drifting grey ash. She whirled into the midst of Huaricithe’s beleaguered command, disappearing for a moment behind the huge, closely-packed Dragonesses.

Hsst! Hsst! Ka-ka-ka-kraaack! This was the seductive voice of her amethyst-tinged lightning. Strike after strike raged from her claws, racing through the narrowest gaps and around wings and between startled, tucked-up legs, as though the Dragonesses themselves flew within a storm, only that storm was the fledgling in their midst; they bugled in shock and amazement as the enemy imploded, burned, shot away on the wings of a sharp puff of Storm-wind.

Having cleared the nearby skies, Aranya swirled away. Retribution-sorrow! Rage! She roared, KNOW THE TASTE OF FRA’ANIOR’S WRATH, THORALIAN!

Three Yellow Shapeshifters broke for cover. Aranya raced after. Lightning thundered between the Islands. Only one disembodied head fell into the void of the Cloudlands below.

The Amethyst Dragoness, burning so heatedly that the air itself seemed to flee from her presence, swooped beneath the Island-Cluster, gathering her wrath for the drakes massed beyond. Where was Thoralian? Where was he? She sensed his presence, somewhere. Somehow. He was here in Wyldaroon, and she burned suns-bright against him … for he had broken her. Marked her. Tortured her with all the vicious pleasure of an insatiably evil Dragon.

Together with thirty Dragonesses of Huaricithe’s Dragonwing, the Star Dragoness fell upon a pack of five hundred vicious drakes, raging, burning, weeping, knowing now her own inanition, the expenditure of battle-effort from wasted lungs, that she could not breathe yet had no need to, for the starlight was her life and her song, the elemental power of her heritage.

Aranya’s wings folded.

Drakes mobbed her, shocked into a feral rage, but her Dragon-kin blasted through with a massive volley of fireballs, acid spit and Huaricithe’s own blue-chased fireballs … and a Dragon’s paws gripped her falling, flaccid body, hissing with shock at the extreme heat radiating from her white-hot scales, shifting to clasp just with the talons so that his Dragon-scales would not melt. Gangurtharr bore her aloft, already bugling the victory.

The Amethyst slumped in his paws. Job … done, Gang? Did we do the job?

Thou art the Assassin, he replied.

For long moments, cool winds soughed across her scales, slowly relieving the awful heat and reviving her senses. Aranya felt a trickle of magic slowly returning to her spent being. She heaved and rasped for breath. Thanks … rescue.

Softly now, Scrap, he whispered, and there was a light in his eyes Aranya did not understand. Bearing her up tenderly, the massive Dragon brought her to the place where Huaricithe had re-gathered her Dragonwing.

Aranya smiled tiredly. Good battle, mighty Dragon-kin!

They stared at her, fixed of eye and motionless of wing. Several Dragons even dribbled fire between their fangs. A bunch of hapless ralti sheep, she thought uncharitably. Or, was there something else? No-one seemed to be talking or boasting, and where were the celebrations due a notable victory?

What’s the matter? We won, didn’t we?

Gang breathed, Did you know your scales are white, Scrap? Pure white?

Whaaaaat … Aranya stared at her paws; her wings. As white as Immadia’s freshly-fallen snows. Betrayed! Oh, Gangurtharr …

He bowed his muzzle. Art thou Aranya, pluckéd from the starry host?

Huaricithe extended her wings in the most formal of genuflections. Star Dragoness.

Following her example, all of the Dragonesses of her Dragonwing lowered their muzzles and made humble obeisance, whispering, Star Dragoness. Star Dragoness. We worship thee. We worship, we worship …

Aranya gasped, You wor – what? You can’t do that! No!

Only the wind answered her plaintive cry.

Chapter 26: Thoralian’s Bequest

IN TWO Further days of rapid travel, Leandrial led her group to Entorixthu’s Cleft. Here, the Mesas had been deeply split, giving rise to a dark cleft flanked by two even darker pillars at the entrance, black metallic statues depicting two heads of Fra’anior himself. Those forbidding statues stood a mere five times taller than Leandrial was long, thought Zip, hovering on the wing as she eyed the Land Dragoness judiciously. Sure, she filled a low mountaintop as few Dragons might. But those peaks ahead – they would test Land Dragons’ capabilities to the limit.

Ri’arion, naturally, was swapping notes with Leandrial. “You say the pass is eleven miles high?”

“More, depending on the snow and ice,” she replied.

“That’s high, even for a Lesser Dragon,” he noted. “Not much of a pass, is it? Better than crossing the real highlands on either side, suppose.”

“A mere fifteen to eighteen miles tall, according to my trigonometric calculations,” agreed the Welkin-Runner. “Alright, how shall we organise ourselves, monk?”

Ri’arion said, “Bigger Runners at the front, you in the middle, Leandrial, and the rest close behind. I’ve worked the shield-constructs as best I can, given our differing levels of ability. The Blast-Runners will stick close to their ‘buddy’ Welkin-Runners. Halfway up the pass or so, we’ll have them settle inside mouths because of their lack of resistance to extreme cold. The Lesser Dragons will scout to try to keep the Ice-Runners at bay.”

“They’re hardly Runners,” complained one of the younger Welkin-Runners, Jelladrial by name. Their group had now swelled to include eleven of Leandrial’s kin, as they had found a few more individuals taking refuge in the Sea of Dragons’ Tears.

“Sub-intelligent Dragonkind,” the monk agreed smoothly. “Pack hunters that delight in warmly welcoming visitors to the Mesas, by all accounts.”

“Furry Dragons? Ugh,” sniffed another Welkin-Runner.

“No point in jawing the day away here,” Zuziana said wanly, willing her stomach to stay firmly in place. “We’ve plenty of daylight hours left. No rest for depraved, Princess-despoiling recalcitrant excuses for religious men.”

Ri’arion kicked her shoulder, chuckling, “In my defence –”

“Defence? I don’t believe I’ve made that particular allowance in your case. I like to keep my husbands on a short chain.”

“Husbands, plural? I’m no schizophrenic Shapeshifter – realising suddenly that I have two wives, one scaly and cuddly, and the other a petite thorn bush.”

Chuckling with her monk, the Azure Dragoness winged toward the great, weather-beaten statues guarding Entorixthu’s Cleft. Certainly, she had a new appreciation for Aranya’s healthy fear of the Great Onyx. Imagine having a clutch of those heads champing at your tail-end all night?

A chill breeze tugged at her wing membranes, a harbinger of things to come. This was undoubtedly a job for an Immadian, not a girl from tropical Remoy. Zip silently beseeched Fra’anior to return Aranya to them. And when he did, she would so take the Amethyst to task for daring to slingshot them out of the Rift-Storm! Whatever had she been thinking – self-sacrifice? By the Black One’s own belly-fires, that best friend of hers needed some common pragmatism thoroughly beaten into her armour-plated skull!

She knew just the girl to do that, too.

The Welkin-Runners emerged from the cream-fluff Cloudlands in a dense, damp-slick wedge. The lowering suns brought out the vibrant blues of their scales as never before. Gigantic chameleons, she thought. Leandrial was more than twice the size of any of her kin, a giant among giants, and the Blast-Runners clustered above her neck seemed little more than tiny children clutching their mother’s ruff. Two eggs had hatched inside of Leandrial’s mouth the previous evening, sparking joyous Dragonsong amongst Tari’s Dragonwing, who were resting until they entered the Cleft itself. Zip had held one of the wobbly hatchlings in her paws, and wondered how her triplets might come out – Human or scaly? Was there a rule for Shapeshifters?

Triplets? Leaping Islands crowned by dancing rainbows, in triplicate!

The Land Dragons rapidly sloughed off the last of the Cloudlands as they ascended a hidden slope protruding from Entorixthu’s Cleft like a long tongue, the result of centuries of erosion. A surprisingly turquoise river filled much of the mile-wide gap between the statues, with white floes moving briskly in the slurry of its evidently chill flow. That was no barrier to the Welkin-Runners. They surged upslope gusting steaming puffs of air over their labouring bodies. With a combined mental touch, Ri’arion and Leandrial checked their pressure-increasing, osmotic and cold-reflective shield-layers and helped several of the younger Land Dragons make adjustments. Then, they poured up the long, winding cleft into the heart of the Mesas.

The route wound gently into a broad, temperate valley lined with forests of a local gum tree, with distinctly blue, teardrop-shaped leaves; these covered the valley’s slopes alongside the river in a dense, hundred-foot forest canopy. A menthol-like tang came to Zuziana’s nostrils. She inhaled appreciatively. For this part, the Land Dragons elected to swim-wade upriver. After all, the deep flow barely covered their bellies. Several hours later, the valley opened into ostensibly uninhabited riverine pastureland, where the wavy bluegrass was a summery azure with white tufts backed by faraway ranks of jutting mauve and grey mountains, capped with white snowfall. The size and quantity of the animal droppings led Zuziana to wonder where all the denizens had vanished to.

They aimed for a second set of black statues, easily visible over the flat blue grassland from a distance of over a hundred miles, and by nightfall, passed onward into the mountains proper. Leandrial called a mid-evening rest as, having climbed a steep slope to a height of perhaps four miles above the Cloudlands, the mountains revealed … aye, more mountains, and more beyond, until the serried ranks of purple and white peaks seemed to touch the sky itself. The Land Dragons performed health checks, indulged in a little forest-crushing wrestling match, and Leandrial let her coterie of fledglings and hatchlings out of her mouth to play and feed in the icy night air.

An hour later, taskmaster-Ri’arion called the Dragons to order.

Zip tried very hard not to giggle at the prospect of a dashing six-foot-plus Human calling their monstrous Land Dragon companions to heel. Most would not even have noticed had they trodden upon him by accident.

Now, the trail climbed relentlessly, forcing the heavy Land Dragons to push themselves hard. To the Lesser Dragons the air became bitingly cold and thin as they climbed; far worse for Land Dragons, accustomed to the great air pressures and comfortable warmth of their middle and middle-lower layers. They huffed and panted as they walked over the permafrost, pressing into a steadily worsening breeze that swept down from the heights, bringing a tang of moisture and new smells – draconic smells.

Leandrial said, “They’re waiting for us up ahead.”

“Couldn’t be Thoralian’s handiwork, could it?” asked Ri’arion.

They had earlier discussed intelligence detected from a patrol of Gem-Runners that suggested one of the Thoralians might already be in Wyldaroon, recruiting Gladiator Dragons for his armies.

Leandrial shook her muzzle resolutely. “Seems unlikely. But we must be alert. He might well have forces watching the mountains. He seems to have covered most of Herimor with his spies and patrols. Good thinking to lay a false trail yesterday.”

The monk pointed with his chin. “Do you smell a storm?”

“Perhaps beyond the pass,” she rumbled, testing her eye-beam with a brief shot into the sky. “Onward and upward, my friends.”

Crossing a ridge, they descended for an hour before traversing a flat, isolated plain. Dense, low-hanging cloudbanks obscured the farther peaks. Leandrial oriented them on a third set of statues and they walked doggedly into the first flurries of snow. The ground was ice and red stone, unrelieved by any green, growing thing. Shortly, the Blast-Runners made their retreat into warm and welcoming mouths, and the group pushed up another climb into the teeth of a freshening gale as the weather closed in. Tari the Red passed overhead, calling a warning.

The landscape was like a series of huge steps leading into leaden skies. Zip reckoned the time must be around dawn, but there was no relief from the snow whipping into their faces. She began to wonder if the climb would ever end. The Welkin-Runner youngsters had their heads down, clearly freezing and miserable, plodding along with no thought other than to reach the top and begin the descent. Even shields could only achieve so much.

They were two and a half leagues above the Cloudlands, deep in a realm inimical to their kind, when the first attack came.

Zuziana heard a low rumbling approaching from the flank; Leandrial sounded a warning as two dozen or more Ice-Runners rumbled over a nearby rise, moving rapidly in a tight-knit group, all horns pointed to the front and armoured skulls lowered for the charge. They undulated along like the sometimes toxic, furry caterpillars of Remoy, Zip decided, only these beasts appeared to possess eighteen or twenty sets of legs, and beneath their flowing white fur and oddly bearded, broad faces, she suspected they were little more than five hundred feet of bone, muscle and belligerence.

Voicing a primal howl, they swept down on the foremost Welkin-Runners. Eye-cannons flared, blasting half a dozen of the Ice-Runners into the next kingdom, wherever that was. The balance slammed into one of the smaller Welkin-Runners positioned just ahead of Leandrial, and bowled her over in a concerted rush. Shields vibrated like bells. Paws scrabbled. Ri’arion charged in like a fireball in his own right, shoring up damage and helping the youngsters pick targets that were not each other. Tari and Brityx roared in above the tussling group, igniting the Ice-Runners’ long, luxurious fur like torches.

Watch the horns! They’ve shield-penetrating magic, called Ri’arion. Tixi –

On it like choleric lightning, snapped the Red. Dragons, fan out! Warm them up before they get here. Brityx, take ten and scout ahead. I’m on port. Hulzar, starboard. Leandrial, have your Runners fire early – we’ll give you nice bonfires to target.

Zip realised that the Welkin-Runners somehow had not seen the incoming Ice-Runners. They were well disguised, certainly – was it the cold? The sleeting storm? Magic?

No time for that. She banked to follow Brityx’s group, ignoring Ri’arion’s hastily swallowed desire to forbid her to fly into battle. She was pregnant, not helpless! She threw back over her shoulder, Leandrial, can those Blast-Runners fire from inside your mouth? How can we use them?

Her thought was only half-formed when fire erupted ahead of her. A dense pack of Ice-Runners split apart as if hacked by an axe, voicing guttural howls. Leandrial’s eye-beam speared through the semidarkness, gouging a mile-long trench of destruction. Smaller beams lit upon the Ice-Runners at the forefront of the charge, blasting away with concerted pulses of Harmonic magic. The massively powerful creatures still broke through, despite flaming fur and severed limbs, whereupon Leandrial and her kin fell to the old-fashioned method of chopping with their flaming talons, but their power seemed weakened in the thin atmosphere. They suffered heavy damage before the charge broke up.

Zuziana shot overhead, wishing she could do more damage than just her fireballs and lightning. She could lead. Zipping past Brityx and her group, the Azure Dragoness and her monk searched for the way forward, for the best path that would take them out of range of the Ice-Runners. There were many, approaching as though drawn by the sounds and scents of battle, by the clash of magic and the muted thundering of the Land Dragons. Yet the top of the pass was not far, perhaps ten miles distant.

KAAABOOOM!! The Blast-Runners’ contribution lit the gloom, spraying body parts as far as a mile up the trail.

Aye! Whirling, she cried, Leandrial, rouse your kin to run as you did before, upon talons of penetrative shielding! Follow me!

The Dragoness did not hesitate. She roused her charges with urgent bellowing. One young male Welkin-Runner was too injured to continue; overriding his protests, Leandrial slung him bodily over her shoulder, staggering under the additional weight.

Zuziana heard her roar, I will not lose another! Not on this airless, forsaken mountain!

Riding the whistling storm winds, Zuziana sensed her monk growing distant in his mind as he lent his mental strength to the great Dragons – encouraging, cajoling, scorning if needed. Anything to rouse their fires. The Welkin-Runners gathered momentum. Their paws began to tread lightly, cushioned by air, and she relayed a message through Ri’arion to bid them be as quiet as possible. How did one still the breathing of a half-mile behemoth? With auditory shielding, of course, grunted the monk. Meantime, she had Tari and Brityx mount diversionary attacks away from the main trail. The simple stratagem worked. The Ice-Runners milled about in confusion, sensing their prey disappearing while attacks materialised from other sources. They charged toward the enemy-apparent, only to discover their own kind; wild snarls developed as the Ice-Runners vented their fury on each other. Brityx called to her Dragonwing, helping the confusion by fire-bombing the wild Dragonkind from above.

What … when reach … top? Leandrial wheezed.

She was growing light-headed, ready to drop as she powered up to the summit of the pass. The Dragoness staggered as though she were drunk – oxygen deprivation, Zip realised. Unbelievably, they still travelled through a distinct cleft in the immense mountain-range. Though the flurries of snow, Zuziana caught sight of peaks miles taller still, which acted as a natural funnel for the storm’s blast.

Unaccountably, the wind dropped as though hacked away by a sword.

The Ice-Runners gathered on the slopes turned with one accord toward the faint rumbling raised by the Land Dragons.

Help! cried two of the youngsters.

There’s a plan, Zuziana called smoothly. Trust me and do as I command.

General Zuziana, Ri’arion chuckled, you are undoubtedly the most adorable general I have ever had the pleasure of – tell you later. Luckily for him, he stopped mid-proposition.

LIKE THIS! Zuziana thundered at the mental and audible levels.

Leandrial was the first to grasp her picture. Her laughter emerged as a rough, pained bark. Link together, my kin! Link paws and tails! The greatest mother of all drew her disparate brood to her sides, binding them with the strength of her forearms and straightening her tail so that they could all find grip. Huge, steely talons curled around Dragon hide. Now they were one. The Land Dragons tucked up their paws and set to skating along on a bed of air – a reversed pneumatic shield – as the trail dipped down a long, winding cleft back toward the safety of the Cloudlands of Wyldaroon. They accelerated smoothly.

Now, Ri’arion fashioned a wedge-shaped shield ahead of them.

A plough? Zip thought incredulously.

We Fra’aniorians till our fields with Dragons, he suggested, rather implausibly.

Farming with Land Dragons? Zip was not convinced Dragonkind would find the image appealing.

The gliding wedge knocked the converging Ice-Runners left and right, several times tumbling them beneath the cavalcade so that the closely-knit group of Welkin-Runners seemed to bobble over a stippled surface, dropping stunned creatures in their wake. The vibrant Blast-Runners shivering around Leandrial’s neck-ruff suddenly oriented as one beast on an attack arising from the port flank. Perfectly coordinated, their muzzles gaped. A shrill whine of shared magic split the air. KAABOOOM!! They struck rock and ice just ahead of the Ice-Runners. Animals tumbled helplessly, kicking up clouds of ice and snow. Brityx’s Dragonwing swirled through the softly-falling but thick snowflakes, firing fireballs in rapid succession. Meantime, Tari’s small command swung away to harry the Ice-Runners ahead.

Leandrial and her kin skated down a broad, flat ridge before hitting a frozen lake. Zuziana saw ice spitting behind as Leandrial lightly employed her talons for rudders. The group swept down a twenty-mile patch of cerulean ice en route to another pair of statues. Fra’anior the seven-headed Dragon, Zip thought, flexing her wings as her Dragon-senses responded automatically to a change in the air pressure. Something was sucking the air away to the South.

Her skull-spikes ached as the Azure Dragoness peered ahead. What by all the volcanic hells of Fra’anior was that magic, that preternatural prickling against her scales? Had they just gaily leaped out of the roasting-pan into the furnace?

The Land Dragons skated off the end of the lake, bisecting the immense statues to either side, before the wide trail suddenly dipped again, traversing a long series of ledges leading down to the Cloudlands. Suddenly, they saw beneath the layer of storm-clouds assaulting the Mesas, and there was not a Dragon in their group who did not voice a started bugle or oath.

Wyldaroon shook in the grips of a legendary storm. Smoky black clouds bubbled the length and breadth of that realm like the surface of a cauldron filled with a ghastly brew, forming and mounting up into the sky before their dumbfounded fire-eyes. It was the magnitude that staggered, the pent-up fury of Nature every Dragon recognised; the impenetrable bands of storm reaching to the horizon laced with towering columns of amethyst lightning that leaped tens of leagues between the threatening thunderheads. Zuziana gasped as she recognised the appalling truth.

That lightning was Aranya’s colour. This was her power, unleashed in a form and on a scale … unimaginable. Amethyst-chased clouds surged and heaved over the deeps, obscuring any Islands of Wyldaroon they might have hoped to see. Out near the horizon, the storm churned around an unseen central point, and forked lightning formed a many-pillared pavilion, playing crazily and constantly across the breadth of her vision.

Something was amiss. Her friend was in danger, tortured, alone.

ARANYA!! Zip howled into the void.

* * * *

Having reversed direction, gale-force winds blew them out of the mountains and mercifully, down into the Cloudlands before the full brunt of the new, magical storm struck Leandrial and the Lesser Dragons. Even the upper layer was agitated and churned up, so the Land Dragoness led them deeper, diving beneath the wilds of Wyldaroon. She and her kin blasted a way through a sea of Island-sized stinging jellies, and after nine hours further travelling they came to a place Leandrial and Tari agreed lay beneath the Gladiator Pits. Here, in this area’s commercial hub, they would begin their search for a lost star.

To a Dragon, and one Human monk, they were battered and travel-weary. The Lesser Dragons badly needed to detoxify; Zip felt far more green than Azure. Accordingly, Leandrial led her command away to feed, rest and heal in the deeps, while Suk’itarix and her mate directed the wing-drooping Lesser Dragons aloft to seek a quiet Island for rest and recuperation.

The storm appeared to have abated, but devastation abounded. The Azure Dragoness could almost not lift a wing, lurching awkwardly as they negotiated a green tunnel between Islands she suddenly realised were linked together by strands of ragions, so that they seemed to fly into a living sponge. Tux’tarax unsubtly lent a shoulder, steadying the Azure as she wobbled badly.

Thanks, she sighed.

Strength to thy paws, o little one of mighty deeds, he said. We shall rest in this place, and share fresh kill, and compose praise-songs to deeds essayed and mightier deeds to come.

Finding a series of linked dells surrounded by towering walls of vegetation and a waterfall that apparently fell from a hole through the centre of a separate Island hovering overhead, the Dragonwing landed and set about securing their temporary roost. Eggs all together, guarded by three Dragons. Hatchlings to wash and play. The fledglings hunted for morsels amidst the luxuriant vegetation, while a number of adults departed to hunt. Zuziana’s ears twitched in delight at the nearby trilling of dragonets. Perfect. She transformed into her Human form and dressed. Wow. A Remoyan dress in Herimor. Picking up Ri’arion’s travelling cloak, which smelled just like him, she covered herself and curled up amidst the baggage. Just a quick nap. Making three eggs while slapping Land Dragons hither and thither was hard work …

Ri’arion kissed her forehead. “I’m off with Brityx and Tari to hunt for Aranya. They don’t want to waste a minute and I don’t blame them. Some storm, huh?”

“Aranya’s storm,” Zip murmured.

“Aye. So we’re looking for –”

“Comet. Amethyst. And sweet, sexy monks.”

He chuckled softly. “Might take us a while, precious petal. Get some rest, alright?”

“G’night.”

The last thing she remembered was Ri’arion saying something to Tari about how excited Aranya would be to learn about her pregnancy.

* * * *

Zip woke to a world of ice. Shivering.

Sallow eyes regarded her from just a few feet above her head. She wanted to scream, but the glistening orbs were so hypnotic, so filled with lustrous malevolence, that the sound died in her throat.

I am Thoralian, said the Dragon, unnecessarily.

She knew. Zip’s heart was an ice-bound wasteland. Tears squeezed forth, freezing in the corners of her eyes.

’Twas a courageous crossing that delivered thee to my paw, little Zuziana. I and my brothers have conversed. We thought it most appropriate that I should accordingly speak with thee. A talon toyed with her cheek, the voice like winter’s breath soughing over icebound peaks. Zuziana of Remoy. So pathetic without your friends. You are nothing without the courage of others.

Zip concentrated. I defy thee, even in my dreams.

Where were the Dragons? Why did she hear nothing? Where was the song of dragonets … for morning had come, she realised, and Ri’arion had not yet returned – but he would, soon.

Dreams? Thoralian’s awful laughter ravaged all hope. Oh, he’s not due back for an hour, yet. Be of good cheer, Azure. We have chosen thee above all others to serve as the right paw of our purposes in this epoch of the Island-World.

What … purposes?

She fought him now, fought furiously in the confines of her mind, screaming helplessly as Thoralian overpowered her. Settle down, he gurgled horribly. We must not disturb your precious babes.

The way he said ‘precious’ threw her into a nadir of despair such as she had never experienced in all of her life. In a flash, Zuziana discerned his intent. This was no nightmare; at best, it was an apparition of Thoralian, at worst, he was present in flesh as well as in spirit, and he intended to harm her younglings …

Then, she shrieked for Aranya, for Ri’arion, for anyone, for help from the very heavens themselves, but her cries only echoed in the confines of her skull, and slowly those cries turned to whimpering as his talon traced its way down her throat to her abdomen. She was alone. Abandoned. She could not protect her babes … she must! Zuziana lashed out with every power at her disposal. The massive Yellow-White Dragon staggered a half-step backward, but he recovered immediately to crush her again with his extraordinary mental power.

Ooh, she has grown strong, he jeered and approved at once. She’ll be a fitting hostess to secure our future. Listen closely, little Zuziana. Listen and rejoice in how you have been chosen, above all mothers, to safeguard the glorious future of the Shapeshifter race!

She began to curse him, but his mental grip cut off even her thoughts. Attend! By the power of urzul I shall place in your womb a fragment of my tripartite spirit – but fear not! It shall not enter your sweet egglings yet – so very tiny! So young and innocent of the ways of Shapeshifters and Men. Did you know you’re expecting two girls and a boy? He paused to indulge in a cackle, gazing deep into Zuziana’s helpless eyes. If you do all that I command, Zuziana, and we three Thoralians survive the battles to come, I shall withdraw this gift. If you falter at the crucial moment, my spirit will infuse your egglings with beautiful, destiny-changing power, and you shall be privileged to become the shell mother of my spirit-progeny, the newest incarnation of my immortal flesh.

She glared at Thoralian, hating him beyond words.

Almost tenderly, he crooned, The Star Dragoness is powerful. But you are Aranya’s most trusted friend. Deliver to us the First Egg, and your babes shall remain unharmed. All this, I swear upon the power of urzul and the blazing forges of my own fire-life.

An awful echo of oath-magic speared into her belly, making Zuziana’s body arch off the frozen ground.

Thoralian growled, Now, for the sake of your cherished egglings, attend to my instructions.

She spiralled into madness.

Chapter 27: Vassals, Hassles and Tassels

ARANYA ROARED AT Gangurtharr, “If you apologise one more time, I swear I will transform you into a toad! I do not want worship! Or fawning! Roaring ruddy volcanoes, Gang, I am … I’m a Dragoness and a seventeen year-old girl! Not Fra’anior! Do you see seven thundering heads? Paws capable of juggling Islands? Storm mantling – oh, Islands’ sakes!” The recently-turned White Dragoness sighed as various frisky growls of thunder around the Island they had returned to following the battle, punctuated her words. “No, I’ve no idea why this freaking stupid storm seems intent on sniffing around my skirts – now, by the sulphurous breath of the Great Onyx himself, will you get down here and let me examine your wounds?”

She peremptorily indicated a spot right in front of her paws. “NOW!”

The hulking, scarred Gladiator, more than thrice her height at the shoulder, retreated a step, shaking his muzzle. He was also bleeding heavily from three large talon-gouges following their last battle, not to mention hundreds of drake-bites all over his lips, muzzle and wings. “No, Your Starry … uh, Majesty. It isn’t right. Not right at all.”

Huari chuckled, “Him? You’ll never get the stars out of his eyes now, Aranya.”

That is IT!! The annoyed Amethyst summarily flattened Gang with a Storm-powered roar. Get over here, you unkempt mound of muscle. Gang snarled in shock as her cunningly shaped shield wafted him over to her on a bed of whirring air. Dragons stared as she handled him like a toy – well, for a second, before she realised she would have nothing left over for healing.

She dumped Gang on his flank. “Stay put. Last warning.”

“She was like this in the arena,” he carped, finding not so much as a sackweight’s-worth of sympathy among the Dragonesses. “Disrespectful. A Dragon has his dignity, you know.”

Humansoul said, Can I come out and play, too?

Don’t you start, snarled Aranya. I’ve had quite enough – oh. You’ve magic?

Practically spitting out of me following that storm.

Alright, I have kind of starved … us, admitted the Dragoness. I’m sorry, petal. I’ve not been a very good friend to the best part of us.

Glad you noticed, her Human said insolently. But I say differently, my fire-blossom-heart.

Aranya’s third heart turned into heated mush at the recognition of her second-soul’s warm love. Then, she turned full circle, ensuring every Dragon present apprehend the measure of her barely-withheld wrath. “I will transform. Can we withhold any comments, snarky or otherwise? The scarring appears worse in my Human form …”

The Island-World seemed to shrink away as a tiny Human folded into the place where her Dragoness had stood. The Princess of Immadia stretched her arms and wriggled her aching shoulders, grateful for once that there were no leering eyes about, only forty murmuring Dragonesses and one exceedingly grumpy male Dragon. Allowing her hair to slide forward to conceal her face, Aranya willed herself not to glance about, for the horror she apprehended was enough. They would see oozing lesions, several newly split open during her battle with Tahootax. Scars clumped in tight, purple knobbles or indentations, twisting her skin peculiarly over her too-lean frame. Open craters adorned her left cheekbone, right hip, outer left calf muscle and exposed the tendons atop her right foot. The skin there looked diseased. Had she picked up an infection to boot? Great.

Surely, her Shapeshifter Human should display an open belly-wound? There was none. Only a fine white line crossing her abdominals toward her lower ribs belied Tahootax’s ruthless strike. What? Too much to consider; white-fires flared in her mind as Aranya tried to pinpoint – a divergence between her other-manifestations? Fear sparked in her mind. This must be what Fra’anior sought to warn her about. Carrying around so much Storm was undoubtedly tearing her apart.

What triggered the Storm? It must be mighty magic indeed, yet not a conscious act of will. Just for once, could she not be forced to carry these burdens?

In a troubled voice she said, “Gang –”

Aranya froze as a talon swept back the veil of her hair. Huaricithe! The Dragoness made a throat-clicking sound, her breath rasping noticeably, and her fires sighed and hissed as if a bonfire had been dumped upside-down.

Repulsive, these scars. The devastation betrayed by her whisper threatened to steal all sanity.

Itomiki the Green, the oldest of the Shapeshifters at one hundred and forty-one years, said, Nay, that is not … you must transform, noble Huari. Show the Star Dragoness the truth.

Air imploded against her back.

Huaricithe seized Aranya’s left hand impulsively. Look at me. Behold.

Expressive blue eyes framed by masses of tight blue curls. An impish chin. A face so Hualiama’s, yet subtly different, that Aranya felt soul-lost, transported through time … a quivering hand warm upon her cheek, tracing the cheekbone with wonder, tenderly stroking her chin. Although Huari was tiny, just a finger under five feet and Aranya over a foot taller, there was in the slant of the eyes and the jaw’s contour, in the delicately pointed ears and the slender limbs, an unmistakable familial likeness. The woman was also heavily scarred on her left hip. Pox-marks, Aranya saw. A different strain …

She sat down with a bump on Gangurtharr’s curved paw, blurting out, “Oh. Oh! Oh!” Very erudite, Immadia! Overwhelmed. Sensing the curling flame of a Shapeshifter’s fire-soul, nearby, singing with joy, she said, “Is that why you’re so Blue?”

Gang said, “Where did you say you hail from?”

“You wouldn’t know my Island-home,” Aranya said.

“Try us,” purred Itomiki.

Simultaneously, Huari whispered, “In our clan’s tradition, I’m an eleventh-generation descendant of Hualiama Dragonfriend and Grandion – at least, that’s our ancestral lore-claim, a claim which saw us almost wiped out. Blasphemy, see? Our clan fled to Wyldaroon. Hid our heritage. But … don’t you see it? Don’t you? I have to know!”

The Grey-Green’s paw tapped Aranya’s backside. “Well, you sure flicked an Island out of the Cloudlands there, Scrap. What’s the meaning of all this crazy-forbidden hair? Didn’t know rainbows were possible in Human women.”

“Stop that,” said Aranya, automatically.

“The more powerful they are, the worse the pox,” he retorted. “Huari knew immediately – didn’t you?”

The Shapeshifter’s eyes gleamed with her core power. “I had hoped for a powerful ally, Gang; when I saw her defeat Tahootax, I knew – my thoughts clutched pollen in the wind, clearly. Of course, I had no clue Aranya was a Star Dragoness. Or … who are you?”

Aranya rubbed her temples fiercely, flailing to catch up with the conversational twists and turns. “Slow down, Huaricithe …”

Gang had a very particular gleam in his eye as he looked Huari over. “I find you handsome in your Human form, Huaricithe. Very –” he clamped his jaw shut and curled the talons of his free paw up and over Aranya’s shoulders with a forceful expletive. “What is this? Explain!”

She had seen that gleam before, in Ardan. By his reaction, Gang was in for a rude shock – a promotion to Humanity. Or was that a demotion? Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She forced it away. If she had learned any one thing about destinies in the Island-World, she had not been tossed together with a long-lost relative on a mere whim of Fra’anior’s. Sneaky, shell-grandfather. Truly sneaky. Like landing her on Nak and Oyda’s doorstep. Nak and Gangurtharr would get on like fireballs and windrocs, of that she had no doubt.

She said, unsteadily, “I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia.”

She had thought the Dragons would not know where Immadia was, but Huaricithe immediately demanded, “Immadia? As in the Immadia of legend, North of the Rift?”

“Now she’s crossed the Rift?” Gang growled.

Turning, Aranya smiled sweetly over her shoulder at the Dragon, still lying on his side. “Mind you don’t faint, Gang.”

Gnarrr-grr-gnarr-gurrll-Aranyarr! He mangled her name beautifully.

“I think that means my shell-mother’s sister must’ve been your great, great-something-th grandmother,” Aranya faltered, rather failing to pinpoint the relationship with any accuracy whatsoever.

Itomiki murmured, “You’re a six hundred year-old fledgling?”

Aranya sighed. “No.”

Behind her, Gang snorted, “I give up.”

Huari said, “You thought Hualiama, implying that you know her, or at least, knew what she looks like.”

“She’s my Aunt,” said Aranya. “I’ve met her in my dreams.”

“Honestly, somebody bite me,” complained Gang. Graaarrrgghh! “Itomiki! What was that for?”

Itomiki, over a mouthful of Gang’s tail, produced a hundred-fanged draconic smirk. “Stow your miserable yapping, youngster. Aranya, do you mind? He’s bleeding all over this nice patch of grass.”

So she climbed Gang’s flank, and laid her hands upon him, and channelled her Storm-power into healing.

So much healing for others, and none for herself. Inside, Aranya felt as broken as her Island-World. Something was severely out of kilter, but what? She could not understand. Why, when fate laid so obvious a paw upon her life as to bring her together with these fine Dragons, did Aranya of Immadia still feel shattered, unfinished, stressed beyond endurance? The storm proclaimed her pyretic emotions more surely than words.

Now, Thoralian must know a Star Dragon stalked him in Herimor.

It was time for a Dragoness to hunt.

Raising her nose, Aranya sniffed the air curiously. South. South, and fast. There was Imbalance, a foreboding darkness that tantalised the edge of her senses …

“Dragons, we must fly,” she said decisively. “Where is your lair, Huaricithe? Where does it lie?” Before the Navy-Blue even answered, Aranya began to sense the location in the forefront of the Dragoness’ mind. Oh no. Her voice rose with a sharp snap-crack of wind, “We must fly on the wings of this storm. Rise, Dragons! Rise and follow … uh … with your permission, Marshal. Kindly. Fierily, I mean – ugh!”

The Dragoness just waggled a brow-ridge drolly.

Aranya folded her arms. “Sorry!” Gang sniggered behind her. Whirling, the Immadian snapped, “Gang! Since you appear to have been infected by some ridiculous worship bug –”

“Mind your tongue. That’s our sacred religion you’re insulting, girl,” growled another of the Shapeshifters.

“Sorry again, Islands’ sakes – by all the freaking, floating Islands, I’m sorry!” Aranya threw over her shoulder. “Gangurtharr, since you’ve so much to say for yourself, how’s about you volunteer to be my noble air transportation?”

“Me, with a Dragon Rider?” he thundered.

“Star Dragons usually demand the very best, but you – I guess you’ll serve as marginally acceptable seating for my worshipful rump.” Aranya gave the Dragon a huge wink.

Gang’s indignation shook the entire Archipelago.

* * * *

Ardan flicked the tassels on his lavender-striped shirt with annoyance. Could they not have found him a more – well, a more manly outfit? Bane thought he looked rainbows over Islands. When he caught the Western Isles warrior’s expression, Lurax, who had been downcast ever since Tixi’s torture, had cracked the first grin Ardan had seen from him in a month. Worth it? Aye. Worthless pride. He must become a better man.

Turning to the boys, seated behind him in harness on Imagitharr the Yellow’s back, he said, “Did I ever tell you the story of my first rajal hunt?”

Sapphire peeped, “No, mighty warrior.”

Ardan chuckled and scratched her beneath the chin. “You cheeky scruffling. Why don’t you catch a few insects?”

Sapphire’s mouth snapped aside faster than the eye could follow, returning with a seven-inch dragonfly. Its double wings waved feebly either side of her jaw. She made an immensely pleased ‘erp?’ and whirled her eye-fires at him.

“Clever girl,” he conceded. “Now, can you find Aranyi?”

He winced as the Immadian intimate form slipped out of his mouth.

Sapphire’s lustrous eyes considered him, suddenly as wise as the Islands were ancient. “Ari storm. Over mountains.”

Ardan nearly snaffled a dragonfly of his own as he gaped at the dragonet.

“Over … those mountains?” His finger pointed at the enormous Mesas. Mountains to humble a man, capped with white and glaciers that ever so slowly crept away from that snow-cap like spidery fingers reaching down to caress the world of Men and Dragons. They flew southward with the tall mountains upon their right flank, keeping high as they approached the Vassal States. Marshal Tixi had them all concealed with the strange glamour-magic these Herimor Dragons used, not a Ri’arion-special, hard-shelled and clear disguise, but more like tens of layers of ever-shifting gossamer veils blowing in a breeze. Misdirection. Intricacy. Enormous refinement aimed at producing … nothingness. A complete absence of clues, magical or mental, physical or emotional, that would point to the presence of Dragons, or to any hint of information pertinent to those Dragons.

He might as well have tried to read an invisible stone for all his efforts availed him, yet Ardan continued to work on trying to understand these Herimor Dragons. Everything about them was different. Linguistic nuance-indicators. Accent. Customs, such as first consuming the heart of their prey. Even their habit of singing Dragonsong and Dragon-lore while in flight, making every flight a lesson in reciting the histories, almost as if the Dragons sought to imprint a common mindset upon each other. He sensed the subtle moulding of his thoughts to their ways of thinking, and resisted. He was an Isles warrior, as stubborn as aged granite and about as pretty.

As they approached the Vassal States, he observed disturbance and war above clouds and below. They passed Islands devastated by Dragon fire. Down low, Dragons patrolled the borders of the Vassal States in a state of evident agitation. Here, for the first time, Ardan began to see cracks and clefts developing in a layer he had always considered inviolable – the Cloudlands. When asked, Imagitharr begrudgingly explained that to the South, near the mountains, there was an area of disturbance that Land Dragons called ‘the Upwelling’ which generated unusual weather patterns and broke up the Cloudlands from beneath. The Land Dragons also referred to the ‘Realms of Light’ where the twin suns broke through to shine into their vast realm.

Ardan had always considered the Cloudlands to be akin to the floor of the Island-World. Diving below with Leandrial had been one matter. Now, it seemed that they perched precariously above canyons of unknowable depth, the Air-Oceans of legend. Occasionally they saw Land Dragons below, and twice, the swirling movement of great bodies locked in battle.

Look at all the scavenger-Dragons, said one of the Dragons, pointing downward.

Ardan saw flocks and wings of what had to be all the scavengers in Herimor gathered to the feast. Some dived deep into the Cloudlands to retrieve hunks of meat so large, he could see them dangling from talons from five miles off. Others, bloated beyond endurance, rested on the floating Islands or winged torpidly toward the mountains for a rest. Grey windrocs, lesser chunugar storks and crimson-tufted valkors, all carrion birds, blackened the skies below the Dragonwing in their millions.

Thoralian has made his visitation, Marshal Tixi said darkly.

As they passed over the first of the Vassal States, the acrid stench of rotting flesh was enough to make the most hardened warrior blench. There must have been great battles here; all this was the aftermath. Tixi and her Dragons pointed to Islands slewed in the sky or sunk into the Cloudlands, Islands carpeted in dead Dragonflesh, and more obviously, the fires still raging on thirty or more outlying Islands of the independent Vassal States. Yet of Thoralian’s forces, they saw no sign save the rippling patterns painted on the Cloudlands by the widespread migration of Land Dragons, all apparently headed South. Ardan had expected thousands of Lesser Dragons. Where were they hiding?

The Red Shapeshifter warned, Gather your glamour, Dragon-kin. Swift to the Straits to find the Star Dragoness. Ardan, do you sense her?

He said, There’s a mighty storm beyond the mountains, Marshal.

Her eyes flared to a burnt-orange colour. Do you dare to threaten me?

Facts, Marshal.

She snapped at her own shadow. How he missed his Shadow Dragon! Quietly, on the way, Ardan had tried to summon up his magic – any magic at all – and failed. He did not even feel a tingling, as Aranya had described during her recovery. All he had was his restored command of Dragonish.

Seen from an altitude of two leagues above the Cloudlands, the Vassal States were a tapestry of green and brown dots often linked by faint threads. This area was one of the greatest Human civilisations of Herimor, with Island-fortresses burrowed into the floating Islands and dwellings sprawling up the lower flanks of the Mesas. They built on a scale lavish beyond imagination. Twice, they passed cities over thirty miles long and four miles tall. The fortifications were purple, interlocking stonework, two hundred feet thick and the boundary walls, six hundred feet tall. Triple-hulled Herimor Dragonships, narrower in the beam than their Northern counterparts, but comprised of three balloons fastened side-by-side, plied the skies in their thousands. The Humans leashed verdant Islands to their shores at multiple levels to provide additional farmland and military emplacements, anchoring them on hawsers Lurax said were eighty-foot-thick, braided metallic ragions.

Abandoning dignity, Ardan gazed about with the inquisitive air of the dragonet on his lap and the enthusiasm of the boys seated behind him.

As swiftly as Dragons flew, it took two days of travelling with a stiff following breeze to leave the Vassal States in their wake and forge along the unbroken mountain massif, before they raised sight of the Inscrutables.

War. All-out war raged around an invisible perimeter circumscribing an Island-Cluster that stood, for a change, firmly rooted where it should be – deep beneath the Cloudlands, with numerous, heavily-forested Islands arranged in a perfectly regular heptagon. The largest mountains were positioned at the seven main points. Every one of the five hundred and eighty Lesser Dragons of Marshal Tixi’s expanded Dragonwing, courtesy of her allies, seemed to shiver at once. Ardan felt nothing untoward, but the Dragons muttered among themselves of ‘eerie glamour’ and even a ghostly, threatening presence. They shook their muzzles and dug their talons into their ear-canals as though suddenly aware of an excess of itchy wax.

Marshal Tixi seemed unaffected. “Huh,” she said. “War? That’s a hassle. We’ll fly around.”

Ardan gazed ahead, concentrating deeply. What was it about that place that felt so … attractive? Almost homely? Could it be that those Inscrutable Dragons employed some kind of Shadow power to defend their realm? As he watched, silver blurred out of nothingness. An attack from fresh air; winged dots tumbled into the Cloudlands. Unholy stinking fumaroles! What was that?

Then, at the very limit of his Human sight, he saw a brighter, almost-white dot flying above a great legion of Dragons. Thoralian! The faraway Dragon seemed to gesture. Suddenly, a shimmering dome appeared in the air right over those uncanny Islands. The Dragonwings of Thoralian’s command oriented on that gargantuan, impossible feat of shielding and began to hammer it with every attack at their disposal. The shield flashed and glimmered into and out of existence, but held. Again, counterattacks flashed through the shield. Dragons fell. They slid slowly and in great numbers down the shield’s low curvature before vanishing into the lapping amber Cloudlands, but Thoralian did not appear to relent.

That was his plan. His goal – Ardan narrowed his eyes. Why the Inscrutables? What great treasure did they hide that Thoralian would choose to expend his forces so recklessly?

The First Egg? Or yet another secret?

One of the Dragons pointed to the East, bugling in alarm, “Earthen-Fires, what’s that?”

Every eye turned to the dark smudge out there, halfway to the horizon, surging upward as if the Cloudlands’ murkiest depths sought to assault the sky. The disturbance spread as it humped upward, boiling leagues across the Cloudlands before their incredulous eyes, already a mile high and rising relentlessly. Ardan instinctively looked to the position of the suns and moons to judge if they might be seeing an eclipse. No. The positions of the four moons decried … he turned again, focussing his sight which had become uncannily sharp since his first transformation into a Dragon, there in the Western Isles. Thoralian’s forces broke off the attack. They soared. Withdrawing – why?

Back to the East. That was no storm. That was … Fly! he roared. Fly up and away! High as you can – nooooooow!

To the Marshal’s strident outrage, her entire Dragonwing obeyed Ardan’s bellow as though tugged by a single, invisible hawser. She was still yelling ‘hold!’ and ‘listen to me!’ as the Dragons powered for the sky, bugling in panic. Wow, Ardan congratulated himself. They knew as little as he why that precise inflection had galvanised them, but there was almost a hint of the feral about their reaction.

The Marshal flexed her wings powerfully. Black! You snivelling coward, what have you –

Ardan shouted right back, Islands! That’s Islands, Marshal!

For the long, long breath that the Marshal’s disbelief gripped her, nothing happened save the phenomenon’s inexorable skyward swelling and advance. Ardan did not even have words to describe such a tidal movement in the Cloudlands, a jumbled, rolling mixture of Islands and Dragonkind raised upon the backs of a sea of seething Land Dragons which swarmed so thickly, it seemed the entire Island-World had turned into Dragonflesh. This tonnage of incipient destruction bore down on the Inscrutables with a majesty surpassing description, surpassing terror. His heart froze.

Tixi bolted for the sky, screaming, Follow me!

The Dragons beat their wings, locked in a race that seemed at once to stretch the space between hearts-beats to a painfully slow extreme, but simultaneously to unfold at a dreadful velocity. The wave surged. Churning. Rumbling. Looming over the shield-barrier around the Inscrutables like the most terrible war-hammer in history, poised to strike doom into the flesh of all mortal beings.

The comber curled and descended. Moments flitted by. Horror. Fear. Fleeing. Then came the mind-blowing impact. Dragons reeled. The compact Dragonwing ripped apart in a flash, as numbers of wings folded or snapped at the explosion that engulfed them. Stabbing his soul like invisible knives, there came the unbearable shrieking of Dragonkind in mortal agony. Ardan reeled in his Dragon Rider saddle, bleeding from burst capillaries in his nose and ears. Imagitharr’s wings folded like so much damp linen. He spiralled downward, aware of flickers of movement, a strangely oily Dragonsong … helpless, they were tumbled toward Islands tipping at impossible angles, as though their knees had been hacked out from beneath them.

Ardan’s lolling brought him an upward glance. Thoralian!

His view spiralled again. He wrenched his neck trying to watch – Thoralian must have attacked here while he was still there, out near the horizon … the Yellow-White conversed with Marshal Tixi as Imagitharr dropped away precipitately. On the next glimpse, Ardan observed a strange, baffled look fixed in her eyes, her mind already lost to the power of the Yellow-White’s psychic dominance. The second Thoralian. He had ambushed Tixi’s Dragonwing at the precise instant of that calamitous impact.

Ardan’s teeth rattled at a second impact as Imagitharr collided with a rolling Island, striking so hard he bounced hundreds of feet through the air … images blurred … Thoralian chewing … three metal-armoured Dragon talons slammed into his chest!

His consciousness gave up the unequal battle.

* * * *

Zuziana wept, inconsolable; curled into a foetal ball, clutching her stomach and the precious, precious lives within. How could she have guessed? She was their mother, supposed to protect the three fragile lives awakening in her womb, but how could she hope to shelter them from Thoralian’s urzul? Ri’arion had returned. He was as distraught as she, raging, hurting Dragons in his fury, but then he calmed down with that frighteningly abrupt Nameless Man self-discipline to examine her.

Nothing. Not a trace.

No Dragon had sensed anything, yet she was chilled through. The Dragons searched and fulminated and argued. It must have been a nightmare, they growled. The old Marshal could certainly attack through nightmares; his magic could affect minds and produce physical effects. Brityx took Zuziana in paw, swathed in every cloak and blanket they possessed, and sang mellifluous Dragonsong to calm her down.

As the monk questioned her endlessly, Zip struck out furiously. “You don’t believe me!”

She split his lip. Ri’arion’s eyes blazed, but he said simply, “I must, and I do. Come. This is beyond my power. We must keep searching for Aranya. Perhaps she …”

His voice trailed off.

“Perhaps Leandrial’s Balance-magic can help?” Brityx put in.

“I don’t like this,” said Suk’itarix the Green. “It smells seventh-sense-charring. Why would he strike this little one? He cannot fear us; his forces are too great. Caring for his legacy through an Azure Shapeshifter? It seems an inordinate risk for one who calculates every risk and nuance with all the legendary cunning of Herimor.”

Ri’arion said, “Perhaps the Marshals seek to drive us to a battleground of their choosing.”

Right. Snivelling Princess of Remoy, to battle! Zuziana compacted her horror into a tight ball in her chest and trussed it with every shred of her willpower. “What news of Aranya?”

Rapidly, the Green Shapeshifter summarised, “Your friend apparently arrived in the form of a comet, four weeks ago, smashing four of Marshal Montorix’s barracks like an angry Dragon stamping on a bug. Taken to the Pits, she became a Gladiatrix called Aranya the Assassin, quickly building her reputation as she thrashed her every enemy in the arena including several legendary Gladiator Dragons. The last had a reputation across all of Herimor – an Orange-Red called Tahootax the Terrible, or Tahootax Two-Head. He was a Wing Commander in Marshal Thoralian’s armies; a mightier brute you have never seen. How your little friend … they say she blew him to the far side of the Rift.” She laughed softly. “For that feat, Aranya was purchased by Marshal Huaricithe, a sworn enemy of the old Marshal. They flew South less than two days ago.”

So close? South? The storm! Zuziana bit her lip. But a Gladiator – a fighting Dragon, purchased by a Marshal? That hardly sounded like Aranya. She said, “The description –”

“Perfect down to the scars, except she was a Grey-Green colour,” said the monk.

Zip nodded. “Her chameleon trick.”

Tari stiffened in every muscle and wing-strut. “She’s an accursed Chameleon-Shifter?”

“No. Her power is similar to Herimor glamour,” said Ri’arion, “except she produces a real, physical change. A cellular-level glamour is the best way to describe this unique ability – not a malleable-phasic change akin to the Chameleons, with whom we have recent experience North of the Rift, but an unbounded transmutodraconisation – even extending, for example, to her Dragon powers.” Over the Dragons’ escalating murmurs, he explained, “Do not be surprised. She is a Star Dragon.”

“There’s theoretical possibility and then there’s your crazy, pseudo-metaphysical wing-twisting!” complained Marshal Tari, sounding sceptical yet admiring.

A grand entrance via comet was genuine-Aranya, Zuziana thought, mutinously wishing that Ri’arion would not sound so ruddy awed by her friend. She was just … Fra’anior’s grandchild. Aye. No stress. And what Thoralian had demanded of her in exchange for three lives – the Princess of Remoy rubbed her stomach sadly. This choice would tear her apart. How could she possibly fly against a mother’s first and deepest instincts, even if the prospect of motherhood was nascent, beneath the shell as Dragons put it? In her native Remoy, motherhood from first conception was regarded as a hallowed state and a sacred duty. Miscarriages in the perilous first twelve weeks of pregnancy or stillbirths were mourned annually for ten years, among the women – and so many! Now, the visceral grief of those women she had joined in mourning wailed elegiac Dragonsong deep in her soul. She understood, as never before, something of the trauma they had experienced.

How could she give birth to another trifold Thoralian? How could she not?

How could she condemn her own children to death, or conversely, grant nurture and life to a monster?

She could not face these questions. She must believe she had only dreamed of Thoralian; that he could exert no such dominion over her unborn children.

Raising her face to the heavens, the Remoyan Princess prayed for inspiration.

Her answer came in the form of a wild, forlorn cry from the deeps. Zuziana! Ri’arion! Answer me, please! I sensed the spirit of Thoralian and a tipping in the Balance … tell me, little ones, are you safe?

Noooooooooo …

Chapter 28: Dragon Kisses

ARanya, In her Human guise, swept through the portals of Huaricithe’s fortress in a cold, consuming fury. Thoralian had visited. He had fire-bombed the place, hammered the defenders and moved on to the next Marshal’s territory. All the way down South toward the Straits, four hundred and seventy leagues that whipped by as they travelled the blast of her mightiest Storm-winds, they had seen Islands smouldering after the storm snuffed out his destructive fires. She did not understand. How could Thoralian have moved so fast? One triple-confirmed report, relayed by telepathic Dragon message-stations, had placed him three hundred leagues North, near a place called Entorixthu’s Cleft, at the same time as she and Huari had been discovering their kinship.

Her tenth-generation niece’s Dragon army had fought bravely before being overrun. The carnage was unspeakable. Dragons. Humans. Lives spilled across the front steps; four dead Dragons had to be dragged away from the main entryway to allow ingress.

People stared at Aranya, but only momentarily. Their eyes were hollow; their lives hollower.

Jerkily, the Princess of Immadia stooped to touch a child. “Be healed.”

This could have been Immadia. This could have been their fate the day First War-Hammer Ignathion’s army had descended upon the city; later, the Immadians had indeed paid a terrible price.

“Thank you,” said the distraught mother. “Say thank you, Shihooyi.”

The wounded girl’s face was all tan, impish chin and huge dark eyes framed in black ringlets. Gorgeous! Maybe four years of age. But as Aranya smiled instinctively, the girl’s expression crumpled. “Monster! Mommy, mommy … it’s a monster! Get away, monster!”

Aranya froze.

The mother stared at Aranya, and blenched. She made a superstitious sign near her throat, seized her child by the hand, and departed at a panicked run.

The Princess bolted. She knew not where she fled, only that she must hold her hair close to her face and shield and fly from the voice that shrieked in her mind, ‘Monster!’ She slammed her knees against ornaments, crashed into a doorjamb, and spun away. Blind. Mute. Even her voice was stolen from her, the voice of her grief; the voice of who she was.

Aranya found herself in a bathroom, staring into one-quarter of a broken mirror. It had been pretty, once. Even the shattered surface reflected her brokenness all too faithfully. ‘Always treasure a faithful reflection’ was a favourite saying of Beran’s. His daughter leaned over an ornamental crystal bowl standing on a carved vanity dresser beneath the mirror, and sobbed until her tears splashed freely in an inch or more of fluid. Snatching up a piece of glass, she bared her torso. Her hand trembled, then moved to make a decisive cut. Aranya was always resolute. Always in command. Another cut, a scooping slice into one of the lesions. She must cut them out. Slice away the evil. Somewhere beneath lay the true Aranya, a girl scarred inside and out.

Yet she knew no amount of hatred could be scalpel enough to restore what had been. The glass shard fell from her nerveless fingers. It shattered into the dust and slivers of her reality.

Monster. That was her. The sobbing seized her once more, harder and more wrenching than before. She wept for the smashed bodies strewn amongst the wreckage, the desolate populace, the fire-lives spilled on the altar of Thoralian’s ambition. Her tears ran copiously, plinking like delicate rain into the bowl. She had not crossed the Rift to see history repeated in Herimor. She had not even laid eyes upon the First Egg, gradually ascending from its secret home behind the greatest Dragon-shield in the history of the Island-World, produced by the eerie seven-sided Island-Cluster she had beheld in Infurion’s vision.

She had sworn an oath before the Ancient Dragon.

No. She would be stronger than hate. Aranya touched her torso as though wondering whose blood streaked crimson runnels upon her wraithlike skin.

Now, she felt wrung dry. Aranya straightened, regarding the royal mess in the mirror. She dried her face with her hair and touched her belly-scar tenderly. She had sobbed so hard, the newly-healed wound throbbed. Guess which prudish royal had just strolled through a fortress ten times the size of the average village robed only in her hair – so different to any of the close-curled hairstyles apparently all the rage in Herimor. No-one wore a headscarf or a face-veil, but their hair was coiffed to the point of wonderment, and for the men, teased upward into spreading bowls which were dyed many colours, creating soaring crowns and crazy, flat-topped styles that she found rather fetching.

For her part, she had her mad Shapeshifter locks, a veritable rainbow of colours reaching almost to her knees, these days. Perhaps she would never cut it. People could gawk at her hair and then scream at her face.

Aranya eyed the half-full bowl with mild surprise. What sane person cried like that? No wonder she felt parched.

The liquid was pearlescent with magic …

A gift.

Reverently, Aranya of Immadia scooped up the bowl and stepped out into the corridor, treading not upon lumpy soles, but upon a featherbed of wonder. This Amethyst Dragon had a work of service to perform. Finding someone who looked like a servant, she said, “Please take me to the wounded. I can help.”

* * * *

Human-Aranya woke when a small hand shook her shoulder. A tentative touch, it nevertheless put the fear of rajals into her. Looking around wildly, she saw the lamps had been lit in the great hall where she remembered collapsing while tending the wounded. It must be evening. Someone had lifted her into a cot and placed a blanket over her shoulders.

She caught her breath as she saw who had woken her. “Shih …”

“Shihooyi,” lisped the little girl. “Why are you a star?”

“Uh …” How to answer that?

“You don’t shine none,” Shihooyi continued. “Are you a real star?”

“I am a Star Dragon, Shihooyi,” said Aranya, caught between smiling and not wanting to scare the girl witless again. “How’s that burn on your leg?”

She wriggled about to display her calf, saying proudly. “Almost better. Are you a broken star? Is that why you came to our Islands from heaven? What’s heaven like? Does it hurt? My mommy says you made lots of people and Dragons all better with your star-tears. Do stars cry starlight? Aren’t stars happy? Why were you so sad?”

“Starlight is happy,” said Aranya. That was all the response she trusted herself to make, for the girl touched one of her scars fearfully inasmuch as she had effortlessly touched Aranya’s heart.

“My daddy needs help,” said Shihooyi, pointing vaguely. “He’s over there. Can you shine on him?”

“Of … course.”

The little brow creased into a frown as the girl evidently remembered something. “My mommy said you was a broken star. She said a bad Marshal made you sick. Thor? Thor?”

“Thoralian,” said Aranya, reminded of a certain dragonet’s prattling.

“Well, I said you weren’t broken none,” said Shihooyi, slipping her little hand into Aranya’s hand. “I said you shined on all these people and made them better. One teeny drop of tears –” she illustrated with her fingers, squeezed firmly together “– and they shined inside. See? That girl shined. He shined. The big Dragon with our Marshal, even he done shined inside, just like a star. So I told my mommy, that lady’s a real star. All she got is Dragon kisses, all over.”

This brand of honesty was too raw, too searing, overwhelming her like Dragon fire. As they wound between the cots, Aranya could only gasp, “Dragon kisses?”

Shihooyi stamped her little foot. “You scared me! But when I seen you shined, I wasn’t scared no more. All I done seen is your insides through them Dragon kisses.”

Fighting the sevenfold roaring in her ears, Aranya gripped the bed guard to steady herself. She gazed down at Shihooyi’s father. He was a short, dark man with his chest heavily wrapped in bandages, and a clearly broken leg. His wife lay beside him, deeply asleep. Aranya remembered seeing her working tirelessly the previous day.

Once more, she felt flushed and aflame, as though her personal Rift-Storm burned too brightly through the cracks in her soul. Fra’anior’s thundering had filled her dreams. Portents. Sweat-soaked nightmares of the pox revisiting … the Immadian turned to the man and his wife, and touched them gently with her hands. Perhaps storms were not only about destruction. There was a wild, inexpressible song to be heard amongst winds and rain, thunder and pain … for pain was its own storm. Her lean, muscled forearms gripped the leg above and below the break.

“Can I help?” asked Shihooyi.

She reached for the girl. “Every star needs their best helper. Will you sit on your daddy’s leg here and hold it tight?”

Dragon kisses!

Setting about her work, Aranya marvelled at the mind of a child. The innocence that so simply, yet profoundly, grasped truth. The bitter beauty of unadorned insight to wound and heal, so unlike adults’ unstinting efforts to dance around the truth. This labour was her slow dance. A true song of Storm and magic.

The Immadian Princess eventually accepted a simple Herimor dress to cover her nudity; due to her height, it hung scandalously short. Someone pressed a man’s trousers upon her, but she had to knot the belt to prevent them falling off, for the belt could almost fit twice about her scant waist. She had to eat more. This storm was burning her up from the inside. And as she moved among the people, Aranya noticed them making a certain strange sign, pressing the splayed fingers of their left hand to the chest as the right hand made a swirling, outward-flowing genuflection starting at the heart. They held babies up to be blessed and children approached to touch an arm, a leg, even just her hair. How could she refuse? Even if unadulterated worship … itched. Madly.

Toward afternoon, Aranya took a meal of spicy Herimor breads and unfamiliar fruits with Human-Huari, Gang and Brityx. They talked strategy. Huari had summoned all the Marshals within a three hundred-league radius to a council of war, and sent messages to many more. Her army gathered. On the Eastern front, they already fought Thoralian’s legions, trying to ensure the safety of their people. Here at the fortress, they were not cleaning up save for placing bodies upon funeral pyres. They were preparing to ride to war.

Aranya shared her vision of the First Egg’s location; her companions immediately exchanged significant glances and Huaricithe said, “Easily identified, impossible to reach. That heptagonal Island-Cluster is unique in Herimor. It’s called the Inscrutables, and it is protected by the most powerful and unique Dragon-magic shield known to our kind. It has never been penetrated, not in six hundred years.”

The Cluster, it was said, had formed around the time of Hualiama Dragonfriend. Her Amethyst Dragoness stirred in the aether. That’s our place. Destiny’s Dragonsong.

“Well, that’s where we must fight Thoralian,” Aranya said firmly.

Gang threw her a longsuffering look.

The Immadian added, “I must clarify, Thoralian will want me there – yet I must go. You have your own battles; don’t feel that you have to fight mine for –”

“You shut the hells up!” Gangurtharr exploded, making Aranya fumble her bread and knock over a goblet of water.

“Gang!” gasped Huaricithe.

“What?”

“Be polite to the Star Dragoness.”

“Very well,” he said acidly. “With respect, your Celestial Majesty, I humbly refuse to be fobbed off by some irrepressible chit of a Star Dragoness when the most important battle in six hundred years is looming, and what, by Fra’anior’s paws, do you think you’re going to accomplish on your own, flying through hostile territory, when there are friends here willing to give their very wings for you? So you can tie that idiotic idea in knots and shove it right up –”

“Gang!” roared Huaricithe.

WHAT?

The Marshal eyeballed him, heat for heat, fire for fire. Slowly, the enormous Dragon’s fires receded to a muted roar. No, the heat had not reduced. Aranya saw a different fire emerging between them.

Flushing slightly, Huari said, “You’re such a Dragon.”

“And you, as a woman …” His eyes bulged. “What is this? I’m a good Dragon! Well, not a good one, but try to live with white-fires. Now, I’m finding Human hide … desirable. It is wrong! And your abnormal hair, Star Dragoness –” He choked on an expletive.

Aranya moved to stand beside her relative, gazing up into Gangurtharr’s bewildered eyes. “Uh, is now a good time to explain that my tears can turn people into Dragons, and possibly, Dragons into Shapeshifters?” Smoke belched out of Gang’s nostrils. Awkwardly, she added, “That’s why you’re having these unaccustomed feelings regarding Humans. My tears also heal in unexpected ways. I’m sorry, but all these people and Dragons who drank of my tears yesterday …”

Huaricithe breathed, “All those mortal wounds you healed?”

“Shapeshifters?” echoed Gang.

“Sorry? Aranya, you saved their lives,” Brityx growled. “Should we regret wings to bear us up in renewed life? Now, that old Marshal’s trembling in his mangy hide. Little ones, we’ve a battle ahead. Gang, you need to keep any further assassins at bay. Huari, you speak to the incoming Marshals. I’ll speak to our people and the Dragonkind.”

“We gave to hundreds …” Aranya’s voice trailed off. Shihooyi had claimed to see starlight in their flesh. A child’s truth once more. “Assassins?”

“During the night. Two Dragons, one Phase-Shifter and a Scorpiolute,” Gangurtharr said briskly. “I’ll oversee security – upon your word, Marshal.”

“Granted.”

“You will obey my instructions implicitly, Scrap.” Gang’s heavy talon tapped her shoulder with a staggering, no-nonsense air. “Understood?”

She wagged an eyebrow at him.

The huge Dragon snarled, with palpable relish, “Let’s clear the air about one matter, o former fodder of the Pits. Not every Dragon around here feels compelled to worship your scrawny, undersized haunches, alright?”

She laughed so hard, the scar on her stomach twinged. Oh, it was good to have the old Gang back.

* * * *

Leandrial traced a long curve on her mental map. “This is where the Balance-trail of Aranya’s Storm power leads us, down toward the Straits of Hordazar. Here, around these archipelagos, there’s a disturbance indicating great magic at work.”

“Got you, Aranya!” Zip said.

“I warn you, Thoralian will know this as well,” the Land Dragoness stated flatly.

Zuziana touched her belly. Leandrial said she had scented urzul, but it was either hidden so well or now absent … she must assume the worst. She could not tell anyone, not even her own husband, or the urzul would emerge to contaminate her babies. Thoralian’s vile plan had purpose and forethought.

Trapped.

“Then what are we waiting for?” asked Ri’arion.

Rapidly, they reformed their group and descended beneath the Cloudlands, angling for the minor Shuk-Shuhukii current, and the realms of the great Land Dragons East of the Straits of Hordazar. Shell-Clan. Welkin-Runners. Thousands of Land Dragons were already locked in battle in the Southern Kahilate, according to the intelligence Leandrial had gathered, and the Strait itself was blockaded by a division of Thoralian’s Lesser Dragons. They could use subterfuge again, or …

“Why don’t we raise our own army, Leandrial?” Zip said.

The monk said, “Why?”

Zip said, “Because there’s only one sure way to pick up Aranya and reach the Inscrutables quickly and reliably. Under the Cloudlands. Fast.”

“Why?” he repeated.

“Time’s against us, leopard-man,” said Zip, aware from his half-smile that Ri’arion was testing his wife – a hazardous pursuit, her Dragonesque smile informed him. “It’s clear these armies and the Thoralians are converging on the First Egg. We need to move in force. Leandrial said that most Land Dragons in Wyldaroon are not infested by Theadurial. But if we’re held up fighting Thoralian here, then we’ll be too depleted to face him further ahead. Leandrial, as an Elder, can issue the call.”

“Smuggle a Star Dragoness around the Island-World?” In the semidarkness of Leandrial’s mouth, Tari’s fangs gleamed a brilliant white. “And shift an entire Dragon army through the Straits beneath the Cloudlands, if this Marshal Huaricithe will join us? The idea has merit.”

“A brilliant strategic move,” said Leandrial, unexpectedly effusive. “Once we reach the middle layers, I will initiate longwave communication. Now is the time for Land Dragons to rise and fight!”

Then, they dived in search of the current, deep into an area of darkness below Wyldaroon. Soon the great Island-forests surrounded them, where myriad Islands floated below the Cloudlands, anchored by the great flat-bladed khaki forests through which the Shuk-Shuhukii ran as if guided along endless, winding hallways demarcated by nodules for Islands and sprawling nets of vegetation stretching in every dimension. Great Hammer-Runners and Serpent-Clan Dragons inhabited the forests in enormous numbers, appearing periodically to query the intruders; each time, Leandrial’s explanation flummoxed and enraged them, positively, as the Land Dragons responded to confirmation of the plight of their Eastern kin.

Querulous Dragonsong began to swell for tens and hundreds of leagues about the deep-swimming Dragon army, like the rippling effect of Islands dropped into the Cloudlands. Soon, the gloomy halls alongside and behind were rife with the snaking, luminous orange Serpent-Clan and the mighty Hammer-Runners, whose heads were broader and harder than Leandrial’s, shaped almost exactly like the business end of the Sylakian war-hammers Zuziana remembered all too well, with a mouth of legendary, crushing power running the full width of the hammer portion of their heads.

A full twenty-six hours the Land Dragons ran and swam and sang, until they approached the area where Leandrial had identified the magical disturbance at the fortress of Marshal Huaricithe, Aranya’s owner at best, and captor at worst.

“Go aloft and secure the Amethyst by any means,” was the sum total of Leandrial’s instructions for her companions. “I will rally the Land Dragons. If you need help, call.”

Call and Leandrial would raze the fortress. The Azure Dragoness smiled grimly at her monk. Aye.

Zuziana launched out of the Dragoness’ mouth with Ri’arion upon her back and Tari’s Dragonwing gathered in close array. From three leagues’ depth they winged upward, first passing through the dense, tangled forests that linked the floating Islands in great rafts of vegetation, avoiding or shielding from the numerous eel-like predators, any one of which could have snaffled her up like a bird supping on a tasty insect. Then, the expansiveness of the deeps surrounded them, a brilliant blue-in-blue ocean apparently without end. Still they soared, taking care for decompression and detouring around the flotillas of sub-intelligent, flora-like Land Dragons that floated peaceably in their native realm, harvesting the bioluminescent bacteria and microscopic life-forms with long, sweeping strokes of their tentacle-nets, and speaking to one another in a language of gorgeous flowers that opened, closed and waved along their lengths.

Leaving the flower-Dragons behind, they ascended directly, passing through the acidic wash of the opaque clouds and into the upper realm of Wyldaroon, shielding with every artifice known to Herimor Dragons. Tari did not know this area well, so it took them several hours to locate Marshal Huaricithe’s well-disguised fortress-complex amongst the Archipelagos floating between three and seven miles above the Cloudlands. Again, the characteristic tangled masses of Islands first roped together by ragions, then literally grown together, caused confusion as they attempted to navigate the extremely busy airspace without being detected.

So many Lesser Dragons on the move, Ri’arion wondered.

There’s been a major battle here, Tux’tarax added, pointing at blast-points on the side of a reddish sandstone Island. Fireballs. There, foliage destroyed by acid. Yet Leandrial gave an indication that Thoralian lurked further East –

Pressuring these Dragons to essay the trap waiting in the Straits of Hordazar, Ri’arion realised. Thoralian plays his strategy. Above the Cloudlands or below, it’s all the same to him.

Tari the Green purred, You even think like a Dragon. It’s uncanny.

Blame it on the gorgeous flying rug, he teased.

Testily, Zuziana said, It’s like before. Everyone wants a bite of Aranya. She rubbed her forepaws together. This smells of armies gathering. Why don’t we just fly in and introduce ourselves, Ri’arion?

Because this Navy-Blue, Huaricithe, might just conscript Aranya’s luckless friends, too?

Then I will.

Not without your Rider, Ri’arion growled.

Ooh, Mister Monk, is it you stirring my fires up there?

He chuckled softly. I’ll do more than stir your fires, you wretch, if you plan to leave me behind again.

Tari said, Alright, soul-bound lovers, let’s touch wingtips with this delegation.

And with that, the Green Shapeshifter unshielded and winged off between the Islands, calling out a friendly greeting.

Shortly, their relatively small Dragonwing tucked in behind the larger and much grander train of Marshal Guragiirr, a Yellow male of suitably impressive dimensions and bearing. They weaved between Islands overrun by a pernicious creeping vine with poisonous lavender flowers, apparently toxic even to Dragons, before crossing an open space patrolled by more Lesser Dragons than Zuziana had ever seen gathered in one place at one time. The level of scrutiny increased, but so did their surprise. Everyone seemed to know about Aranya the Assassin. Everyone expected to find this monumental champion at Huaricithe’s fortress; others whispered about the rumoured advent of a Star Dragoness, talking about her in whispers, with the greatest reverence. Only she could destroy Thoralian, they said.

Shortly, they arrived at a tangled Archipelago more battered than most, finding Huaricithe’s fortress firmly on a war footing. After a further two hours of questions and barriers and guards and suspicion later, Zuziana the Azure was a pregnant, vastly annoyed and therefore decidedly dangerous Dragoness.

“I’m her best friend, from Remoy. That’s North of the Rift,” she growled at the huge bruiser confronting her, Gangurtharr by name.

“I’m a purple-headed slug passing as an S’gulzzi, robed in gossamer and starlight,” he agreed.

“If you’d just mention my name –”

“For the freaking twentieth time, Azure, the answer is ‘no’,” growled Gang. “I don’t care for pretty, whirling fire-eyes. I don’t care if your shell-uncle owns the suns. You’re only the sixty-first creature to request an audience with Her Worshipful Highness today, not counting the assassins who have a different type of audience in mind. No means no. And you can tell your bald-headed brolga-brain over there to stop trying to probe my mind.”

Ri’arion folded his arms stiffly. “We’ll just call Aranya.”

Gangurtharr flexed his oddly burgundy-tinged scales, suddenly transformed from a chunky middle-aged beast into a dangerous, muscled predator. Zuziana realised how very strong he likely was, and shelved her ideas of trying to trick him or nip past his forbidding bulk. He said, “Maybe I’ll just whistle down a moon. Aranya is shielded by ten Blue Dragons. And, she needs her sleep.”

“You haven’t fallen in love with her, have you?” Ri’arion asked conversationally.

Gang’s belly-fires ticked upward several notches. “No.”

“Or fallen under the spell of her power?”

“Listen closely, puny man,” snarled the Dragon, “before I sharpen my fangs on –”

Zip interjected, “I’m pregnant, Gangurtharr. Do I need to tell you how cantankerous a pregnant Dragoness can be?”

His gap-toothed grin widened. “Amply proven.”

GRRRAAAARRGGH!!

* * * *

Aranya swam up from a very peculiar dream of her Dragoness hugging Zuziana, wondering if she had heard her best friend speaking. Surely not. Impossible, or not impossible if she simply missed her so sorely, she was starting to imagine the dulcet tones of the oversized blue wasp?

Gang’s argumentative tones rumbled through the arboretum which had been given over to her as the only sleeping-space large enough for her to be entirely surrounded by Dragons, with enough space around her personal shield-troop for the Blues to deal with nasty specimens of Herimor life that specialised in assassination, such as the deadly poisonous, projectile-firing Scorpiolute that could climb sheer walls with its twelve insectoid legs, flatten its body into a one-inch gap, run faster than a furious Dragon and which possessed magical camouflage capabilities to boot. If that was not enough, she had just endured a spectacularly dull lecture by the Marshal’s scholars on expert Dragon-saboteurs and assassins, vipers, intelligent assassin spiders, poisons, toxic birds and flesh-mutilating insects, which framed their brief introduction to the more charming methods of murder, not to mention thousands of species of poisonous plants. On top of this toxic menagerie came sixteen major classes of Shapeshifters that specialised in the elimination of minor complications such as roving Star Dragons.

As if Thoralian did not present her complications enough for one lifetime!

Herimor was lethal.

Aranya wandered over to the arboretum’s self-contained waterfall, powered by steam, apparently, and scrubbed her face vigorously. Alright, back to –

GRRRAAAARRGGH!!

The wide crysglass panels vaulting above her head vibrated in their casements. Aranya whirled with a pained wheeze. That bellow! She’d know the Princess of Remoy’s soothing roar anywhere! She ran. How she ran, dodging beneath the trees and skimming over the flagstones! There, in the crack of light beneath Gang’s substantial belly, she spied a trim set of sky-blue paws! Aranya screamed, Zuziana!

Whang! The Immadian slammed face-first into the Blues’ shield and rebounded, crash-landing flat on her back.

“Islands’ sakes!” She tasted blood. “Gang – Zuziana! Let me out. Let her in!”

Mercy! Gangurtharr poked his muzzle through the doorway, goggling at her unravelled state. Aranya’s fingers returned from her forehead wet with blood. Great. Now she’d split another lesion, but what did she care? For Gang’s eyes bulged comically as the pointy skull-spikes of a certain Azure Dragoness inadvertently socked him firmly in the family treasures. Zip wriggled beneath his belly, causing Gang to thump his head on the wide lintel. His bellow was an ode to bruised machismo.

As the Blues around the arboretum responded, the Immadian escaped the shield and crashed to her knees, scramble-crawling beneath Gang’s chunky neck, throwing herself upon whatever she could reach of Zuziana, sobbing, exclaiming and howling the overflow of her riotous heart. Aranya found herself squeezed on top of the Azure Dragoness’ muzzle, hugging her with both arms and legs as she stared right into her friend’s effervescent, bubbling eyes. Dragon joy in rainbow colours! Human laughter! Love! A paw squeezed through to cup Aranya’s head and back tenderly, stroking her cheek as if Zip beheld her Immadian friend for the very first time. They chuckled in one accord.

Zip gasped, “Petal, it is you …”

“Are you well, petal?” Aranya asked at the same time.

“Actually, I’m quite nauseous,” the Remoyan blurted out. “But fine. Mostly in the mornings –”

To her embarrassment, Aranya shrieked again. Dragoness-Aranya was rolling her fire-eyes, deep inside, but her Human playfully swatted her nose. Alright, I’m making a scene, Dragonsoul. Live with it.

You’re precious, petal, laughed her Dragoness.

“You are –”

“Pregnant,” Zip confirmed.

“Oh, Zip-Zip, that’s beyond awesome! Best news in all of Herimor! Best this century! How’s Ri’arion? Did he faint again?”

“The freaking hells he did!” the monk shouted from behind Gang’s tail.

“He fainted,” Zip confirmed. Yet there were shadows in the Azure’s eyes. Aranya’s mouth compressed into a pensive line as she stopped gushing and started looking. Zip protested, “I’m fine, honestly. I just toss my breakfast around at random intervals and sleep a lot.”

“Triplets?”

“Do Dragons have babies – eggs, I mean – some other way?”

“I guess not,” replied the Immadian Princess, wondering for a fleeting second about her own heritage. “I kind of missed you – hope you noticed.”

“The nose-hug and the windroc-screeching were somewhat telling,” Zip suggested slyly. “So, you need to tell me – what do Star Dragonesses do for fun in orbit, apart from just shining prettily?”

“Where’s Ardan? He’s here too, right? And Sapphire? Did you find my precious –”

Zuziana’s eye-fires darkened. “I’m sorry, Aranya.”

“No! Oh, no, Sapphire …”

Gang’s neck curved at a surprisingly acute angle to enclose the two Shapeshifter Dragonesses in the space between his neck and chest. He snorted gently, “I’ll gladly hand this one over to you, Azure. She’s trouble.”

“Oh she is, is she?” Zip’s eyes gleamed brightly.

“Although, my every Dragon-sense tingles with a sense that you might just be more mischief than your Star Dragon friend, Zuziana, which is Dragon-tonnage-significant.”

Aranya said, “You’re right about that too, Gang.”

Even Zuziana’s light-hearted giggling and a decidedly heated Dragon kiss that swamped the entire side of Aranya’s head, as they fell into their old, snarky ways, failed to convince. Aranya decided to watch her friend closely. And Ardan? Where in the Island-World could he be? She still could not sense his presence, but perhaps that was due to her wild, misbehaving magic. If Leandrial lurked below, then she would ask the venerable Land Dragoness for assistance in pinpointing Ardan’s location.

Gangurtharr added, almost mournfully, “Accordingly, my prescient white-fires conclude that Thoralian’s days number few indeed. Come, Dragonesses. We must incite these Herimor Dragons to war. Did you bring reinforcements?”

Zip batted his neck with a kittenish paw. “A few, noble Dragon. Some paltry eight thousand Land Dragons gather beneath your Island. And one unstoppable monk.”

“All we’re missing, then, is the dragonets,” drawled Ri’arion. “And now’s when I say, noble Dragon, get your filthy mud-grubbers off my gorgeous wife!”

Flexing his power, he levitated Gang into the lintel again. Thump!

The Grey-Green Dragon’s displeasure struck an ear-splitting note of thunder.

Chapter 29: Straight through the Straits

Ardan’s awakening was that of a Dragon with a fractured skull. A headache worthy of Kylara’s scimitar-blow sawed at his throbbing brain, making blinding lights explode behind his eyelids. Still, he forced his eyes open. His Human hand scratched his nose. Still no Dragon.

“Fainting firiliflower,” Bane greeted him.

“Uh … water?”

Lurax sniffled, “You were unconscious for two days.”

“What?”

Ardan tried to sit up, which was easily the worst idea in his recent past. Pain washed over him with the glee of Marshal Tixi applying herself to breaking a Shapeshifter. He slumped back in his … hammock? What, with purple dancing rajals thrown on top? And a troupe of giggling acrobatic dragonets, for he lay in a painted cave, decorated in blocky blue and white patterns crazy enough to trigger his gag reflex. A perfectly circular metal door looked bolted and shut against Dragons. There were no windows. Only him, the two boys and Sapphire – thank the heavens – resting on heaps of moon-shaped blue cushions.

He must be having a peculiar turn.

“Marshal?” he croaked.

Lurax blenched. Bane’s voice cracked as he said, “Thoralian ate her … hearts.”

He stared blankly at them. “I …”

He remembered only fragments after that Island-smashing impact – talons snatching Bane and Lurax out of harm’s way as Islands collided and ground together in a five-way smash … Imagatharr’s fatal crash-landing, and most clearly, the Yellow-White despot, barely a quarter of a mile distant, spearing his remarkably elongated talons into the Red Shapeshifter’s chest and wrenching forth the still-living, beating heart … champing down …

He gagged and heaved, but managed to withhold.

Bane mopped his forehead with a cool cloth. “Easy, warrior. We are safe, if captive, to these Inscrutable people. They wanted you.”

“Me – what? Why?”

The boys, and Sapphire, shook their heads. The dragonet touched her paw to his forehead. At once, the pain seemed to abate.

He said, Sapphire?

Copy clever Ari, said the dragonet.

Why, you little blue scallywag! Ardan said feelingly. Of course, you’re a Blue. You clever, wonderful … friend! You can just copy Aranya like that?

I tell big-mind Dragon save my Ardan, the dragonet added proudly, sending him a mental image.

At the sight of that metal-armoured behemoth sporting fortified emplacements upon his back and shoulders manned by up to ten men apiece, and furnished with what appeared to be the muzzles of further Dragons peeking out of slits and portholes built for the purpose, Ardan could only gasp, That’s a Dragon?

Bigger than any Dragonship he had ever seen! Freaking volcanoes, what was this place?

“Tell us,” Bane and Lurax begged. “What did she say?”

He scratched her spine-spikes cheerfully. “Boys, this dragonet just saved our hides. She called in the Inscrutable Dragons – roaring rajals! Are they flying armouries, or what?”

“Never seen nothing like it!” Bane said feelingly.

“They’ve got different types – a flying fortress, a clever-mind type, these little swarming Dragon-things and Dragon emplacements on their battlements,” Lurax prattled like an excitable parakeet. “Some of them have, strike my soul, twenty wings!”

“And burrowing Dragons,” added Bane.

“And these Dragons that are so flexible, they link together to form a single bigger Dragon!”

“They live on Dragons!”

“What?” Ardan scratched inside his left ear as if mining for a few sensible thoughts.

Now, he remembered that the breakage of the first Island-spanning shield had led to one entire side of the heptagon folding away and disappearing beneath the Cloudlands, only for a second pentagonal Island-formation to be revealed in the centre … and a second shield. What a shield! It had even stymied Thoralian as he winged after Ardan, bellowing his possessive rage. He had wanted the Shadow Dragon. They had escaped. But what an awful, fitting fate for Marshal Tixi, to see her second heart eaten before her still-living eyes! Gaah, he could not wish that fate on any Dragon, not even one so evil. Vile beyond belief!

Suddenly, as if unleashed from a fog, his mind began to make connections. What were the Inscrutable Islands protecting, if not the First Egg? Were they keeping the Thoralians out, or the S’gulzzi in? Could it be that these fabled Dragonkind might be protecting the Island-World from the depredations of the S’gulzzi creatures who possessed all the power of a First Egg of the Ancient Dragons? He shook his head in amazement. He would never have thought it, but small threads began to twine together and make sense. Leandrial’s description of the Theadurial and how they had historically been slaves to the fire-spirits of the S’gulzzi. They had no love for their old masters. The beastly, elongated Yellow-White’s desperation to retrieve the First Egg, and his rousing of all the infested Land Dragons to purse his prize. Then, how could the S’gulzzi, those ravening, core-dwelling spirits, not have escaped with the First Egg?

Because there was something special about this place. Something that prevented them. A reason why this most peculiar Island-Cluster had settled here!

Wow!

These Islands dated from the time of the Dragonfriend, six hundred years before. The First Egg had returned to Herimor just one hundred and fifty years before. That discrepancy baffled him. He had to wonder … the approach of magic arrested his thoughts.

A woman shimmered through the metal door as though the metal were merely a gossamer curtain, saying, “Because we stole the First Egg to stop the war between the Land Dragons, Shapeshifter Ardan.”

Blue-in-blue eyes, devoid of distinction between the iris and the sclera, fixed upon him with extraordinary clarity. The woman had a face like a golden statue and beautiful white hair that fell to her waist. Her thick, sweeping blue robes were clasped by a high, stiff collar at her throat, and although she wore no insignia, Ardan knew her for a high-ranking official of these people.

“We have trespassed sufficiently upon your thoughts to know you are no friend of Marshal Thoralian’s, Ardan,” added the woman, in ringing, exotic tones. “For this act we make no apology. We are at war. Necessities must be such.”

He made to rise, but she halted his action with a small, definite frown.

“I am Dhazziala, First Hand of my people. Among my ancestors, I proudly name Hualiama Dragonfriend, the Star Dragoness, and Grandion the Tourmaline. Who are you?”

“Ardan of Naphtha Cluster, Dragon of Shadow,” he said, with growing excitement and astonishment. This idiosyncratic woman and Aranya must be related! “And if there is war to be waged against Marshal Thoralian, then I beg you to let me and my Apprentice Dragon Riders ride with you. Yet I must ask, why is the Egg not in your … paws?”

“Aye, Shapeshifter.” Her depthless eyes sparked. Dhazziala countered, “Why is your Aranya not with you?”

“That’s a story.” He inclined his head graciously. “In my culture, it is polite to allow ladies to speak first. After all, the wise-women of our tribes are responsible for preserving and extending the lore.”

“You are oath-bound, are you not?”

Ardan produced a fine example of the challenging glare.

Dhazziala laughed musically. “Oh, we discovered that link quite by accident. It’s one of the very few types of magic which is able to penetrate our shield; by that, and Thoralian’s maddened pursuit, we knew you for a Dragon of note. By our calculations from this morning, your Star Dragoness is travelling rapidly from mid-Wyldaroon through the Straits of Hordazar. She’s about to engage in battle.”

Alive! Coming for … well, not for him. She had made that as clear as crysglass. His smile had to be foolishness personified. Thinning his lips, Ardan said, “Aranya is not mine.”

The blue eyes turned effervescent, the magic practically leaping out at him. “Oh? It is said that the consequences of denying the oath-magic are dire beyond comprehension – this is a complication.” Ardan, listening closely, began to hear echoes within echoes as the woman conferred at the speed of thought with others. “Very well. In overview: The traitor Shurgal’s return with the First Egg sparked war between the Land Dragons. Great were the losses and the Clans have been weakened to this day. We posit this is the reason the Thoralian-triplicate was able to ally with the Theadurial –”

“Besides that they share knowledge of urzul?” Ardan put in.

The woman swore inadvertently, then apologised. “To have this confirmed! Ardan! You must brief my Council forthwith.”

OPEN! she commanded. The door dissolved into nothingness.

Ardan found himself staring into an egg-shaped chamber furnished with seven rows of curved benches, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with blue-robed, white-haired men and women. They looked so freakishly similar, his nape crawled.

Then it struck him like a Dragon’s icy claw speared through his gut. All the peculiar legends of Thoralian he had read in the Marshal’s library. This woman had just called him the Thoralian-triplicate …

Dhazziala nodded, confirming his suspicions. Three! Shell-brothers? Or something entirely more sinister? It made a twisted sort of logic, an explanation for his legend and confirmation of his amplified mental power; Ardan had just seen one Thoralian near the horizon, and then another arrived in ambush, thirty leagues apart. He had thought his memories played him false. Clearly, no. Where was the third? The First Hand turned already into a graceful genuflection, sweeping her right hand from her heart outward and behind her. The Council rose, and simultaneously, made exactly the same gesture at the same tempo.

“We are the Seventy-Seven,” they said.

Ardan steadied Lurax with a firm hand upon his shoulder. He said, “We greet the Seventy-Seven and the … uh, First Hand. I am Ardan, as you know, and these are my apprentice Dragon Riders, Bane and Lurax.” He almost chuckled at how Lurax straightened and Bane puffed out his chest. “This mighty dragonet is Sapphire, favoured companion of Aranya, the Star Dragoness, who has travelled from North of the Rift-Storm with the avowed intent of defeating Thoralian’s bid for supremacy and returning the First Egg to its ancestral home at Fra’anior Cluster.”

Ardan could no better have deposited an explosive fireball in their midst. The previously stony-faced Councillors descended into a shouting, gesticulating mess. Well-spoken, Western Isles warrior, he congratulated himself.

SILENCE, said Dhazziala, and gained exactly what she demanded. “Picking up my tale – so heavy was the fighting that the First Egg fell to the floor of the world beside the roots of our Islands. It was captured by the S’gulzzi – we spit upon their ancestors!”

“We spit!” chorused the Council.

Ardan blinked. Roaring rajals! A peculiar bunch, this, but definitely on the right side of this war.

“It is said, the First Egg falls where it wills,” continued the First Hand, in a sing-song tone that suggested she had told this legend many times. “The Egg fell into the only known deposit of meriatonium in all Herimor, the fabled mines of Dramagon himself, called Suald-dak-Doon, or the Pit of Despair. We surrounded the Egg with our Air-Breathers, the mightiest of whom is called Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, constructed our shields, and discovered – stalemate.” Her voice turned bitter. “We could not reach the Egg, for meriatonium is anathema to magic. Impenetrable. As the Egg lay at twelve leagues’ depth, no Land Dragon could reach it from above. The S’gulzzi penetrated the cracks in the Island-World’s crust to reach that fabled treasure, but they lacked the physical substance to move the Egg or the knowledge to manipulate its power – until recently.”

“The Air-Breathers know the dark past of our people. They know whence we came, and why we tarried – our long-unconsummated purpose clarified the moment the First Egg fell into enemy paws. Four hundred and fifty years, and one hundred and fifty farther, we have awaited the Star Dragoness. Only she can illuminate those unimaginable depths and retrieve the Egg.”

Recently? chirruped Sapphire.

“Aye, my Dragon-kin.” The First Hand smiled brightly at the dragonet. “Two decades ago, the Egg began to move. Something is pushing it to the surface – despite our ultimate protections, and with a power that tips mountains. The Marshal Thoralians know this. His power has already breached our first layer of defence – we spit upon his ancestors!”

“We spit!” the Council shouted in unison.

Ardan scratched his chin, trying not to think of the incongruity of conducting this interview while ensconced in a hammock. These were Aranya’s kin? He rather suspected these were the type of relatives one preferred not to invite to family events. “We heard that your Islands have been located here for six centuries. If that’s the case …”

Dhazziala bobbed her head. “We are the Peoples’ Council of the Lost Isles, representing Humans, Shapeshifters and Dragonkind.”

No Dragons were visible, but that clearly meant nothing, judging by the amount of mental chatter in the aether. “But that’s – they were …” Ardan protested, pointing upward and to his right, locating the Lost Isles far above the Kingdom Kaolili in the far North-Eastern corner of the Island-World.

“One and the same. We relocated across the Rift and settled here,” said Dhazziala, making this implausible migration sound trivial.

“Well, welcome to the ‘not so lost after all’ Islands,” Ardan quipped, earning himself not a single smile in the chamber. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to hear all about the Star Dragoness and urzul, now?”

Seventy-Seven Councillors leaned forward in perfect concert and said, “Forthwith.”

Behind them Ardan sensed echoes within echoes of draconic minds, a vast congregation of mighty minds. What an ally to have discovered!

One thing was for certain. He must elide key details about how he and Aranya had met. Then, he remembered how easily Dhazziala had plumbed his mind. He stood in a chamber full of freakish mind-readers who lived atop a Clan of Air-Breathers, the largest Land Dragons of all, and they commanded the most mysterious, feared powers of any in the Island-World, according to the scroll-lore.

Ardan broke out in a cold sweat.

* * * *

On the wings of Aranya’s under-Cloudlands Storm blast, Leandrial’s enormous force churned toward a Land Dragon blockade beneath the Straits of Hordazar. They knew they were placing themselves between the jaws of a trap. One jaw swept from behind, the other undoubtedly waited for them beyond the Straits, somewhere between the Vassal States and the Southern Kahilate.

Their intent was to punch a neat hole in that jaw and go swim down the gullet of Thoralian’s plan.

At least, that was Zip’s charmingly graphic interpretation of Leandrial’s rather more elegantly presented strategy.

Aranya fiddled with the lumps on her neck, very aware that she had orders to rest and therefore, absolutely could not. The evening before last, there had been a terrible upset in the Balance. Leandrial had cried out about Land Dragons dying. All of her kin had looked shaken since, and there was something terrifying about creatures so powerful looking wobbly at the knees. Then, her dreams had morphed into a three-way battle between Fra’anior, Hualiama and Izariela, until she woke feeling as if a full-scale war had been waged inside her skull. She felt awful. Fraught. Struggling. Unprepared and fragile, when she should be in the fighting prime of her life to face Thoralian.

Still, she did not feel half as awful as the blockade was about to feel.

Leandrial had managed to co-ordinate eight thousand six hundred and forty-four Land Dragons into a dense fighting wedge, led by fifty huge Welkin-Runners bearing ready squads of Blast-Runners in their neck-ruffs. They had one simple job – demolish the enemy lines and keep blasting until everyone passed the blockade. Further back came many other types of Runners and then the less mobile types of Land Dragons such as Living Springs, Stellates and Cognates. Leandrial had mentioned a number of other Clans who lived too far afield, or were physically unable or openly unwilling to travel to war. Those Land Dragons who would not endanger travellers with steam-breath, fire, acid or vocal-Harmonic attacks, carried the Lesser Dragons, Shapeshifters and Humans, representing Marshal Huaricithe’s entire operation plus all of the additional Dragons supplied by the allied Marshals, in their mouths. In total, these forces numbered close to eleven thousand souls. Not all would be carried into battle.

Swept along by Aranya’s unending personal storm, the swarm of Land Dragons darkened the golden realms through which they swam, the middle layer here having been overrun with a type of microscopic fungal spore that generated a hazy golden glow – better than the dense, giant forests below and the prickly, vine-like mesh of blue-fleshed plants making the upper layer impassable even to Land Dragons.

I know you’re awake, little one, Leandrial said without rancour, opening her mind. Focus.

The view ahead of her suddenly leaped into sharp relief in the unfamiliar, greyscale tones of Leandrial’s Harmonic vision. The world was a textured layer two miles above and the jagged sea of plant-tips below. The Straits measured a ‘mere’ forty-two miles wide, which was apparently quarters close enough to make Land Dragons feel cramped. As Leandrial’s easy writhing motion shifted her vision to port and starboard, Aranya was treated to the sight of their twenty mile wide, five mile tall advance bearing down on a close-packed wall of Gather-Runners, a type of Land Dragon that dwelled and travelled in swarm-colonies thousands of individuals strong. They were omnivores notorious for descending upon an area, stripping it of all life and moving on abruptly, especially during their triennial mating season.

Leandrial and most of her allies regarded them as vermin.

Aranya shivered delicately as the Land Dragons, en masse, vocalised their battle-challenges in a rolling peal of thunder. Awesome power! As she shivered, a vision snatched her away.

Humansoul and Dragonsoul stood atop their mountain, hand in paw, watching the advent of a storm. Vast battlements of cloud spread from horizon to horizon, rolling toward their mountain with majestic, unstoppable unconcern.

This will be a mighty tempest, said her Dragoness. She spoke not of the now, but of the near future.

The Human girl responded, We will stand together, my soul’s song. Strands of pink and mauve, white and gold, raven-dark and shimmering blue, wound together about her wrist and the paw that engulfed her hand. We are strongest together, undivided and indivisible, our soul in plurality forged adamantine. When you fly, I will be with you. When you sing, I shall be your song. When you triumph, my hand shall hold thy crown.

For the longest time, Dragoness-Aranya could find no words to respond to Humansoul’s poetic outpouring of her heart. Then, she said in a breathless rush, Thou art the quintessential totality of my white-fires. We are strongest when you burn brightest, o my soul, and without thee, one fire-soul would ever live in Imbalance.

Oddly, she understood herself perfectly. She was just not sure anyone else would.

Aranya blinked as light flared brighter than the twin suns blazing in all of their brilliance, below the Cloudlands. A barrage of every Harmonic light-producing and raucous, shockwave-producing Land Dragon’s fury battered the opposing forces.

GRRAARRGH! The Land Dragons shook the atmosphere. Aranya smelled smoke and the sharp tang of ozone. Now came the staccato KRACK! KRACK! of the Blast-Runners opening fire upon pockets of the enemy from close range. Charred bodies spiralled and drifted apart in the viscid air, creating fanciful swirling patterns upon the black smoke; next came a rainfall of golden Dragon blood. Leandrial’s fast-moving force churned the remnants like a rancid soup, the Dragons behind almost blinded by the ghastly mixture, but sloughing it aside courtesy of their shield-deployment. Again and again, eye-cannons blasted and throats reverberated. Smaller battles tore off the edges of the advance as agile, pre-prepared forces whirled away to engage the enemy and relieve any beleaguered Land Dragons. Nevertheless, the result was hardly bloodless. Hundreds fell, snarled paw and limb with the enemy. Ri’arion lashed out with amplified psychic attacks bolstered by the linked Clans of Living Springs and ordinarily peaceable Cognates, disabling or knocking out enemy Dragons by the dozen.

It seemed to Aranya that she dwelled in a state of dislocation between present reality and the voice of Izariela, instructing her during that lonely vigil beneath the stars. Magic drifted around her in beautiful, rippling veils, belying the destruction, as though she flew through a world of Helyon silk hangings linked by delicate-appearing yet phenomenally strong gossamer threads. These were metaphysical expressions of existence, the communicative intricacy of magic impacting the physical world, depending on it, modifying it. Watching this and heeding the voice of Izariela speaking in her memory, Aranya thrilled to an emerging sense of comprehension even as the threads of magic coalesced, exploded, reformed and coursed throughout the fabric of her Island-World, always superimposed upon the battle without.

After an inordinately long-seeming half hour, the Land Dragons broke the enemy lines.

“Too easy,” muttered Zip.

Startled out of her reverie, Aranya muttered, “That was easy?”

Dense squads of Land Dragons peeled off Leandrial’s wedge with the kind of military efficiency King Beran would have praised. They ‘cleaned up’, freeing comrades and dealing with stray enemy Land Dragons.

Aranya’s fists clenched as strange magical calls came to her cognizance – oily squeals and a chittering like busy insects on a Fra’aniorian evening, only this was no warm and peaceable sound, but an offense to the ear and a devastating assault to her magic. Dismayed, she clutched at her guttering white-fires. Mercy! What? Oh, urzul, the power by which –

– these parasites subdue and command our kith and kin, Leandrial finished her thought for her. Aye, little one.

Yet even Leandrial fell silent as Aranya clutched the frayed fabric of her magic, battering away the corrosive urzul, reforming her weave even as she tried to understand the nature, the illogic, of what she had heard. ‘Anti-Dragonsong,’ her mother had called it, and, ‘The voice of chaos.’ Izariela’s teachings had gone on to explain that the dichotomy of order and chaos was merely one lens through which to view this phenomenon, that one being’s order might represent another’s chaos, and vice versa. What was implied was neither a lack of intelligence, nor purpose, nor existence. It was, inadequate as these comparisons seemed to Aranya now, another way of being. Another manifestation of the infinite complexity and malleability of life itself. Different. Other. Like moonlight lost in abyssal darkness.

This was a magic by which the Chameleon Shapeshifters had marked her even in Immadia itself and then tracked her across the Isles, like magical hounds upon the scent. This was what the dream of Thoralian had done to Zip, but what she did not understand, was the purpose guiding that action. Why Zuziana? Why her friend, when he could more easily target Aranya herself – she, who was already a broken vessel?

As the healing communal Dragonsong of the Land Dragons rose around her, the Immadian considered her best friend. O, precious Remoy …

* * * *

The Azure Dragoness squirmed beneath the power of Aranya’s lambent amethyst gaze. Did she not realise her strength? The penetrating quality of her magic? She thought upon Thoralian’s visit, the Remoyan Princess knew. But even Aranya could not read minds – could she? Could she smell terror, even in her Human manifestation?

Poor little ones, she thought dejectedly, touching her stomach.

Her babes seemed to quiver as community-constructive-consecration Dragonsong rose around them in myriad strains, each Clan-type of Land Dragon having their individual interpretation of the core ideas. The Hammer-Runners produced a low, booming chant, the Serpent-Clan expressed themselves with sibilant, winding and intertwining melodies, while the Welkin-Runners were symphonic, like orchestras of stringed instruments and trumpets and horns. Healing. Re-Balancing before the battle to come, she thought.

Aranya smiled unexpectedly. With three little dragonets inside, Zip, you’ll soon have a decent bump to balance your meals upon. The babes are well. Do not fear.

Zip bit her lip surreptitiously. Such a fear would be far more palatable. She knew where her friend’s concern lay – squarely with others, rarely for herself alone. How had she ever mistaken the Northerner’s manner for arrogance and selfishness? Aranya was selfless and devoted to a fault, and that would be her undoing …

Immediately, shame flushed her Dragon-hearts. No!

The Dragoness rose to embrace her Human friend, sitting cross-legged upon Leandrial’s tongue. “What’s troubling you, petal?”

Aranya laughed. “Written on my forehead, is it?”

“Aye. Spit, Immadia.”

“Spit? Thou uncouth Remoyan …” Her friend laughed hollowly. “Alright. All these thoughts buzzing in my head – I’m wondering if Yolathion’s fate was merely to be a pawn. Who gave him the burden of releasing my Shapeshifter Dragoness? And I remembered a little of my mother’s teachings of Star Dragon lore from my time aloft. I need to make sense of the nature of urzul and Dragonsong and draconic fire-life and work out a way to heal all Land Dragons of the Theadurial scourge, snaffle up the First Egg in my right paw and deal permanently with Thoralian. As if that weren’t enough, I’ve learned that Star Dragons have limited power to change the Balance; just one pair of paws where ten thousand could not suffice. I fear my incapacity, ignorance and – to be frank – the Aranya that charges in, gaily singing her Dragonsong, in the hope that fate will –”

Zip cut in, “Raise you upon amethyst wings and land you upon a lecherous Dragon Rider’s doorstep, in a suitably nude state?”

Of course, the pale Immadian blushed rosily. “Indeed. Dear Nak thought the twin suns had just alighted in his backyard. Well, crash-landed. But that’s between us friends.”

“Oh, Immadia, those aren’t suns,” Zip deadpanned, pretending to leer at her friend’s chest. “Much more pleasing than the suns, declareth the Nak!”

Aranya’s hands flew up instinctively, even though she was fully clothed. “Zuziana of Remoy!”

“Never were suns so curvaceous, nor so pleasing …”

“Stop!” Aranya punched her friend half-heartedly, knowing her fist could never stagger even a fledgling Azure. She fanned her face vigorously.

“I’ll wager Ardan waxed poetic upon the subject?” said Zip, cracking open a grin full of daggers.

“Go ram your blue snout into a handy thorn-bush.”

“His poor face when he met my family – who were being a tad more Remoyan than even I expected!” she chortled. “Do you feel him now, petal?”

“Do I – oh,” Aranya spluttered, before gamely catching up with another of Zip’s ever-agile conversational switches. “I do, I think. He’s very faint, as if there’s some interference between us. You know, like fate, interrupted destiny, Fra’anior’s paw – something inconsequential. Or, something’s happened to him. I’ve been trying to trace the oath-magic with this technique my mother was teaching me, but not very successfully, I’m afraid.”

Zip prodded Aranya with her sheathed fore-talon. “You weren’t just taking a few weeks’ snooze up there?”

“No.” Aranya prodded the Azure right back. “You know, when you aren’t being crude, you’re actually a rather sweet Princess-lizard.”

With enormous dignity, Zip upended her friend and sat on her.

When she had finished turning purple and complaining, Aranya described her sojourn with Izariela learning Star Dragon lore. Mystical and practical by turns, her account fascinated the Remoyan, particularly Aranya’s Wisp-assisted landing and her time in the Gladiator Pits. For her part, Zuziana teased the Immadian about matchmaking with Gang and Huaricithe, before relating her adventures as she tried to track down her friends. Then, with Leandrial’s assistance, she recounted in detail Marshal Tari and Leandrial’s revelations about Thoralian’s possible daimonic nature being the reason for his designs upon the First Egg.

Aranya became very pale, and very grim indeed, after that.

Chapter 30: To War, Dragons!

DHazziala wasted no single minute. Even during his briefing of the Council, Healer-Dragons and Enchanters surrounded Ardan to check him over and attend to his and the boys’ various bruises, strains, sprains and flesh-wounds. After Imagitharr’s crash-landing, his skin more than ever resembled a map of Naphtha Cluster after the Sylakian genocide – though he flinched inwardly at this thought. May he never understate the downfall of his people!

He had to stop the Dragons from trying to treat his tribal scarification marks, however. The Healers shook their muzzles reproachfully as he explained their origin, but waxed palpably hotter in the belly-fires when he described a few of his other scars, gained in battle against Sylakia.

Interrupting Ardan’s narrative briefly, Dhazziala said, “The oath-magic now indicates a point one hundred and thirty leagues closer to our Islands. Are we in accord, Shadow Dragon?”

“An alliance? I’m agreeable, but I have questions,” he said.

Perhaps a hundred minds – those he could detect, anyhow, linked in with the First Hand’s mind – examined every nuance of his response via more vectors than he could ever hope to understand. The Council chorused, “We concur!”

At least they weren’t spitting, this time. Ardan folded his arms, unreasonably annoyed at suddenly feeling so hale, his feet itched to dance a Remoyan jig. “So, I heard you drink Dragon blood to gain magical power?” he said conversationally.

“No more! We spit upon that memory!” roared the Council, and all the Dragons, with one voice.

Ardan rubbed his ears. “Alright. No need to shout. And how is it that the legendary Dragon-Haters are now firm friends with the Dragonkind?”

“We spit –”

SILENCE! said Dhazziala. Turning the blue pools of her gaze upon Ardan, she said evenly, “You are the first visitors to grace these Islands in six hundred years. For your dragonet’s sake alone, we made this concession.”

“Would you deny a Star Dragoness?” he challenged.

No nuance for this one, said a new voice, vast and weighty with age. I am Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron. Incline your fires to mine, o voice-like-a-talon.

Ardan almost smiled as the vast draconic presence couched his manner as a dry joke, but he did not wish to appear disrespectful. He said, formally, The most sulphurous greetings of the Mighty Onyx be upon thee and thy noble kin, Yiisuriel. Let thy wisdom brighten our fires.

He surprised himself at this reference from the Ballad of Saggaz Thunderdoom, an ancient addition to the formal greeting. Yiisuriel responded with a mental bugle of delight, like a whole orchestra of instruments sounding at once. Briefly there was glory, and Dragonsong, and white-fires, and then the sound ceased.

Yiisuriel said, Words flow fluently from your tongue, little one. It is well your heart shines true. Hearing reproof, Ardan bowed mentally. Much may be spoken of the ancient histories of those once called Dramagon’s Elect, but wartime affords us little leisure. Dhazziala is indeed the seventh-generation descendant of Azziala, the last Empress of the Lost Isles. Azziala was also the last of the Haters.

When he mentally deferred to Dhazziala, she added, To answer your misgivings, Shadow Dragon, we reformed our ways. Having lurked many a decade in Dramagon the Red’s shadow, how fortunate we were to behold the Dragonfriend’s light, and in that light, did we see behold the enormity of our transgression and the dark-fires paths of minds meant for nobility, but cast down in shame. Noble Affurion it was who led us hence, may his fires burn eternal!

“May he burn!” roared the Councillors. Ardan had the impression that their numbers were swelling by the moment, although most remained unseen or undetected.

Yiisuriel’s ponderous tones took up the story. I knew the Dragonfriend.

The Council parroted, “She knew the Dragonfriend!”

Twice born was she!

“The power of Humansoul and Dragonsoul enfleshed, of one egg, of one womb, was she.”

One soul was she!

“She gave of her soul-fires for our ennobling!”

All hail the Dragonfriend!

“All hail the mother of our fires!”

Well, Ardan did not know if Aranya’s Aunt would have appreciated outright veneration, but he did not have time to grasp all the nuances of their creed. For now, Dhazziala pointed dramatically at Sapphire and shouted:

“Aye, the dragonet thinks truth-fires! Dramagon the Red it was who fathered ruzal and urzul, and … an Ancient Dragon gave you a message? For us?”

For the first time, Ardan saw First Hand Dhazziala lose her composure. Her voice cracked as she gaped at Sapphire, who preened happily at the attention and piped, Ardan forget tell story? Sapphire clever.

“Freaking – so I did,” Ardan cursed colourfully. “It’s all so interlinked …”

But Sapphire gushed, Sapphire give message to In-screwys! She wrinkled her muzzle in consternation, clearly aware of a mistake. In-scruties. In … billies?

The dragonet’s laughter trilled merrily inside the chamber, drawing the first smiles Ardan had seen from these sombre people.

Inscrutables, said Ardan, translating simultaneously for Bane and Lurax.

Sapphire held up two talons. Furious Dragon say, two messages.

“Infurion,” Ardan interpreted, suddenly becoming aware of minds, thousands strong, gathering around him until he stood in a vast mental amphitheatre. They were linked in a network intricate beyond his comprehension. “As in Infurion, the Ancient Dragon. We bumped into him in the Rift-Storm.” Smiling at Sapphire’s impatient growl, he added with a bow, “Speak, o noblest of dragonets.”

Sapphire preened, then stated clearly, Furious say, ‘Earthen-fires are bodied.’

Dhazziala’s golden skin stretched into a rictus of pain as a collective gasp echoed around the chamber, within and without. Even Yiisuriel’s anguished bellow could distinctly be heard rising from below, the physical sound arriving with a noticeable delay compared to the roaring of her mind. Several Councillors slumped on their benches, apparently struck insensate; Lurax shyly asked the man nearest him what danger this portended.

His answer echoed into an unexpected silence. “Lad, it means the S’gulzzi have learned how to embody themselves. They are vile, rapacious spirits born of the Island-World’s deepest fires. Yet they could never threaten our realms before – they could not survive above a depth of eight leagues, nor outside of their native Earthen-fires. But embodied …”

Dhazziala immediately ordered, Activate Emergency Protocol One. Additionally, split off ten dedicated research groups. To Lurax, she said, “You ask wisely. Long have the S’gulzzi sought greater influence and power, but were constrained by their lack of command of the physical realm. In their element, they are deadly. Out of it, they have historically relied on allies such as the Theadurial to influence the doings of those who dwell higher than they. Yet now Thoralian turns the Theadurial to himself; he foments their rebellion against their old masters. We must conclude that the S’gulzzi have harnessed the First Egg’s uncontainable power, which in turn places all Dragon, Shapeshifter and Human civilisations in deadly peril. What say you, Lurax?”

He half-hid himself behind Ardan, nevertheless, the boy spoke bravely, in piping tones. “Lady, not all is doom. I think we must see Fra’anior’s paw in this. The Egg’s rising may work in Thoralian’s favour, or better, in ours, if we can work out how to wrest it from the S’gulzzi.”

Cries of ‘Aye!’ and, ‘Well spoken!’ filled the chamber.

The blushing youngster gained himself a singular smile from Dhazziala. Despite the peculiarities of her appearance, she possessed an aura of uncanny beauty, Ardan observed. She said, “I see now why the Shadow Dragon chose these two young men for his apprentices. Now, Sapphire. What is your second message?”

Sapphire drew herself up, clearly well pleased by her reception and perhaps hopeful that her second message might prove as momentous as the first.

She squeaked, Furious say, ‘It is time of opening!’

Pandemonium! Ardan’s eyes jumped about like a Naphtha Cluster giant grasshopper as the staid Councillors leaped out of their seats, breaking into spontaneous dance and rhythmic clapping, while Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s bellowing shook the entire Island. Of course, she was the Island, Ardan reminded himself. At least, that was his conclusion. Lesser bellows echoed from nearer and further away as the other Air-Breathers reacted.

Suddenly, Dhazziala grasped his fingers and whirled him into an impromptu dance. She cried, “Oh, Ardan, what a day your arrival has ushered in! Our six hundred years of penance are ended. Freedom! Freedom has dawned at last!”

Stretching up onto her tiptoes, she kissed him on the cheek.

Ardan felt a wild perturbation undulate through his oath-magic. His eyes flew wide. Mercy!

* * * *

Mid-conversation with Zuziana and Ri’arion, the raging power of Fra’anior snatched Aranya into the Storm. She tumbled through the sevenfold blast of his wrath, a hapless minnow spinning from one thundering maw to the next. Rage pummelled her from every conceivable angle.

Be affrighted, little fledgling! roared one mouth.

What of the oath-magic? boomed the next, flinging the Amethyst Dragoness three miles to the next head. Denier! Betrayer!

You are the daughter of my storm! MINE!

Rebellious chit!

Swatted back and forth between his seven heads like a hapless fly trapped in a hurricane, Aranya tucked in her wings and endured, yet there was a kernel of anger lodged in her throat. Was it ever to be thus with the Black Dragon? Storms, fury and thunderous bullying? Lyriela had told her she must stand up to Fra’anior; was she frightened now?

Aye.

Yet amidst the writhing storm-clouds and suns-bright lightning-strikes playing between Fra’anior’s massively armoured, onyx necks, she recognised a new truth. This was her soul-space. Hers! How dare Fra’anior intrude? Her focus narrowed in on Humansoul, watching from the edge of her impossible peak. She saw in her amethyst eyes a spark of what she sought, and accepted the gift.

Dragoness-Aranya drew breath.

I am Aranya, daughter of Storm! Her challenge was lost amidst the cacophony, but her defiant, vulnerable stance was not. Her wings steadied. Aranya gathered her Storm and flung her rage and hurt back into her grandsire’s teeth. Why do you keep hurting me?

The Onyx stilled.

For an interminable time, all between them was the crackling of Storm powers and the low growling of nearby thunder. Aranya refused to lower her muzzle, although defiance demanded every scrap of her courage. Her gaze burned into his ancient, knowing eyes, so much tinier but no less diamond-forged of will. She should genuflect, but she denied him that privilege. She was Fra’anior’s shell-granddaughter, birthed of the same fires; worthy of better than this. The burning-grief tenor of her fires demanded his respect, and at length, one of the great heads bobbed, if only marginally.

Aranya said, May I address whichever of your heads is prepared to be reasonable? For I fail to see what I have done to earn your contempt this time, o Fra’anior.

Again, his silence spoke much.

She pressed, May we speak as kindred Dragons?

One head approached her precipitately, mantled in clinging dark clouds, the eyes churning with lightning and tempest. Art thou not afeared to speak, little oath-breaker?

So that was it! She lashed out, Istariela is my white-fires lodestone. You, I know not. You have forgotten her love. Leagues and leagues of Dragon body and seven heads all seemed to sigh at once; an Island-shaking, Moons-weeping sigh. Or did you hate her, as you hate me?

If only she could make him understand! Aye, Fra’anior was vast and awesome, ancient and alien, but he was also a creature of high intelligence who, the ballads proclaimed, had loved and lost. He knew the pain of heartbreak, and she saw an inexpressible aching in his eyes now. The shifting colours of his lightning-storms became more like rainbows. More like her hair.

Truly, I loved Istariela, he groaned.

Aranya replied, Yet you chose to smash Ardan and me together without regard for feelings, against our integrity and morals, and – did you not see what he did to me, and me to him? It was like … being tumbled beneath a waterfall, that oath-magic. Bruised, torn … ruined. Blindly, she pushed fractured images at him, crying, I’m in agony, violated yet remorseful, and I hate-love him! How can I ever know if this is love, Fra’anior? How can I be certain, after that? I didn’t know the Shadow Dragon! All was consumed; the deed is done – and I feel sick to my stomach. Sick!

Distressed beyond measure, she knew no holding back, vocalising her pain with all the terrible expressiveness of the Dragonish language. You despoiled us both. I will not own this pain only for myself, but also for Ardan. He’s crushed! Dishonoured! And I am ruined for any other, via Thoralian and his Shapeshifter pox. What was wrought and shattered can never hereafter be consummated. Grandsire, how could you conceive this path? HOW?

He baulked, yet Aranya would not let him flee, for she flew right into the face of one of those vast heads to deliver her message.

Fra’anior groaned, No, no … I never meant … his fires wept like torrential rain.

She wanted to fight him, beat him, to hurt him as he had hurt her, but she knew he understood at last. Empathy unfolded her crumpled heart and afflicted her with mercy – mercy as torn and bloodied as a Dragon savaged in battle, bleeding out of her every pore, yet mercy it was.

His paw hove beneath her, as large as an Island. It trembled; four times, he halted the movement for fear of bruising her, yet at last they touched, Dragon hide to Dragon hide. In that touch was a shuddering, fragile connection, and perhaps the naissance of restoration. And in Fra’anior’s eyes, the Amethyst Dragoness saw colours she had never imagined she would see – luminous, unmistakable apricot and white shades of regret mingled with love.

Fra’anior whispered, I … was … jealous – what I foresaw for you … it brought back so much … agony. I am so sorry. So deeply sorry. I lashed you with my heartache and mistreated you and I am mortified by what I have wrought – yet Aranya, there can be healing of these oath-fires. You can build foundations which should have preceded such an intimate oath-taking, and its outworking. It is possible, in spite of all the damage I have done you.

But am I allowed to choose my path, grandsire? she asked.

I will devote my every resource and wisdom and Dragon power to finding the flight of your healing, Aranya, to making white-fires, and right-fires, out of this unconscionable wrong with which I have afflicted thee!

Will you trust me?

The vast Onyx laughed curtly, shaking the vast plain of a Dragon’s palm she stood upon as if she were a grain of salt lodged in the palm of a man’s hand. Unexpectedly, she found Humansoul standing with her, shoulder to knee, yet as large in presence as any Dragon – the wellspring of her hope and the catalyst of her courage.

Together, Humansoul, Aranya said.

Together forever, Dragonsoul, said the Human girl.

Gazing upon the tiny pair from his mighty vantage-point, Fra’anior rumbled, You’re so like my Istariela – and like me. We quarrelled. We loved. We were rainbows over Islands for each other, and the song of stars. We sang Dragon-soul-song together. I would know and cherish you too, Aranya … if you would allow me?

Her amethyst eyes refused to relinquish her questions.

The great head dipped, but his soul-fires genuflected in a gesture of deep respect. Before all else, I promise to trust thee. Unconditionally. This is my love-oath.

Love that belled out across the void between the stars with magical imperative and glory.

The Amethyst replied, Thank you, o Fra’anior. Your oath means more to me than you know. I would … I would more than allow it. I would welcome you. Yet Aranya wondered how hurt could change to love. She respected him. Feared him. Could her feelings one day be called love? How did one make that most delicate transition, more enigmatic even than the mystery of a Shapeshifter’s transformation? She added, For my part, I will try to resist – not to resist – correction … uh, too much. Or to act quite so rebelliously …

Then, his delighted laughter thundered over her, and all became the glorious melody of an Ancient Dragon’s love-song.

* * * *

“She’s dreaming,” said Zip.

Aranya lay a little aside from the smoking hole her strange turn had blasted in Leandrial’s tongue. The Land Dragon smarted, but said the wound was trivial. Not so trivial, the powers raging in Aranya now. At first, Zip had thought her friend was undergoing a violent fit, that the magic had at last overwhelmed and damaged her. Lightning had blasted from her body, contained only by Ri’arion’s quick reactions, leaving Aranya lying in a smoking crater, her eyes rolled back to show only white, her body convulsing. Now, amethyst lightning appeared to play beneath her pale skin, and she still twitched occasionally, crying, ‘Fra’anior’ or ‘Ardan’ – and thus she had lain insensate for four hours as their mighty force rushed toward the Inscrutables and the inevitable encounter with Thoralian’s selves.

“We’re minutes from charging into battle against the paramount powers of the age and she’s … napping?” Ri’arion barked.

Zuziana quipped, “Power-napping?”

His warm hands came to rest upon her shoulders. “Sorry, love. Nerves.”

“Nerves? What’s to fear – the triune master of urzul turning himself into an Ancient Dragon? Or something less mundane?”

Ri’arion said, “Strange how these gifts, and curses, of the Ancient Dragons persist to our time. Storm powers manifest in Aranya. Urzul must be the foul excrement of Dramagon himself. It is almost as if magic lives in its own right and exhibits will, and purpose, to keep alive. It adapts and manifests in new forms –”

“Huh, and you call Aranya mystical?” Zip kissed his fingers fondly, yet she sighed. “After we win this battle, husband, I plan to demonstrate just how much I love you.”

“I don’t come furnished with my personal storm-mantle and lightning inside my skin,” the monk pointed out, then added a positively wicked chuckle. “All private demonstrations welcome, however. What’s bothering you, precious Remoy? Tell me everything.”

“I fear that dream of Thoralian,” Zip said. No, she feared what she must do. The choice she did not have; an unspeakable threat outlined in chilling tones. “Just pregnancy fears, dear one.”

Ri’arion held her for the longest time.

“I should transform,” she ventured at last.

She read his lack of conviction even behind his Nameless Man mask. He would never forgive her. A man of unbending principle, Ri’arion would not understand. Yet his hands were tender upon her clothing as he helped her disrobe. Unbearably, unforgettably tender.

Zuziana said, “Monk-love, if the worst should happen –”

“Don’t.” He kissed her forehead.

“I must. If this day is to be our last together, may the knowledge forever be imprinted upon your heart of how deeply, helplessly and eternally I have loved you, o Ri’arion of Fra’anior.”

Past tense! Oh mercy, how he twitched apart from her, pretending a sudden preoccupation with folding her dress. Magic folded and unfolded within and around her, bringing her second-soul from its place of hibernation. Ri’arion could not know, nor could she, for she suspected Thoralian had hidden his imprint behind a profound, sophisticated form of hypnosis.

She feared he would share his concerns with Aranya.

Yet as the Azure whirled, sensing a change in her best friend’s breathing, it was to find a well-loved pair of amethyst eyes regarding her. Aranya blinked back tears. “To war, Dragon?”

“Where were you?” asked Zip.

“Sorting out a few family matters with Fra’anior,” said Aranya, smiling at her understatement. “I’m afraid something’s happened to Ardan.”

“He’s dead? Sorry, I meant –”

“I know.” Aranya crinkled her eyes. “No, something happened to our oath-magic. I think he’s fallen over the Islands for someone else.”

“I’m … sorry? Again? I thought you …” Zip sighed, and gathered her friend into an embrace. “I thought you said he was free to love another, because you’re so scarred. Yet I’ve seen his moon-eyes for you, and the ever-present storm suggests all is not well in Aranya’s world.”

Ri’arion put in, “Perhaps the Jeradian way would be best for you, after all?”

“Ignore him!” Zip said angrily, even more annoyed as a touch of jealousy smoked through her words. The Nameless Man had promised to serve Aranya; having her to consort was rather a broader definition of service than she could tolerate! “I doubt that could be true, considering what I’ve observed. At least we know Ardan’s alive, if only to face the walloping of his life, because I intend to trim his hide for boot-leather and stuff his ugly mug for a trophy if he dares, if he has the gall to so much as think about another woman!”

Aranya patted the Dragoness’ neck, laughing. “You vicious, jealous beast. I love you. But Fra’anior did counsel me that oath-magic forges its own pathways. Our enforced period of separation, and my desire to annul what is essentially a perpetual connection between fire-souls, has led to a situation of critically exaggerated, and highly unstable magical potentials.”

“Right,” said the monk.

“To which Gramps suggested what, exactly, as a solution?” inquired the Azure, oozing false sweetness. “Whistle all of this magic together into the Song of the Storm Dragon, and –”

“Quite. Then, dump the entire tempest on Thoralian’s head.”

* * * *

Ten minutes later, the Azure Dragoness pushed her way between a snappish Shapeshifter Princess and a steaming Nameless Man. Aranya restrained her Dragoness-instincts as Zip growled, “The enemy is out there, may I remind you both?”

“Then why is he –” Aranya winced as her Storm unleashed an almighty roll of thunder. “Mercy. I need to transform. Minus the childish linguistics lesson, Ri’arion.”

Zip engulfed his scowling visage in her blue paw. “Allow me.”

“Murmble,” the monk just about managed.

“Aye,” said the Azure Dragoness. “It’s all in the delivery, monk-love. Sit down, Aranya. I’m turning into quite the pocket tyrant here, aren’t I?” The Immadian arched an eyebrow at her friend. “The reason Mister Pedantic here wanted you to say ‘Thoralians’ in plural rather than the possessive form, Your Feisty Highness, is –”

“Oh!” Aranya sat on a knob of Leandrial’s cheek-pocket hide with a bump.

“Exactly,” said Zip.

“Thoralian is –” She pointed over her shoulder, in the general direction of the Land Dragoness’ tail.

“Quite.”

“And?” Aranya pointed toward Leandrial’s muzzle, which was aimed at the Inscrutables and a sprawling battleground vaster than anything she wanted to contemplate.

“Indeed.”

She held up three fingers.

The Azure purred, bleakly, “It all makes a sickening kind of sense, doesn’t it?”

“When was someone going to tell me, Zip?” Three Thoralians. Of course. His apparent omnipresence was no myth, but rather a unique Dragon-power. Faintly, she said, “You can let the man-accessory go now, Azure. He was right. I just wasn’t prepared to listen.”

Impulsively, Aranya leaped to her feet and seized Ri’arion’s hands as he emerged from within Zuziana’s paw. “You were right, Ri’arion.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry –”

The oath-magic voiced a rabid howl of Storm-driven winds that resolved in a thunderclap so mighty, it rocked all eight thousand Land Dragons of their command. Aranya shuddered at their mental outcry.

Still, she shook her fist at the heavens and yelled, “He’s a friend! Can’t you tell the ruddy difference?”

What greater futility than to yell in the face of fate?

More or less daunting than standing up to her Ancient Dragon grandfather?

The Princess of Immadia almost blew up like a volcano as Zip joked, “Is this one of those ‘laughter of starlight’ moments?”

Aranya bottled her vehemence enough to grit between her teeth, “Alright, friends. We’re about to slam headlong into war and I need to know everything you know about this threefold-Thoralian. The augmentation of his powers. His capabilities. The history. Hit me with everything.” She looked from Zip’s glinting fire-eyes to Ri’arion’s steely mien. “Then we’ll shovel so much starlight laughter down his three foul throats he can ruddy well choke on it!”

With a ripping of cloth, she destroyed another outfit as her Amethyst Dragoness shapeshifted into being.

Her growl was all low, throbbing resolve. This day will be the Thoralians’ downfall – let it be!

* * * *

Ardan eyed the Metallic Fortress Dragon with disbelief. “Fra’anior’s paws, that’s a Dragon?” he exclaimed, feelingly. “I’m fifty-one tonnes, in my Dragon form. What’s … she?”

The mountainous Dragoness’ laughter punched him in the gullet. “My name is Genholme. I weigh two thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight tonnes,” she rumbled, in a fantastically basso voice. “I eat twenty tonnes of metal ore every day to keep up my fine looks. My flexible metal armour is two feet thick and my maximum payload is two hundred soldiers, twenty catapult emplacements and three hundred Bullet Dragons.”

“And you can fly?” Ardan could not keep a squeak of amazement from his voice. Her size!

Dhazziala chuckled merrily, clutching his arm. “It’s magic,” she said throatily. She had made no secret of her attraction to him, despite her knowledge of Aranya’s existence. Could Aranya be right? Could his finding another resolve this tension between them? “When our people came to Herimor, we discovered Transporter Dragons, which possess genes for great size. They combined favourably with our metallic Tynukam – also called Grunts – to create these marvellous beasts, the backbone of our airborne forces. We still have Grunts. We fire them at the enemy using Kinetic magic.”

“And, Bullet Dragons?”

“There,” said Dhazziala, pointing at a crew of long, rail-thin, flightless Dragons climbing up the towering scaffolding required to reach Genholme’s back. “They are a rare breed, originally from the most southerly Islands of Wyldaroon. They hunt by shooting pebbles at small birds. We first adapted them, then trained them to fire other types of missiles – metal bullets, darts, spears, grappling hooks and even other specialised Dragons.”

Faithless heart, Ardan berated himself meantime. Would he grow to despise the Immadian, as Aranya feared? There were many more types of love aside from the pillow-roll, but if he were brutally honest about his needs – well, he had not the strength of a monk. Such a feckless failing upon which to cast aside the most magnificent woman in the Island-World, she whose very hair yearned for his touch; a nobler, fierier and more genuine princess than any balladeer had ever envisaged. Her deeds were her mantle and her soul’s core, white-fires. He clenched his fist, promising to guard his heart for Aranya. She thought him staunch and upright. As his people would say, no value was costlier than integrity. Was Ardan of Naphtha Cluster prepared to pay that price?

He must. Aye.

The Lost Islander said, “Are you listening?”

“Sorry. I was far away.”

Without warning, Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s voice broke in, Thoralian’s Lesser Dragons approach. Allies swim beneath the Cloudlands from the North. A Welkin-Runner called Leandrial has identified herself, by shielded telepathy, as the leader of a mighty force approaching from the South, but an army of Land Dragons sweeps westward to cut them off from our shores. Twenty minutes’ warning, First Hand.

Ardan clapped his hand together sharply. Leandrial! Excellent news.

Dhazziala’s voice filled the caverns of her people. TWENTY MINUTES! SCRAMBLE, PRIORITY ONE!

What had already been a bustle, exploded with zest and zip. Ardan sensed subordinate commands firing at the speed of thought between the enormous, hive-like mind of these Lost Islanders. Commanders and Sub-Commanders relayed instructions efficiently. Like a well-oiled engine, they swung into motion. Trapdoors along the length of the great underground hangars dropped open, disgorging troops of ready soldiers and Dragons. Purple and yellow Bullet Dragons came swarming out onto the staging deck, their fixed talons clacking loudly on the stone and metal. They split up rapidly, charging up the loading gantries, one hundred and eighty feet tall, and onto the backs of the mighty, twenty-winged Metallic Fortress Dragons. So massive were these Dragons that a single hangar held but five beasts, and these were among the largest caverns Ardan had ever seen.

As they had toured the fortress, called Chenak Stronghold in the Dragonfriend’s time, but now renamed Yiisuriel’s Stronghold in honour of the Land Dragon who bore part of a nation upon her back, Dhazziala had begun to open the communal mind to Ardan. The volume of information stunned him, but she quickly taught him how to filter and focus. Most record-keeping was done in their minds. He saw schematics showing underground Strongholds located in the upper regions of many Air-Breathers, the largest holding populations of up to thirty thousand Humans and Lesser Dragons. Atop the Island-sized Dragons stood farming villages connected by tunnels to the strongholds, farming mohili wheat, vegetables and a bovine called orrican in the main. The Air-Breathers numbered thirty-five in the outer heptagon, with five having perished in Thoralian’s first almighty assault, and ten positioned in a regular pentagon in the inner ring, tasked with controlling access to the First Egg via a vast under-Cloudlands volcanic pipe called the Shaft. Proudly, Dhazziala told him that the Air-Breathers had recently budded three fledgling Islands, who sheltered on the flanks of their parents, their breathing spiracles peeking above the Cloudlands.

Now, he saw in the First Hand’s mind, similar caverns springing to life around the perimeter of the Lost Islands, and sensed the work ongoing to re-establish their mighty shield following the loss of the Land Dragons and injuries to many others. A total flashed before his mind: 21,219 souls lost in that single assault, broken down by species, gender and age.

Ardan recoiled. Mercy!

Rescue operations were still proceeding – he learned of specialist Miner-Dragons burrowing into caverns sealed against just such a catastrophe …

Dhazziala bowed mentally. Aye, Shadow Dragon. Will you Ride with me?

I’d be honoured, he groaned, overwhelmed by such a loss, thinking upon Naphtha Cluster’s annihilation by the Sylakian War-Hammers and their Dragons … he shook himself. Grief must ride with him as an invisible companion. Ardan said, May I see Bane and Lurax readied?

You’d send boys into battle?

If you will have them, they will serve with honour, Ardan replied.

Genholme said, I will take them as bullet-loaders, if they are quick and steady of hand. You can entrust your younglings to my care, Shadow Dragon. You have seven minutes before I lift off.

Ardan nodded, calling to Sapphire as he broke into a sprint. Then let us to war, Dragons!

Chapter 31: Battle Joined

DRaGons burst out of the cavern-holds of the Lost Islands in streamers of living colour, rising and joining in the brilliant, cloudless skies of late afternoon. Ardan, riding the Cobalt-Green Dragoness Dhazziala, missed his Dragon-form sorely. He tested the powerful, lacquered Dragon-bow the Armourers had pressed into his hand, fitting him for Rider armour and weapons in the space of less than a minute. Alright, their mental skills were remarkable. He’d grant that. One glance, and they had his sizing perfect. More charily, he checked the clips of three-foot arrows fastened either side of the unfamiliar, high-backed Dragon Rider saddle. Poisoned, of course. A fast-acting neurotoxin-blend was secured in small vials embedded in the barbed arrowheads. At least, pricking his finger would not kill him.

The Metallic Fortress Dragons rose ponderously into the air, their wings buzzing so fast, they were almost invisible to the naked eye. Screens of Dragons formed around the Fortresses, tasked with providing aerial support and cover especially for the relatively undefended underparts. Ardan saw Dragonwings assembling above the Air-Breathers, twelve in all. To the West, Thoralian’s Dragonwings approached in a vast, glinting arc stretching from the Vassal States, where Yiisuriel’s Balance-sense had identified further pitched battles between the Dragon Riders of Herimor and the marauding of Land Dragons below the Cloudlands and Lesser Dragons above. All Ardan could see was dull, black mist drifting southward on the breeze.

And he sensed Land Dragons …

His eyes narrowed. Dhazziala, they aren’t attacking us. Not yet.

They’re oriented on the South. Yiisuriel’s marked an attack arising from there …

He fixed his attention in the opposite direction. What the hells are they doing? Can you reach Yiisuriel? Can she highlight the orientation of their Land Dragons beneath the Cloudlands for us?

Why? asked Dhazziala, but pulsed the mental commands nonetheless. She will work on it. One hour and twenty minutes until the first data-analysis arrives.

That long?

The First Hand rallied her Dragonwings, meantime sending Ardan a schematic of pulse-communication triggered by several Air-Breathers along the full length of their Island-Cluster, the return echoes synthesized and analysed … the sheer distance and level of interference marring the collection of accurate data …

Fine, whatever, he pushed that problem to one side.

Dhazziala, in her Dragoness-form a sleek, beautiful beast of a minimal but dense quadruple ruff of skull-spikes that had an air of a rajal’s mane, flexed her hundred-and-twenty foot length as she assessed Ardan’s proffered analysis and concurred. Southerly quarter, she ordered. Commands fired down the chain. Cover and monitoring of the other flanks. Intelligence gathered on the impending smash between the two under-Cloudlands forces.

To Ardan, she said, Watch for the Star Dragoness. Leandrial brings potential allies. We must time our strike to aid them.

Her Dragonwings formed up behind the dome-shield, which had been reformed by the outer layer of Air-Breathers. Unfortunately, it was nowhere near the full strength which previously had been developed and solidified over hundreds of years. It was vulnerable, Yiisuriel had warned them, and added that they were about to come under attack from both inside and out. The Egg was rising more rapidly than ever, concealed within a shield of meriatonium. As yet, they had no idea what lay beneath.

Ahead, Thoralian’s Lesser Dragons waited in serried ranks, thousands strong – and more shielded by glamour, he realised, snooping on Dhazziala’s constantly-evolving briefings. Right at the top of the pile, the Yellow-White himself hovered, imperiously overseeing his forces. Number one, Ardan counted quietly. One to the North. Where was the third? Lurking somewhere like a slug beneath a boulder …

Dhazziala laughed brightly at his mental picture. Oh, Shadow Dragon, you’ve the rights of that.

Ari come, said Sapphire, right in his ear.

Ardan startled so hard, he dropped the bow. A touch of Dhazziala’s mind returned it to his hand. Thanks. He threw her a picture of a sheep. Sorry – Sapphire, how the – I thought I said –

The mite agreed, You did. Sapphire no listen. Ari need me. Want Ari …

Waves of misery, impatience and longing washed against his mind. Ardan scratched the dragonet beneath the chin. You’re growing strong, little one. Alright. We’ll find Aranya.

And then, the Star Dragoness and I will come to an agreement regarding you, Ardan, said the Cobalt-Green, with an avaricious mental caress.

Ardan exclaimed crossly as the oath-magic jangled his nerves.

With that, the Cloudlands spat Dragons. Three or four thousand strong, they rose from puffy white clouds, orienting on Thoralian’s Dragonwings far above. For a breath or two, the moment seemed frozen. Thoralian watched. The Dragonwing rose. Then, the newcomers broke for the Lost Islands, and the hovering Marshal gestured imperiously. Eight thousand Lesser Dragons responded, taking on a battle-orientation as they plummeted from their superior position to engage the enemy. The shield before him vibrated as Ardan realised that in the under-Cloudlands realm, battle had already been joined.

The chase stretched. Thoralian’s group swooped. The Lesser Dragons winged at top speed, extending them, forcing the chasing Dragonwing to level out in pursuit.

Then, the skin prickled on the back of his neck.

Magic!

A dozen squads of Runner-Dragons burst from the Cloudlands, blasting in unison with their eye-cannons. Leandrial’s force! He exulted. So many! The timing of the ambush was perfection, scorching the underbelly of Thoralian’s Dragonwing with appalling force. Harmonic vocalisations screamed at frequencies exceeding the upper limit even of Dragon hearing. Light-beams flared, blasting the pursuing Dragonwing, tearing holes in their formation as if invisible Dragons wielded their talons with devastating effect.

The response was swift and brutal. Tens of thousands of drakes shed their glamour to appear from thin air, mobbing the Land Dragons, striking for the eyes and attacking the ear-canals – both vulnerable, he realised, for how could a Land Dragon respond to a parasite-sized enemy in its ear? Furthermore, he sensed a Rift-like disruption of urzul emanating from somewhere beneath the Cloudlands, breaking down shields to allow the drakes unfettered access. At once, a second wave of Runners breached the Cloudlands, striking again with their harmonic cannons. Ardan was almost certain he recognised Leandrial among them. Lesser Dragons whirled amidst the fray, flying in close, clearly a pre-planned support of their larger brethren.

The battleground of boiling Cloudlands and synchronised ranks of leaping Land Dragons spread steadily toward the Lost Islands. But where was Aranya? Where was the Amethyst?

Dhazziala checked the readiness of her forces. Open shields on my mark … by my ancestors!

Darkness rocketed out of the Cloudlands, as if the head of the Ancient Onyx himself breached that toxic demesne. Ardan did not know how she had kept her Storm hidden beneath the Cloudlands, but the white point of light leading that upward charge was unmistakably Aranya. She was on the warpath. She, and thousands of Lesser Dragons, rode the wings of a tightly-focussed, boiling column of stormy thunderheads aimed directly at the waiting Marshal. The disturbance was colossal. Mustered by an unheard magical imperative, clouds materialised all along the Mesas, sweeping in behind Thoralian as if intent upon throttling him with bands of inky blackness, and pelting his head with a barrage of ice. Fey winds plucked at Dhazziala’s wings.

What Dragon could behold such a sight, and not shake in their paws?

Ardan laughed. I’m not sure Aranya’s entirely in the mood for negotiation, First Hand.

With a menacing growl, Dhazziala turned to her Dragonwing, Armies of the Lost Islands, unite! Today, a legend flies against evil – let’s follow the Star Dragoness! GLORY AND HONOUR!

HONOUR AND GLORY!!

* * * *

The Amethyst Dragoness led her strike-force against the loathsome Thoralian, wary of any sign of ambush or trickery. Aboard Zip, Ri’arion scanned for signs of glamour-concealment, but thus far he could not detect any near this Thoralian. The second followed them from the Straits of Hordazar, while the third was yet undetected. Below, Leandrial’s force had come under tremendous pressure from Thoralian’s Theadurial-infected hordes, but they were making steady headway, and in a surprise boon, had stumbled upon a group of thirty-seven friendly Shell-Clan who added their inimitable eye-cannons to the fray. Had they been protecting the Air-Breathers?

Aranya had tried to withhold or conceal her Storm until the last instant, but her power took unkindly to repression. The instant another jolt arrived from Ardan, her Storm discharged, catapulting her and several thousand of Marshal Tixi’s allied forces out of the Cloudlands toward her archenemy. Storm appeared as if by magic – she grew tired of the phrase – all around the horizon. How did it form? What magic did it feed upon, this consuming, uncontrollable weather-phenomenon? It was somehow linked to her, but not to the ordinary storehouses of a Star Dragon’s magic, for the only strain she felt was related to her attempt to control and funnel the powerful winds and frenzied clouds so that they would not destroy her allies.

Somewhere, Fra’anior was probably chortling at her feeble flailing. Daughter of Storm? Pfff … she hissed out a breath. More like pawn of the Storm.

Yet she had a massive, long-bodied Yellow-White Dragon in her sights. Number one.

King Beran had always counselled her to be flexible in battle and to take a turn of fortune for what it was. So as she rode a roaring tornado miles into the air, Aranya silently thanked her father.

A strange song rose upon the air, fragmenting and divisive, whining and cajoling. Ri’arion’s shouting drew the Dragons back into order, but not before ten separate snarls had suddenly developed as Dragon turned against Dragon. Thoralian gestured more broadly. The urzul-infused sound swelled, stripping away her Storm, piercing holes in her clouds, and beguiling many Dragons or driving their minds into gnashing insanity. Sallow eyes watched her intently. The Amethyst Dragoness spread herself thin, trying to protect the force with starlight power.

Ah, it is she, said Thoralian.

At once, she knew this was not the creature she remembered from the North. This voice was different, the accent harsher, the mind behind the words, slipperier and more fluid to apprehend, as though Thoralian concealed his thoughts behind ever-shifting barriers of ice.

He said, Ah, she works against the urzul, but mine is the power that hides, embezzles and slinks in the dark …

Thoralian flipped his wings, conjuring intently with his paws. Many Dragons around Aranya groaned, but amidst this, the Immadian realised that he was not stealing power from them as she had expected. He was robbing strength from his own forces, from the minds and bodies of those turned to urzul. A black cloud began to boil in the air around Thoralian, powdery and dark, like a swarm of insects. She narrowed her focus. The air shimmered as glamour vanished. Dragons! Legion Dragonkind surrounded the old Marshal; at once, battle-challenges resounded across the half-mile separating both sides, but her attention was drawn to that dark cloud. What …

It drifted downward like a fine rain. Like a swarm of flies. Thoralian’s force hovered, waiting – Up shields! Aranya bellowed.

The black specks sifted ever so softly over the incoming Dragons. Marshal Huaricithe, slightly in the lead with Gang and Tari shadowing her wingtips, was the first to scream. Her body convulsed, wings folding, snarling, mouth agape. Then a filament of pure agony passed through Aranya’s body. She felt as if a white-hot needle had been threaded through her flesh. The black dust speared through her … like anti-starlight, the antithesis of draconic white-fires … and she and every other Dragon afflicted arched and howled and stalled, overwhelmed by pain … nothing else existed …

Thoralian’s laughter boomed across the void, Ah. Sweet vengeance. Kill them all!

All she understood was the word ‘kill’.

Starlight was her shield. Shining as Izariela had shone for her daughter, the Amethyst Dragoness felt the starlight reduce those killing black specks to just … specks. How could anything in the Island-World pierce Dragon hide and bone with such ease? She did not understand, but she knew what she must do. Reaching for those intimate, precious memories of Izariela, the Star Dragoness mustered her light and began to shine it through the fire-spirits nearest her. Zip. Tari. Gang, Huari … so many. Tinting white-fires with starlight that bubbled and sang like a child’s laughter. Giving to each a touch of her gift.

Suddenly, she knew Infurion had been mistaken. There were more types of fire than just Earthen-fires and Sky-fires present in her world. There was Star-fire.

The pain cleared from her vision.

Hundreds of allied Dragonkind fell already, dead or mortally wounded, peeling away from her Storm-powered advance like petals curling away from a dying flower. Through the impending collision of mighty Dragonwings, she momentarily caught sight of Thoralian, his expression darkening.

Pitiful, he said, and vanished.

KAAABOOM!!

Dragon smashed into Dragon. All became reactions and fire and battling. The Azure barrel-rolled beside her, spitting lightning like a miniature tornado. She and Ri’arion were locked deep in their mind-meld, clearing Aranya’s path as the Star Dragoness’ power lapped outward, whispering over the last few Dragons in their battle group. Humansoul’s horrified voice told her that fully a third of Tari’s command had perished in a breath of Thoralian’s magic.

Focus the rage. Narrow down. Concentrate. Pfft! Pfft! She cleaned Gang’s back of a champing Lesser Dragon.

Storm, be mine!

Lightning sparked over to her from Zuziana. Her fire-eyes swivelled to follow the light. Suddenly they were one, the Amethyst Dragoness snaffled up in the fringes of her friends’ beautiful linkage, and she saw how Lightning played in her friend’s body, how the Azure was so flawlessly fitted to sculpt and control the electrical potentials seething along her electro-conductive pathways to their endpoints in her throat and talons and spine-spikes. Aranya tossed Zip’s Lightning back.

Come on, Azure. Let’s crackle and burn!

Linking their right forepaws instinctively, the Dragonesses swung about each other upon a single axis. Swirling. Dancing. Tossing lightning bolts from their spinning wingtips and paws and tails. The massive charges lurking in their chests joined in the air, sparking in crazy chains-linked lightning amongst the swarming enemy Dragons. Aranya danced with her best friend, supping on the Storm’s power and sharing it with Zuziana. She saw the darkness of hearts that followed Thoralian’s way. They pirouetted through the awful press. Dragons died.

Suddenly, new sounds permeated the battle. Tak-tak-tak! Tak-a-tak! Tak!

A mighty surge of Dragons charged into the fray, bellowing in deeper and greater voices than she had ever heard before. Aranya saw Dragon-mountains occluding the sky, their hides spitting projectiles from other-mouths, and still she danced, living the Storm, being the Storm, overcome by the tingling of power and the multifarious colours that spelled draconic death, fire-souls winking out all around her, tugging her soul toward grief-fires …

Nearby, Ri’arion called a wild, glad greeting and there in the crimson heat filling her mind was a new, chirruping voice, calling, Ari? Find Ari!

Sapphire? You came, oh! She clutched the frantic dragonet to her bosom. Where’s Ardan?

Mid-spin, her astonishing Dragon-sight conveyed a crystal-clear image of Ardan – him – riding a great Dragoness of Cobalt-Green hues, her scales wrought of invidious perfection, and she beheld the soul-shaking bent of the Dragoness’ desire toward him who sat strapped in her saddle, bending a mighty bow to its utmost reach, the muscles of his forearms and shoulders standing out like sculpted stanchions, and he was the unquenchable beast who stalked her dreams and her nightmares, evermore unattainable, and from bloodless Dragon-lips she whispered, Fra’anior, I choose, I choose …

The backlash of oath-magic through their linkage smashed her beyond the stars, into darkness.

* * * *

Ardan folded his muscled arms and glared at Aranya as she rested in a hammock inside Yiisuriel’s fortress. The day’s fighting was done; Thoralian’s forces were regrouped outside the overarching shield that now protected Leandrial’s entire command, including the Star Dragoness. They had won through. Now, strategies must necessarily be redrawn.

Yet all of this paled into insignificance before the soul-electrifying power of a pair of amethyst eyes that regarded him now.

Ardan roared, “You are the most granite-headed, intractable, storm-creating excuse for a stray lightning-bolt I have ever encountered! Your so-called friends won’t let me in the blasted door for fear that my very presence will knock you silly – again – half of Herimor apparently worships your wings, and I am fated to love a veritable goddess who cannot see her own tail if it slaps her in the jaw! And if they are eavesdropping –” he sucked in an enormous, shuddering breath – I WILL LOSE MY FREAKING TEMPER!!

The Princess did not point out the obvious, but he could see what she was thinking. Half of the Island had just heard him bellow. A pleasingly draconic bellow …

Mewling and spitting in anger, Sapphire whizzed into the room and buried herself in Human-Aranya’s arms. Aranya calmed the dragonet with a deft touch, irritating Ardan further, because his treacherous brain immediately pictured him as the dragonet, purring beneath her caressing hand.

He gritted out, “You are impossible! Can’t love you, can’t not love you … what do you want, woman – Dragoness? Answers on a handy scrolleaf!”

“I do not want to put this war at risk, right now, by trying to untangle this fiendishly intricate knot that binds us,” she suggested sensibly.

He shook a fist at the ceiling, as if railing at the skies might better express the depths of his frustration. Zip had pointed out that maddening each other was just the other face of the dral of love. Ardan had to leave the room at that point or he would have committed a morally reprehensible act. He was good at those, apparently.

He said, “May I mention the war-interrupting storm raging overhead at present?”

“Aye.” An Island-World’s weight burdened her sigh. “Ardan, I don’t have many answers, but I can tell you this. I am not negotiating with some seventh-generation niece of mine about rights to you. The very idea makes me feel tired. Besides, if I know you, you’re more stubborn than that scimitar-stopper you wear atop your shoulders. You command your own heart. I should not interfere.”

“For the tenth stupid time, Aranya – interfere! I want you to interfere! Must I grovel until you change your mind for sheer, bloody shame, woman?”

Aranya’s eyes glistened between the folds of her royal purple face-veil. He could not begin to enumerate the emotions roiling within her. She whispered, “I need that storm, Ardan.”

He growled, “So, you want me to –”

“No.”

“You don’t want me to –”

“No.”

Ardan roared a very impolite word at this juncture. It did not improve his mood that she giggled at his reaction. “Maybe I’ll just come over there and start with a few kisses,” he threatened, then almost cursed again as a shadow crossed those incomparable eyes. “I am a decent, patient man!”

Now, a twinkle of amusement. “Is that so?”

“Alright, if you want honesty, Immadia, I need my Dragon. I can’t fight the Thoralians without my Shadow. Won’t you just –”

“I can’t heal what isn’t there.”

“Can’t you?”

Suddenly, the room seemed a quarter of the size it had been before, and the heat, like a furnace. Aranya’s eyes were as wide as a startled Dragoness’, rife with ideas sparking in all directions.

Rather more feebly, he added, “Maybe I should turn you over my knee like Nak always threatens to.”

“That almost set your scales alight last time,” she retorted diffidently, yet he sensed her blushing even beneath the veil. “Ardan, the bigger issue is that I can’t defeat – we can’t defeat the Thoralians, without the whole Daughter of Storm … piece. I need you, your magic and your presence. I’m sorry if that makes you feel used. Of course that’s offensive and I am acutely conscious – I’d feel the same way. But I am confused and vulnerable, Ardan. There’s a heart in here that resents acting the victim, but I just don’t see how this story ends with ‘and they winged happily into the suns-set together’. Tell me you understand that much, at least.”

“No.”

She stared at his upraised, scarified eyebrow.

Clapping his hands together so sharply she jumped, Ardan said, “Right, Star Dragoness. We’re in a war. Afterward, you will unbend this ridiculous stance, or so help me, I swear …”

“The knee?”

“By Fra’anior’s sulphurous armpits, my knee!”

He was ashamed of shouting at this woman, but she seemed to understand his emotions – Aranya was attuned to Storm, after all, and stormy draconic emotions were what raged, choked and burned inside of his breast now. Ardan had always considered himself a forbearing and self-controlled man, insofar as he remembered. But not where Aranya was concerned. Never, with her …

“Now that I’m awake, we should confer with the lovely Dhazziala.” Aranya had the nerve to wink at him. “She has fine taste in Shapeshifter Dragons, I hear.”

“She’s seventy-two flaming years old! It’d be like … kissing someone’s grandmother!” Ardan contorted his face, making her laugh merrily. “Even Western Isles barbarians have their standards.”

“Except regard –” She bit off her words. Except regarding teenage princesses? But Aranya ad-libbed graciously, “If you kissed her you’d probably bring down an Island or three. Maybe we can turn that power against Thoralian?”

“Should I skip Dhazziala and kiss Thoralian instead?”

“I think you’d rather kiss a dead rat floating down a sewage pipe,” Aranya suggested, as they laughed together. “Well, let’s keep that strategy in the back pocket, agreed? You scared Nak silly last time, anyways. Now, can I tell you what passed between Fra’anior and me? It’s … huge. Pun intended.”

Council chamber, now, said Dhazziala, directly into his mind.

Ardan offered his arm. Your Majesty, we are expected.

As the First Hand’s anger flared, the oath-magic responded and Aranya, halfway risen from her hammock, executed a very unroyal tumble. Ardan’s Dragon-swift hand saved her head a nasty crack against a nearby wooden chest.

A monstrous peal of thunder shook Yiisuriel to her roots.

Mercy. Finding her feet groggily, Aranya picked up Sapphire and popped the dragonet upon her left shoulder. You should stick with me, Sapphire, for I’ve a feeling … anyways, what’s this I hear about you channelling Blue powers, you lovely little mischief? At least with this driving storm, even the Thoralian-triplicate can’t cause too much trouble for us.

I disagree, Ardan said bluntly. That’s what this meeting is about.

He caught her a second time as Aranya faltered, clutching her head. Sapphire’s magic flared gently, soothing the pain. Then, Star leaned on Shadow’s arm as they walked out of the chamber together, as if they belonged to each other.

* * * *

The Azure Dragoness winged down between the enormous flanks of the Air-Breathers to meet Leandrial, who together with, Zip, Aranya and Huaricithe, proposed to make the trip to the invitingly named Pit of Despair. The Suald-dak-Doon began a mere seven leagues beneath the Cloudlands, two leagues beneath the feet of the Land Dragons who surrounded the ancient mine. One of these guardians was Yiisuriel, and it was her flank that passed by Zip’s right wingtip as she descended.

Despite their objections, Ri’arion and Ardan had been left behind, but would monitor and assist mentally via Yiisuriel.

They had thought Leandrial was old, Zip chuckled to herself. Yiisuriel claimed a venerable one thousand, four hundred and seventy-six circuits of the Island-World about the suns, apparently not an uncommon age for creatures boasting such a slow metabolic rate. Leandrial acted most put out. To stand with one’s feet eighteen miles below one’s breathing spiracles, and to house tens of thousands of lives in one’s rocky shell-exudate, was no mean feat.

Yiisuriel had known the Dragonfriend and was most ‘fierily tickled’, therefore, to make Aranya’s acquaintance. In a fit of uncharacteristic impertinence during her descent, the Immadian had requested that the phlegmatic Air-Breather tell her amusing stories about her Aunt.

Well was it said that good friends grew alike.

As they descended, the pressure intensified steadily. In the recesses of her mind, Zip felt a slight tingling as Ri’arion checked and approved her auxiliary countermeasures against airborne and magical toxins. How peculiar to hear her faraway monk, Ardan and Yiisuriel discussing the sweeping lines of enemy Fire-Sporters and Bottom-Huggers – she burst out laughing as that name impinged on her awareness, startling Aranya and Huari – invading the vast plains area between the Vassal States and the Inscrutables, which were cut on an East-West plane by four relatively narrow impossible deeps. Soon, she realised Yiisuriel’s stolid presence was amplifying the men’s thoughts. Telepathy only carried so far.

Leandrial awaited them in the soft, dim blue two leagues below the Cloudlands, her eye shining like a vast, welcoming lantern. Without preamble, she said, Dhazziala has despatched envoys to agree alliance with the Vassal States and their Dragon Riders – a tardy move, but not unwelcome. As predicted, we are now surrounded by hostile Land Dragons, but allies gather in the Eastern deeps of the Southern Kahilate, and North of the Vassal States. The third Thoralian approaches from the Straits with a vast force, conservatively estimated at forty thousand Lesser Dragons and a million drakes.

A million? Aranya gasped.

Zip heard her friend’s annoyance at that draconic love of dropping news into a conversation like a boulder tossed down a cliff.

Merely, said Yiisuriel, chuckling massively. Now, little ones, I’ve a job for you. I feel an irritation on the lower base of my shell, down where your paws would be. I need you to take a look.

Leandrial said, Very well. Only nine miles to go, little ones.

Zip tittered, Aye, you Land Dragons are unutterably humungous, Leandrial. You put the shivers of colossal awe into my exceedingly tiny wings.

You’re so eye-wateringly gargantuan, o mighty Leandrial, that I need to dust off my truly outsized thesaurus of draconic hyperbole to merely attempt speech with such a leviathan, Aranya chipped in, drawing a strange look from Huaricithe.

Don’t teach properly civil Dragons your insolent Northern ways, sniffed Leandrial, cracking open her jaw. Shall I eat you now, or later?

Later, said Zip. With a dollop of that delicious sauce the Lost Islanders serve over orrican meat?

The Welkin-Runner dived. Do try to keep up.

Lightning-girl and her Storm-munching sidekick, said the Remoyan, snidely elbowing Aranya in the ribs.

Storm-girl and Lightning-in-her-britches, retorted her friend, thinking something that for a change, made Zip’s belly-fires blush dramatically.

Zuziana chased the surprisingly blue Star Dragoness down into the depths, swimming the precipitous cliffs of Yiisuriel’s great flanks with broad, languid wing-strokes. Below the three-league mark, the ambient bacterial light petered out, leaving just a broad reach of darkness surrounded by ten hazy mountains rising into the murky heavens – their Air-Breather friends. The upper Pit was two leagues across, Dhazziala had briefed them, and narrowed as one progressed deeper than the level the Air-Breathers stood upon. Over the centuries, their heavily armoured shells had fused with the bedrock and each other, making them true mountains, but they could crack that seal at any time and amble off to another location. Yiisuriel, the largest of her kind, measured six point nine two leagues in diameter, her great bulk bordering fully a quarter of the Suald-dak-Doon.

Leandrial’s eye-beam speared ahead of them, picking out the grey-black ramparts of the Land Dragons. They flew down a slope almost entirely devoid of vegetation, and no wonder, for little could grow in that gloom, Zip imagined. As they swung around to a more westerly heading, skimming across Yiisuriel’s flank toward the inevitable encounter with the inner shield which for over a century had concealed the First Egg’s resting-place from the Island-World, they crossed a band of luminous, lichen-like growths which marked the level of Yiisuriel’s upper mouths – sealed on all sides but her eastern flank, where she sucked in and filtered all of her nutritional requirements. Her ear-canals creaked like old leather under strain, protesting the growing pressure.

The saddle, said Huari, pointing ahead to the place where Yiisuriel and her neighbour’s shells converged. Three and a half leagues depth. She groaned and stretched her wings. Pressure’s a headache!

Here, this should help, said Aranya, reaching out to touch the Blue. The Dragoness’ eye-fires flared as white as fresh duck-down. Now, to work on your pressure constructs …

Unstoppable Immadia! Contrariwise, Zip’s attention was drawn ahead. There. A veil of diaphanous, shimmering indigo magic denied access to the inner world. They had travelled untold thousands of miles to reach this place, but as she peered ahead, only one word came to mind.

Dismal.

Chapter 32: Thundering Islands

CHoice was limited. Choice was crucial, an unalienable right of intelligent beings. Choice, her instincts told her, was an illusion bounded by fate and circumstance. Aranya wondered if beneath it all, she was simply afraid of opening her heart to one who threatened to love her for who she truly was – not who she desperately yearned to be, but the new-normal Aranya. Twisted, despised Immadia. Vulnerable Immadia. She who could not fight a single battle against Thoralian without suffering mystical visions and collapsing in a defenceless heap.

Ugh! She curled her left paw so tightly, it shook. How different and distant this Aranya seemed from the girl who had frantically splattered Dragons onto canvas in the Tower of Sylakia.

As Yiisuriel modified the shield-construct in order to allow ingress, Aranya felt a frisson of magic run the length of her spine-spikes to her tail. Magic had so many dimensions. She must bring her utmost strength against the Thoralians. Storm was her right, her heritage and her power.

If it were a matter of willpower, the Thoralians would already be defeated.

She should not feel a hidebound fraud hiding a seventeen year-old Humansoul who still, in her mind, painted Dragons. Odd to be rationalising about her second-soul in this way.

Within, her linked-consciousness said, If we can learn to sing in the colours of Storm, Hualiama, then it must surely be enough, mustn’t it?

Dragoness-Aranya raised her brow-ridges. She was talking to Hualiama in there?

The temperature plummeted as they entered the Pit proper. The four Dragonesses linked minds lightly, sharing strength and overlapping their psychic shields. Senses cast about for imminent danger, but there was none – suspiciously so, Leandrial noted. Her eye-beam prodded the murky darkness and the stillness of long-stagnant air; to her annoyance, Aranya’s nostrils crinkled at a faint, acidic rankness. There were still odours percolating through her shield! What did they have to do to cut off all poisons – stop breathing? The Star Dragoness scanned the terrain ahead as they continued to press downward, working harder and harder against the frigid air congealing around their wings and limbs, as if they pressed through layers of numbing blankets.

After half an hour’s further descent into the blackness, Leandrial vented a resounding hmmmph! That should not be there.

A mile below, the pit ended abruptly in a vast, smooth cupola of gold-infused black metal. Aranya peered ahead. What a strange colour, tricking the eye, seeming to deceive the very light that fell upon it! The slightly curved surface glistened across the breadth of the Suald-dak-Doon, appearing to press upward from beneath like a vast growth that exactly filled the Pit and every serrulation of its edges. Leandrial’s beam bobbed back and forth, examining the phenomenon.

Meriatonium? asked Aranya.

Zuziana said, Aye. Hear that? What’s that noise?

My impression is that something’s drilling under there, said Huaricithe.

They winged downward more charily, thinking the same. The Egg’s rising should have fully been two leagues lower, inside the Pit. How could the Land Dragons have missed this?

Definitely meriatonium-based, but I’m not sure this is entirely … Leandrial’s voice trailed off. If I didn’t know better, if it wasn’t impossible, I’d say this is a derivative of meriatonium. It negates and evades magic in the expected ways, but it … flows. As she spoke, she fed multiple streams of data to Yiisuriel, including a mineral analysis, full-spectrum readings, and measurements of ambient temperature gradients and the air’s mineral content. Down to the base. Let’s take a closer look.

Close for Leandrial was a five-hundred-foot gap. Her smaller companions swam right down to the curved surface; Zip touched the metal with her talon, but could not so much as scratch it. Meantime Aranya wandered to the edge, thinking that if the measurements taken by the previous survey team held true, the strange metal must have overlapped Yiisuriel’s base by several hundred feet already. Not even a mosquito could have squeezed into the gap between rock and metal. And while she had been fed a steady diet of the First Egg’s monstrous power, not so much as a whisper of magic seemed to emanate from below. Meriatonium was famously resistant to magic. Only Dragons possessed the science and technology to mine it, whereas its cousin meriatite, the mineral ore, was open to Human exploitation and fuelled meriatite furnace engines the Island-World over.

Idly, the Star Dragoness scratched a line on Yiisuriel’s flank. This was the kind of place in which a Shadow Dragon might feel comfortable, but how could a star shine in such soulless darkness?

Whang!

Aranya back-winged sharply as the metal vibrated just beneath her. Leandrial … she stared at the spot she had just scratched. Gone. Swallowed up.

By the Great Onyx! bellowed the Land Dragoness, attacking the fluid metal with her Harmonic magic.

The metal surged! Aranya and Zip tangled wings as they retreated. Huari called, Don’t – Leandrial, you’re feeding it!

Feeding? The word pierced Aranya’s marrow with dreadful facility. As the light-beam shuttered, the meriatonium seemed to settle again, having gained another hundred feet. Flying ralti sheep …

Well, that was creepy, said Zip’s disembodied voice out of the darkness.

Ancestors’ blood, what do you think is underneath? gasped Huaricithe.

The silence deepened before Aranya sensed a faint vibration. That must be what Zuziana had heard before. Rather than allow common sense to intrude, she whipped down and pressed her left-side ear-canals against the meriatonium. Not – much. She spider-crawled sideways, trying to work out if the sound changed.

What’s she doing? Huaricithe whispered.

The Azure replied, Well, she has been known to first distract an entire roomful of warriors by running naked into their midst, before changing into her Dragoness and –

Hush, said Aranya. Her talons tap-tapped sideways until she crab-walked her nose into Yiisuriel’s flank. Ouch.

Zip added, Of course, sometimes she is unarguably peculiar.

The Immadian crooked a talon behind her back at her friend.

But we always obey the goddess’ whims. After all, I don’t run around worshipping my family. Doesn’t that rattle your wingtips, Huaricithe?

Looking up, Aranya saw an expression cross Huari’s face that suggested she had bitten into a mouthful of haribol fruit. Time for sympathy before her relative suffered a religious meltdown. Zip, I’m enormously fond of you, but – she waved a talon – grovel. Now.

Thankfully, Zip had the good sense to do exactly that – near enough to the Island, anyways. After conferring for a few minutes regarding the sounds, they startled as Leandrial scooped them aside with her talon, saying that Huari had a suggestion. Balance magic could not penetrate meriatonium, but it could penetrate rock.

She pressed her head against Yiisuriel’s flank, but the ancient Air-Breather already had a partial solution to the problem of angle. Balance can be bent, she rumbled, showing Aranya a construct. Your Dragonfriend knew this technique.

Being definitively less awesome than her illustrious dancing Aunt and the eidetically-equipped super-Pygmy, whom Leandrial did not fail to mention less than nine times in the following hour, Aranya sweltered and gritted her fangs at length over reproducing the fantastically complex magical structure. But after she attained a touch of mastery, the task became straightforward. Leandrial powered up her eye-cannon, Aranya hovered in a precise location to bend her output seventeen degrees, and a picture formed in their minds. Even Yiisuriel gasped.

What appeared to be dark tentacles waved periodically from beneath the meriatonium shield, brushing against the rocky wall of Yiisuriel’s flank. Where they touched, urzul flared and the rocky armour disintegrated, giving rise to that slight vibration they had sensed. As they watched, a soft-bodied creature moved partially into view. The Dragons stared at the boneless, sac-like beast in disgust. Its black-and-grey body bulged and squirmed grotesquely, as though parts of it were unfolding themselves from another dimension, Shapeshifter-like, often appearing through or swallowing other organs or limbs. With a flick of its misshapen limbs, the creature whipped away again. As Leandrial’s beam swept back and forth, hundreds more of the tentacles nipped back underneath the meriatonium shield. Hiding.

Well, now we know what they’re doing, Zip said angrily. Those are S’gulzzi, or their minions, and they’re trying to mine their way to freedom!

KRAA … KAABOOM. The faraway explosion punched their environment, even down in the Pit.

Yiisuriel bellowed furiously!

Then, before the companions could do more than exchange startled glances, the great Air-Breather relayed a call from Dhazziala, Star Dragoness, we need you! Fly!

* * * *

“How the hells do we miss an entire flying Island?” yelled Ri’arion.

“Freaking Herimor glamour!” snapped Ardan. Glaring at an Air-Breather was somewhat useless, given as they inhabited a cave seventeen miles above Yiisuriel’s feet, but his tone communicated the idea.

No, speed combined with urzul-enhanced shielding, rumbled Yiisuriel.

Ardan grasped this instinctively. Generate enough speed and an object would outrun the sound-waves it generated. Swathe an entire Island in clever draconic shielding, and the result was far worse than a meriatite bomb. He did not need science. He needed a solution, because the Air-Breathers were hurting and the outer shield was already in a critical state.

Summoning up the map Yiisuriel’s group had prepared, Ardan drew a mental line from the Vassal States to their Island-Cluster. That was what Thoralian had planned. At last, the disposition of the scattered clusters of Bottom-Huggers began to make sense. Their natural strength lay in the psychic realm, which had led Dhazziala’s Council to dismiss them as a threat when situated so far afield. The strategy was elegant, simple and altogether devastating. Take an Island from the Vassal States. Accelerate it across hundreds of leagues, skipping the Island over two thousand assembled shields like a stone skimming over a pond. Slam a million tonnes of rock into the Lost Islands’ psychic shield at a velocity of over one hundred leagues per hour.

Freaking windrocs, that had to hurt!

Human-Dhazziala dashed into their cavern. “How quickly can we get Aranya out there?”

“Do you think one Dragoness can stop whole Islands thundering into us?” growled Ardan. “They’re a long, long way down. They need to decompress; that takes time.”

“It was a mistake sending her –”

“To discover that the Air-Breathers are being undermined from beneath?” Ri’arion interrupted. “You’ve seen the report. Can we sustain our defences against attacks inside and out, First Hand? Can you calculate that?”

Dhazziala wiped sweat off her brow. “We don’t know. If the S’gulzzi bore deep enough, they will eventually reach areas that hurt even Air-Breathers. But the immediate danger –”

Second Island incoming – brace! bellowed Yiisuriel.

Ardan flexed his knees as a clamour of draconic pain rocked the Islands. They dampened the impact, trying to spread out the backlash, but the sheer kinetic power striking the shield made the Air-Breathers reel. Yiisuriel juddered as she absorbed the pain for others.

“We need to mount an attack on that Island-shooter,” said Dhazziala.

“Exactly what Thoralian will have planned for,” said Ri’arion. “What is his strategy? The drakes? More urzul-rain?”

Don’t remind us, came Zip’s voice, faintly.

Watching the damage measurements stack up in the Lost Islands’ communal mind, Ardan stated, “If the Land Dragons are taking this much damage, we can’t not attack. We’ve no choice.”

The monk put in, “I’ll go with Leandrial. We need to re-establish the location of the Thoralians. Fast. Also, let’s get to work on figuring out a way we can slingshot those Islands over the top and far away.”

Dhazziala said, “Long-range scans show parasitized Land Dragons moving in huge numbers to screen those Bottom-Huggers. We posit the Thoralians seek a pitched battle – either to draw Aranya into the open, or to try to infect our Land Dragons.”

Or just to beat us into a pulp, Zuziana put in.

Always seeing the positives, my Zuziana? Ri’arion retorted wryly.

One more thing, Yiisuriel groaned, and the grief-notes in her voice overwhelmed them all. That last Island was Human-inhabited. Thousands …

The anguish of memory! Ardan crashed to his knees. MURDERERS!

* * * *

Four days later, the consensus was ‘all of the above’, but most especially the ‘beat into a pulp’ part. Aranya flew out numerous times with Leandrial, returning battered, bruised and dispirited. No Thoralians. She had failed to eject any Theadurial from their Land Dragon hosts without killing both creatures. The Air-Breathers could not shape their aerodynamic shield enough to mitigate the impact of Islands against their flanks, nor could they deploy Land Dragons similarly to Thoralian’s legions because of the sheer numbers set against. There was no word from the Dragon Riders of the Vassal States.

“In summary, Sapphire, we are being thrashed from every angle and the Thoralians are glaringly absent from the war front. What are they up to?” Aranya scratched her dragonet’s chin where Sapphire liked it best. “What say you, my friend?”

Ari rest, she chirped.

“I will gladly defenestrate the next person who suggests that,” Aranya declared.

Sapphire not person. Sapphire dragonet, the mite pointed out.

“Alright, Sapphire. You’re safe from the ravaging Star Dragoness, who apparently couldn’t ravage so much as a bread roll let alone anything substantial. I just don’t have the strength to keep healing the Air-Breathers. Their pain is killing me. My storm’s rumbling along like a toothless old Dragon and my family of historical titans is annoyingly silent for a change. What’s with that?”

Aye, she was meant to be sleeping in her simple chamber. But it was way after midnight and Aranya felt wide awake. Keyed up. Not enjoying the hour when Beran said he always had his best ideas. Moodily, she swung out of her hammock, picked up a stick of charcoal – these Lost Islanders had no idea about real art implements – and considered the diagram on her wall. First, she shaded Yiisuriel’s outline, giving the Land Dragoness a profile in keeping with her monstrous stature. She was the lynchpin of the Lost Isles’ defence, the mainstay of her kin, upholding the great inner and outer shields. Five Air-Breathers had already passed on into the Eternal Fires, and a dozen more were critically injured.

Yesterday, Dhazziala had departed secretly with a group of Lesser Dragons to try to link up with the Dragon Riders. At least that kept her claws off Ardan. Vixen!

Aranya rapidly sketched Leandrial closing in on the Land Dragons comprising Thoralian’s devastating ultimate weapon, his Island-flinger. His rail-gun, the First Hand had called it – thousands of Land Dragons banded together to accelerate and fling Islands at his enemy, each contributing thrust and levitation along the axis of attack. Thankfully, the assault had slowed over the last day. Perhaps the Thoralians had used up the available Islands. Her quick hands sketched the Mesas, West of the battleground, which stretched over six hundred leagues south of the Vassal States. Where would he strike? What was the next facet of his strategy? For if they continued to be worn down at this rate, the three Thoralians would be able to saunter in and just help themselves to …

The First Egg.

Aranya sketched the cap, the pit, the S’gulzzi. They had no love for the Thoralians. They held the ultimate prize in their – claws? Tentacles? Mental pincers? They knew nothing of the S’gulzzi save rumour and legend. Creatures of the cold-fires, one legend had called them.

Yii, chirped Sapphire, touching the picture of Yiisuriel.

Human-Aranya cocked her head. Gangurtharr, are you snooping out there?

Silence.

KAABOOM!! Another Island. Aranya winced. She was under strict orders not to drain herself healing the Air-Breathers … KAABOOM! Another? So quickly. Why the urgency?

We mourn, came the sorrowful, soul-shadowing bugling of the Air-Breathers. Another death.

Struck by the note in the Land Dragoness’ voice, Aranya called, Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, I adjure thee in the name of the Great Onyx to swiftly speak the truth – art thou injured by the S’gulzzi? Have they penetrated thy Dragonflesh at last?

A vast sigh filled the chamber and Aranya’s mind simultaneously.

When? the Immadian demanded.

An hour ago –

KAABOOM! A smaller impact, but no less devastating, for the Land Dragons could not hold out much longer.

The chalk stick screeched as Aranya’s partial collapse against the wall drew a line connecting Yiisuriel and the stylised First Egg. She stared numbly at the spot, hearing Dragonsoul’s cry within her, No more! He’s picking us off at his leisure! and she muttered to herself, “But what can I do?”

The line made Yiisuriel and the Egg resemble one of the large door-keys from her ancestral home at Immadia Island. Yii. Key. Sapphire had been making a draconic pun-rhyme.

“Aye!” cried Aranya, grabbing Sapphire. “Come with me, you immodest little genius.”

“Genie?” squeaked the dragonet. “Mean clever?”

She ran.

What could she do? She was a Storm Dragon, the queen of improvisation. Free dance sang in her blood, Hualiama claimed. When had she ever gained by dithering? Aranya recognised that now. She knew her indecision had cost lives. Aranya quailed at the awful truth of Thoralian’s triumph over her heart and soul. No longer. She would beat that hegemony into dust.

Picking up her knees, she ran from her chamber toward the hangars, where the Dragonwings were dozing in preparation for the morrow’s endless battle against the drakes. Keeping busy. The siege, wearing down the defenders. Maiming. Killing. No more! She pumped her arms, ruing the dreadful toll the pox had taken on her physical body. And as she ran, she was startled to see herself starting to glow white. Even before her transformation, her Shapeshifter white-fires arose?

No, this is our soul, said Dragonsoul, within her. Or do you think we are not linked?

The Human chuckled softly, madly. I am fire?

You are fire, confirmed her inner presence. We burn as one. There is but one fire, twice enfleshed.

Her soundless flaring briefly brought suns-bright daylight to the long corridor. Aranya giggled as her feet left footprints in the scattered dust, all that remained of her clothing. Except the white scale. Exactly like Ardan’s ur-makka, it survived her fires and her transformations. How? Sapphire turned a celebratory spiralling somersault around her flying hair as the Shapeshifter Princess continued to flee down the corridor. Still Human. That was necessary, because the door at the end was Human-sized.

Shield, whispered Dragonsoul. Sneak out. This is our battle with the Thoralians, petal. No more souls must suffer and die, save us. We are the acceptable sacrifice. This task falls to our hands and paws.

Wreathed in shadow almost as effective as Ardan’s, the naked but invisible girl padded through the hangar, past the part-sleeping part-alert mountain of Genholme, past Bane and Lurax sleeping the sleep of exhausted soldiers beside her, and up to the great blast-doors, which remained wide enough for the watch-Dragons to slip in and out as needed. Auditory, olfactory, optical, tactile, pneumatic and magical shields surrounded her – thank you, Ri’arion and Ardan. She held Sapphire in her arms, inside her enchantment. Aranya froze as a Red Shapeshifter Dragon padded between the inner doors. Right. Stealth, Immadia! She held her breath, but the Dragon noticed nothing as his wingtip brushed over her foot.

Onward. Aranya whirled through the doors and found herself standing right between two further Dragons. Stupid, weak hearing! A tail crossed her path perfectly. There was no other recourse, no way around bulky hindquarters. Right. She could not levitate like Ri’arion, but she could achieve a similar effect with a clever bit of air-shaping.

Aranya wafted between the Dragons.

What was that? rumbled the Grey-Green Dragon on her left.

Night breezes, said the other.

Sapphire chuckled as Aranya silently rose, bouncing off the Dragon’s lazily extended paw on her air-cushion. She flipped over toward his companion, who scratched his neck vigorously as she rebounded off his thickset neck, again not touching the Dragon. Just air. Ha. Technically, she was still a convict. She may as well behave like one. Dragons who had just been reverse-burgled might not take it very kindly, she knew. Aranya drifted around four further Dragons patrolling the interior area between the blast-doors, spying a perfect, starry night beyond. How she yearned to fly, unbridled and unconstrained. Drifting up onto the lip of the fifty foot-thick doors, the Immadian wafted right to the edge. Below was a five-mile drop to the Cloudlands. She knew this view. Only this time, her chains were not metal, but flesh scarred and mortal.

Mother …

She dived into the void.

* * * *

Ardan woke as a huge paw gripped his shoulder. “Shadow! Up. Where’s Aranya?”

He shook the dream-cobwebs out of his head. “Aranya? How would I know? Sleeping, of –”

“In an abandoned chamber?” snarled Gangurtharr.

“What?”

Ten seconds later, he was staring at exactly that – an empty bedchamber.

“Wretched Princess!” His frantic gaze lit on the detailed, strategic map covering the wall. Rushing over, Ardan examined her markings. Leandrial. Dragon Riders. The jagged line connecting Yiisuriel and the First Egg … “Fra’anior’s sulphurous breath – Gang! You were supposed to watch her, you lazy lout!”

Gang’s muzzle could not even fit through the doorway, but his snarl certainly did. “She stole out, that ignoble girlfriend of yours! We need to alert –”

“No. Not yet.”

Fire bathed the corridor outside. “Why not?”

“Because she’ll have a reason for subterfuge. Aranya always has a reason – some crazy, noble, off-the-freaking-Island, insane reason … no! No, no … no!”

“What the hells?” growled the Dragon. “Speak truth-fires, be you a Dragon!”

“She’s gone to take on the Thoralians all by herself. She’s figured out the Dragon’s wings on his plans and she – typical ruddy woman! Why, you vexatious, maddening, beautiful woman! Why?”

“The noble sacrifice?” Gang rumbled, very slowly.

“Aye.”

The old Gladiator stilled his fulminating at once. “Right. We need to raise the alarm, but very, very quietly. I’ll get Huaricithe and Zuziana. Your friend thinks she’s sneaky? We’ll sneak up on her. Meantime, Marshal Tari warms up the Lost Island crews and we try to raise Leandrial and Ri’arion with a coded message. Give nothing away. Nothing. I’ve a feeling in my waters it’s all going to happen tonight.”

“Tonight?” echoed Ardan.

“Aye. Because this is Aranya the Assassin we’re talking about. Fra’anior’s kid grand-shell-daughter. She doesn’t seem to understand the word –”

“– impossible?” Ardan finished for him.

The Dragon snorted, “Or, enough, stop, slow down, be selfish, let it lie, play dead … anything! She has a ridiculously limited vocabulary for a creature of royal upbringing.” He aimed a talon at Ardan. “What’s not to love about that, eh?”

Man and Dragon stared at each other, sharing an appalled chuckle. Then, they charged off to battle. Surreptitiously.

* * * *

Aranya winged amidst starlight.

The night was light yet fey, the stars having an especial brilliance as only the White Moon was visible, far above the Lost Islands. It was unusual not to see so much as a sliver of the Yellow Moon above. Seen by starlight, the scene below seemed peaceful, just mountaintops peeking out of immaculate white Cloudlands. One could almost imagine an Island-World devoid of war.

Yet, another Island had struck the great shield as she traversed the hangar.

She must act. It was neither in her nature nor in her hearts to stand still when her friends were dying, and all knew that the Thoralians would never stop until all the Island-World bled upon the alter of his hubris and greed.

She saw nothing of the old Marshals, yet the Dragonsong of her hearts led her once more into the icy heights of the atmosphere. She knew she would find them there.

* * * *

Zuziana snapped, “See anything – Gang? Huari? Ardan?”

The other Dragons shook their muzzles. Strapped in upon Gang’s spike-saddle, which eschewed the usual girth-strap in favour of ratchets affixed to the spine-spikes, Ardan made a flat gesture. “No.”

“Then, follow the oath-magic.”

A chunky warrior rode a chunky Dragon. Strange how alike they seemed, the Remoyan thought, both grizzled and scarred, yet possessed of mighty hearts beneath their gruff exteriors. She knew her command rubbed the Western Isles warrior against his natural grain, but he voiced no word of protest. Instead, he closed his eyes.

Gang said softly, Too quiet. I don’t like this.

You never liked the quiet before battle, said Huaricithe, her eyes bright upon the Gladiator-Dragon.

Got a fiery spot for that Scrap, he said, stretching easily. Kid gave her tears for me, and look what I got. New scales, new life. What do you think, noble Huaricithe?

After this battle, will you roost with me?

Zip felt her fires blush. Well, it was a romantic night, a night in which the White Moon’s light whispered upon Dragon-scales, and only a matter as trivial as the end of the Island-World happened to be looming – why not a liaison now? No Dragon knew if they would survive the battles to come.

Gang stretched out a wing. Further. It trembled. He warbled, Thou, whose eye-fires are purest starlight to mine third heart …

Thou, Huaricithe crooned back, touching his wingtip with hers. I have always … how foolish I have been, these many years, never to regard thee with true-fires, noble Gangurtharr. I shall be thine, if thou wilt be mine.

The Azure Dragoness stared at the White Moon. That was no moon! No!

Forever thine, Gang said.

There’s something I need to tell you, said the Azure, straining her eyesight to the limit. The quality of the light was strange and intermingled, and against that brilliant point, could she make out the shadow of a shadow, a Dragon the size of a forty-foot Amethyst?

What, that Brityx has found us out? said Ardan, pointing downward.

No. Zip shuddered. Look up. That’s not a Moon. It’s something … else.

Chapter 33: Sacrifice

THe thREE THORALIANs turned with one accord, and one mind, to gaze at Aranya as she approached. Backlit by the baleful, pallid light of their creation, the Yellow-White Dragon-triplet appeared almost translucent, their wings like skeletal struts lacking connective tissue, their hides smooth and snakelike, the fires of their eyes almost invisible against the intense ambient glare. Shivering, Aranya remembered Izariela’s teaching about the nature of corrupt forms of magic, that they were sometimes beautiful in their own right; that evil could parade a false beauty yet still be inimical, destructive and wholly abhorrent.

Now, she knew this for truth.

Above the Thoralians, a great ball of silvery-white light had formed against a backdrop of the blackest velvet, perhaps half a mile across, circumscribed somehow by the threads of magic rising from their circling flight. They orbited its base steadily, seeming to eschew the need for ordinary flight, which in itself was a statement of wing-shivering power. A mere hundred feet separated the Thoralians’ wingtips from the seething surface. That ball boiled not with heat, but with a brutal chill that made her once-injured shoulder twinge in recollection. Moisture in the air did not condense upon its surface, but fell away in a fine white dust that made the brilliant ball appear as if it sported a snowy white beard.

The night was unutterably still, here, four leagues above the Cloudlands.

Thoralian spoke in tones of three-but-one thunder, “So, the diseased whelp of Izariela has emerged from her hole at last. Well met, Star Dragoness. I never had any doubt you would cross the Rift-Storm to Herimor.”

“I can’t say the pleasure is mutual, Thoralian,” Aranya gritted out, soothing Sapphire with a touch of her paw.

“Ah, but this was always the plan, the moment of my crowning glory! And now that you have come, the cusp of our collaboration is at paw –”

“If you think I’ll ever serve –”

“What? No rescue of your precious mother? How unfaithful thou art, Aranya of Immadia!” Three muzzles scorned her. “Don’t forget, I still hold that secret.”

“I’ve spoken to Izariela. She’d rather see you dead.”

“You’ve … spoken? How droll.” Yet the oily nuances of his speech failed to disguise his surprise.

“We Star Dragons have our ways.”

Circling. Endlessly circling. Every one of Aranya’s Dragon senses was on the utmost alert, her reactions primed, her magic and storm swelling as Thoralian’s cold tones rolled over her.

You’re nothing but a blighted, ghastly eyesore, Aranya, sneered the muzzles. Once, you escaped my vengeance through your despicable Star Dragoness trickery. Never again!

I wonder what your liver tastes like? Aranya mused. Probably diseased and worm-ridden.

Brave talk from a broken Dragoness. So noble, coming up here alone, but I see your friends gathering below. My armies approach from the North, chasing those pathetic Dragon Riders you think are going to save you. Aranya glanced both ways, very rapidly. Zip? No! And out on the horizon, just as an army of Dragonships had once broached the far shores of Immadia’s vista, she saw the dots representing a mighty force of Dragons. Aye, my drakes and Lesser Dragons hound them this way, pathetic sheep to the slaughterhouse I have prepared for you and your allies. Attend, Aranya. Below us lies Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, for six hundred years, the mainstay of these pathetic Dragon-Haters. They think nothing can breach their precious defences. I think otherwise.

Aranya observed the three Yellow-Whites picking up their pace, still without any visible wingbeat. Magic swelled, the jarring song of urzul. Light began to elongate from the bottom of the ball, passing right between the three circling Dragons.

Three mouths opened as one. Now, o tragic Princess of Pox, you shall be a helpless observer to the fate of these, the last Clan of Air-Breathers in the Island-World, and my ancillary to the destruction of a civilisation that has plagued Dragons since the time of Dramagon himself. Once I have annihilated the Air-Breathers with my urzul-light-spear, I shall consume you, body and soul, Star Dragon –

You’re deluded!

The Thoralians smiled discomfortingly. Why do you think I risked all to cross the Rift-Storm, Aranya? Juvenile fool, you think in mere years, while I think in centuries, yea, in aeons! I have gained the knowledge to bring you and your worthless line low, the very knowledge once possessed by the fabled Pygmy Dragon!

Aranya trembled, watching the light elongate, fearful of the awful power gathering behind that spear of light. She made no reply. Why did he not attack her with his mind, as before? With three of him it was the Thoralians’ best option, yet he seemed content to bluster, conserving his undoubted power. Why this posturing, unless he assumed that she could never defeat this light-spear he boasted about? It reeked of urzul, at which she despaired, knowing she had not yet worked out how to combat that foul anti-magic.

What if we don’t fight it? Humansoul whispered within.

The Thoralians roared, You shall learn, you foul spawn of a salamander, that not even a Star Dragoness can move faster than starlight itself! BE UN –

Mustering strength born in extremity, Aranya shifted.

She reappeared with a quick-fire, OPEN, BEZALDIOR!

– LEASHED!

Perhaps she could not move faster than light, but she had twice moved faster than Shadow. Aranya rematerialized a mere quarter-mile above her friends, reaching out with magic already fully formed and her talons outstretched. She bent the light.

Yiisuriel’s trick saved the Air-Breather’s life. A spear of pure, urzul-infused light flashed down past her flank, passed right through a theoretically impenetrable shield, and lanced into the depths of the Suald-dak-Doon. Before any Dragon could even blink, an incalculable explosion rocked the area. Funnelled by the Land Dragons’ shield, the retort blasted into the night sky like a volcanic eruption, tossing Zip, Aranya, Gangurtharr, Huari and Brityx aside as though they were flies slapped by a hurricane blast.

The Lost Islands rocked … and did not topple.

Yet, the first sound Aranya heard when her ear-canals recovered was the triumphant screech of the Thoralians, howling, THE FIRST EGG! IT RISES!

Then, animate darkness flowed over the shining Egg and a second eruption began.

S’gulzzi!

By Fra’anior’s beard, what had she done?

* * * *

Ardan was just beginning to follow the yearning of his heart upward into the skies, when the not-Moon shot from above like a harpoon cast into a dark lake. Only a crooked scar of light on his retinae remained to inform his disbelief. Aranya had just seized light in her paws and despatched it in another direction. Away from them. Into the Pit.

Then, a detonation ripped out of the depths, smashing into the shielded Dragons. Meriatonium might deny all magic, but an explosion of untold megatons was a different matter altogether. As they tumbled away, he saw, ever so briefly in the depths of that vast pit, a shining, jewel-like Egg of a size that surpassed his wildest imaginings. It had to be half a mile across. Iridescent. Mesmeric. The greatest magical prize in the Island-World.

Then, darkness lurched within the pit.

Gangurtharr pumped his wings, shooting across the divide as though he knew the tenor of Ardan’s fires, even if his Rider was just catching up. Snaffling the Amethyst Dragoness’ lolling body in his huge paws, he growled, “Aranya! What have you done?”

“Unleashed … ancient enemies …” she whispered. “Mercy, I’ve made a terrible mistake –”

“Correction. You saved a nation,” rapped Huaricithe.

The Thoralians plummeted from on high; still, from that height, they would take minutes to arrive. Brityx mentally triggered the alarm. Immediately, the blast-doors crashed open and the battle-ready Dragonwings poured out. Yiisuriel struggled to re-form the shield which Aranya had so casually ripped open. Ardan could not believe the Star Dragoness’ nerve, but what choice did she have?

Flanks first, the Air-Breather ordered her kin. The mental presence of the Air-Breathers merged, strengthening the shield that protected the cliffs of their flanks.

“Long-range data indicates five thousand Dragon Riders incoming,” said Brityx, briskly interpreting the information fed to them by the Lost Islands communal mind. “Every Land Dragon in a hundred leagues is headed in this direction – it’s the final assault.”

“Look at the Mesas,” said Zuziana, pointing. “Against the snow, do you see that? Actually, they’re already halfway here.”

“Dragons and drakes,” Huaricithe confirmed.

Suddenly, the forces of Lesser Dragons and Shapeshifters rising from the peaks of the Inscrutables did not seem so many or so brave. Seeing the numbers ranged in opposition, and knowing that the S’gulzzi rose out of their pit, the Lesser Dragons shivered and Sapphire leaped from Aranya’s paw to her shoulder. This would be a three-way battle, spoils to the victor.

Ardan said, “You did right, Aranya. Now, we must finish the Thoralian-triplet and these S’gulzzi. How can I help?”

Her eye-fires turned upon him, apricot and carmine, azure and white. “I need my Storm, Ardan.”

His body went rigid in the saddle.

“I need you to think badly of me. Think, this is the kind of woman I could never … marry. Think about my ugliness.” Her voice wept even though her decision seemed set in granite. “Hate me, Ardan. Hate the oath; abhor what it did to us.”

Heat exploded in his head. “You ask the impossible!”

“No sacrifice is too much for our Island-World, Ardan.”

“I cannot … change … what is immutable.”

“Then go freaking kiss Dhazziala – Ardan! Please! I forgive you already … just do it. If you must, do it for me, but you must fool the oath-magic. It is the only way.”

Wretched woman. This was one way, but was it right? Must he once more toss his integrity to the windrocs?

Immadia, you cut my very soul! he growled, letting the nuances of Dragonish suffuse his response with so much more than words. It was all he could think to say, but anguish sang eloquently in her eyes before Aranya lowered her gaze.

She whispered, Oh, Ardan … it can never …

So much hurt! Ardan at once admired her denials, made for the sake of the greater cause, and hated what they meant for him. Was he man enough to do the same?

Rasping of breath, the Amethyst Dragoness wriggled out of Gang’s paw to measure the Thoralians’ approach with narrowed eyes. She had already dismissed him from her mind, he thought angrily. Now, he caught fragments of her distress. The Immadian Dragoness thought upon Thoralian’s torture. The pox. Yolathion’s poor, crushed body spread upon a ghastly machine, screams so piteous they turned his blood to ice, and the dying of thousands of souls trapped upon the Islands Thoralian had launched across the Cloudlands. She had the clarity and imagination of an artist born. Details seared his awareness like acid rivulets, mirrored by tears spilling unheeded down his scarred cheeks.

Aye. For what Aranya had seen, and suffered. For unrealised grief, certain to come at the Thoralians’ paw. He must act.

Darkness boiled over the lip of the Air-Breathers’ inner shield. The S’gulzzi seemed akin to huge bats, having appendages similar to wings and paws and tails, but they were strangely twisted, as though some ill-formed template had become corrupted in the womb. Nor were they fully embodied. Ardan had the impression that these accursed creatures had sought to copy physical forms based on a misapprehension of the world far above their natural realm, hoping for bodies that could survive the enormous pressure differentials – even as he watched, some bodies crumbled or slumped in lifeless heaps upon Yiisuriel’s flanks, where they hissed and steamed and ate into the rock as though they exuded acid. Yet those few were instantly overwhelmed by the millions rising behind, filling the pipe to bursting with their innumerable congregation. Many took to the air, rising in a dark cloud above the softly moonlit peaks of the Air-Breathers. Their eyes were slits of lava; dark, reddish-orange pits in the head region, sometimes four or five in number.

Then, Ardan realised that he was looking over his shoulder at a receding view, as Gang sprinted for the North. For Dhazziala.

* * * *

The skies filled with the chittering of the deadly drakes and the swishing of tens of thousands of Lesser Dragons’ wings as the massive forces converged. Below the Cloudlands, Zuziana knew that Leandrial and Ri’arion commanded a running battle as they sought to return the depleted Land Dragon forces to the beleaguered Lost Islands, already under attack by Thoralian’s Theadurial-infested allies. It seemed to her that the entire draconic world had received the command, ‘go feral’. Dhazziala, in close communication now with the communal mind, had just committed her entire force to the air.

The Thoralians descended upon the rising tide of S’gulzzi, flying in a complex helical pattern that gathered white ice about them even as she watched.

When the forces collided, it was not with the booming concussion of Islands, as she expected. Instead, the impact seemed despicably delicate – far too soft and quiet, a hateful lie considering the magnitude of destruction that immediately ripped through the disparate forces. Dragons locked together, fang and claw. Metallic Fortress Dragons fired all of their Bullets at once, scorching the air with a hail of projectiles. Dragon armour sizzled and bubbled in the grip of S’gulzzi tentacles and limbs; many already raining from the sky, clinched in mortal struggle. Such an eruption of fireballs scorched the air, the skies turned into a ghastly, reddish radiance, as if a bloody eclipse ripped the night’s innocence asunder, and the stars themselves bled.

The Yellow-Whites fell upon the S’gulzzi like three vast white war-hammers, striking such devastating blows with their Ice-attacks and another, shrieking attack that Zuziana realised must be the fabled Shivers, that they singlehandedly stalled the dark tide rising over the shield and spilling onto Yiisuriel’s back. Then, the dust-covered mound of bodies heaved and fresh S’gulzzi swarmed upward, still inestimable in number. The plummeting Thoralian-triplicate vanished beneath the throng of sooty black bodies as though swallowed by a single vast maw.

He wants the First Egg! Aranya roared.

With a jerk, Zip clapped her wings together to shadow the Amethyst Dragoness into battle, with Brityx and Huaricithe, her fellow-Blues, hot on her tail. Now, in the press and adrenaline and snap of combat, the Star Dragoness began to find her fire. Pfft! Pfft! Two signature blue-hot fireballs raced away, blowing apart a knot of drakes. The three Blues tidied up with Lightning strikes as they looped rapidly over Genholme’s back, hunting the Thoralians. Aranya began to change colour again, moving more toward her gemstone Amethyst, gleaming as though lit up from within.

Zuziana smashed a drake with her tail and frazzled another which had intended to grapple with her best friend. Not today. Not on her watch. Then they wheeled amidst the flitting S’gulzzi bat-things, shielding against thousands of dagger-sharp mental attacks, their natural dark-fire magic impacting like fireballs against the Lesser Dragons’ minds. Brityx and Huaricithe drew tight, protecting her and Aranya. They sliced contrariwise through a dark tide, heading from Yiisuriel’s crown toward the Pit of Despair, briefly catching sight of a Thoralian amidst the hundreds of thousands of rippling black bodies, throwing back his muzzle and screaming as though he were drowning.

Would it be too much to hope that the Thoralians had bitten off more than even three mouths could chew, this time?

Then, she remembered her babies. Thoralian had to die. All of him.

* * * *

The Storm Dragoness powered through the battle, trying and failing not to expend her energy on the drakes and S’gulzzi darkening the starry night skies. Everywhere she turned, there was another dark body or another underslung jaw champing at a Lesser Dragon, or S’gulzzi clamping onto a Metallic Fortress Dragon, their acid-like magic chewing through armour as though it were a soft, sweet treat. Drakes mobbed the battling Dragonkind and S’gulzzi in their tens of thousands, clearly summonsed by the Thoralians to try to bail him out of the cesspit he had landed himself in. His clarion mental calls cut through the fray like shards of ice, rallying his troops and calling in the Land Dragons and drakes for additional support.

For long minutes, the battle seemed deadlocked, with the drakes and S’gulzzi killing each other off at the same rate as which they arrived, and the Lesser Dragons stalking each other through the resulting mayhem.

The Amethyst snaked her neck about, firing a barrage of precision fireballs with the aim of clearing a path to the Thoralians. She must not let them reach the Egg. That was her paramount concern, yet for now, the sheer numbers of S’gulzzi kept him afloat, as though he burbled atop a geyser of living bodies. Drakes rolled over her small Dragonwing in a shrieking wave, forcing the Lesser Dragons to fight for their lives.

Pfft-pfft-pfft! Behind her came the sharper hss-crack! of Zip’s lightning attacks, and from her right shoulder, the shrill battle-challenge of a dragonet. Sapphire touched her, soothing a rent wing-membrane and a talon-strike she had taken to the throat. Wow. The dragonet had a few tricks up her scaly sleeves. Aranya only hoped she could see her friends safely through this conflict. The numbers of fallen already beggared belief. This would change the Balance of draconic powers and magic in the Island-World. It must.

Where was Ardan? And where was her Storm? Why, o Fra’anior, could she not summon that power when she needed it most – o Daughter of the Whispering Zephyr?

Despair occluded her Dragon-hearts.

* * * *

Ardan imagined a carter hauling up his animals with a screech of brakes as Gangurtharr executed a fancy brake-flip-turn, one of his Gladiator moves, and fell into formation with the Cobalt-Green Dhazziala, who headed up a monstrous Dragonwing of Dragon Riders and their heavily-armoured Dragons. He had never seen Dragon armour like theirs, scaled and banded, tooled by masters to protect the neck, flanks and upper limbs. Even their wing-primaries boasted shaped armour cladding.

The First Hand turned to him without preamble. Report, Shadow.

In terse, staccato sentences, Ardan described the situation as he understood it.

Right, so what do you need me to do? Dhazziala asked at once. Not for her nuance, nor concern for his integrity, Ardan thought sourly. Oh! An idea …

He said, How good are you at wiping specific memories out of minds, Dhazziala?

She glowered at him. Expert.

Good. I’ll need you to modify my memories, too. Can I ask for a volunteer – not you, with respect – First Hand? Someone attractive enough that I might feel … uh, passionate … about her?

Meaning to rouse the oath-magic to wildfires?

Aye.

Dhazziala showed him a dazzling thicket of fangs. Thing is, Shadow, you wouldn’t remember the slightest detail. What do you think – Gangurtharr?

The Gladiator-Dragon almost tangled up his wings in shock. What are you suggesting?

Her rich laughter belled over them. Oh, you males. Let me inquire among our fearless Dragon Riders if any woman dares essay this unpleasant task. After all, to scorn a Star Dragoness is not a deed lightly undertaken. But you, Ardan – I would give my left wingtip to romance your Dragon!

Ardan’s legs twitched sharply as that deep, deep magic wrenched itself into wakefulness. Oh no. What had he and Aranya agreed to now?

Then, a vast Green winged up to Gangurtharr’s other flank. The female Dragon Rider on his back, a giantess so wild and forbidding of mien that Ardan felt every hair on his nape crawl in different directions at once, stood up in the saddle, crashed her armour-plated fist to her breastplate, and roared, “Aaaarrrgghh, he looks a tasty morsel! I accept with pleasure, noble Dhazziala!”

Ardan blenched.

Every Dragon, Human and Shapeshifter in the vicinity burst into laughter. The oath-magic fizzed and danced.

* * * *

Storm lifted her. It bubbled in her veins and seethed in her stomachs. The song of Storm crackled along her limbs and filled her skull with an exquisitely intense pressure, like the wildest of Dragonsong mingled with drumrolls of thunder and the acrid tang of ozone.

Aranya withheld.

* * * *

Zip saw the moment her friend changed. They were dodging through the thick of battle, supporting Genholme as she forged a path steadily toward the last place where they had seen the Thoralians, when Aranya seemed to shudder. Her talons contracted. Her wings flared sharply, cupping the air. A rare gleam entered her eye, a white so intense and beautiful, the startled Azure Dragoness decided it represented every colour crammed together, making that unique white at once pure, and the most complex colour in existence.

The Amethyst Dragoness drew a single, unending breath, and the Island-World seemed to inhale with her. Thunder shook the Islands. Branch lightning crackled in thousands of locations around the horizon’s edge, lighting the deep night with a sinister amethyst radiance.

FOLLOW ME!

Sevenfold thunder slammed out of her throat.

That was what shook the Azure. So much power, rising – could Aranya keep from going feral? Who could hope to master such magic? Her friend lurched again. White burst from her scales. Again! Fire raged from her nostrils, burning so heatedly, it scalded the air in waves of white.

FOR THE ONYX!

The peal of her thunder swept aside drakes and Dragons as though she shrugged fleas off her hide. Aranya exploded, pyretic. Zip thought at first that the Land Dragons had arrived in numbers, that the beams of many eye-cannons split the night, but it was the song of tempestuous, uncontainable Storm that filled the Star Dragoness now. Dragons and S’gulzzi scattered as she waded through the fray, tiny yet majestic, cutting and burning and obliterating any who dared to stand in her way. Even the notoriously aggressive drakes turned and fled, tails tucked between their legs like scolded hounds. Aranya burned them all across a swathe of miles. Gestures of her talons called down a rain sulphurous fire and blistering hail – if that was its true nature – from the suddenly clouded heavens, and somehow, Zip saw, the Amethyst discriminated between friend and foe with an instinct deeper and faster than thought.

It seemed Fra’anior’s battle-challenge belled in a voice of heavenly lamentation. Shovelling drakes aside with blasts of wind, Aranya crashed spears of ice through their heads and left them for dead. Storm winds screeched over her scales, buffeting the spitting, sparking dragonet on her shoulder and the single white scale flapping wildly at her throat, yet she and Sapphire seemed forged in oneness. Was the dragonet helping? Aye, smaller but no less scorching bolts of lightning sparked from the dragonet, seizing up four S’gulzzi that tried to sneak up behind the Amethyst.

Zip risked a half-glance aside. The Dragon Riders were close, perhaps ten minutes away from the main battle. With a Storm-powered roar, Aranya curled up a wave of semi-embodied S’gulzzi and rammed them back down into the Suald-dak-Doon, crushing tens of thousands. Only the Thoralians resisted, shielding somehow with a shriek of urzul magic that cut across Aranya’s windstorm, making silvery sparks fly from her leading wing-edges, talons and scales.

Pausing at last, the Amethyst eyed her battered foes balefully. The First Egg is mine, Thoralian. Yield or die.

He snickered, Very impressive, little Dragoness. You’ve learned a thing or two since we last battled. So have I – and I have a power you know nothing about.

She growled, Oh? What’s that?

As a greasy, burning magic seized her mind, the Azure mewled in distress, yet no sound emerged from her throat. Her womb twisted as though caught in the throes of labour. Privately, Thoralian snarled, Now is the hour you choose the future of your egglings, Zuziana of Remoy. Do not fail them.

To her horror, she saw her paws curl, talons fully extended from their sheaths. Aranya winged just below and ahead of her. Darting forward, Zip sank her talons into her best friend’s neck and triggered her lightning power.

Chapter 34: Requiem of Dragons

AGony speared into her neck and head, cutting off the flow of her Storm power as though a spigot had been stoppered. For a long, long moment, Aranya could not understand what had happened. She smelled the sickly sweet stench of charred flesh – her own. The only Dragonkind near her had been Zuziana and the dragonet on her shoulder, but Sapphire’s spitting fury provided a vital clue, as much as Zip’s wild sobbing as she tore her talons free.

Kill her! snarled Thoralian.

Sapphire hissed, Traitor! Shoot her, Ari! It was Zip!

I … cannot. N-N-Never, sobbed the Azure.

The pain throbbed so sharply, Aranya could not feel the rest of her body. Flinging Zuziana off her back with a convulsive shudder, she stared blankly at her best friend. Zip? Zip, you …

Talons dripping golden blood. Eyes, distraught and terrified beyond comprehension.

Icy talons seized Aranya’s mind. Kill each other.

Zip quivered, still sobbing, but she rebuffed the Thoralians. I’d rather kill myself. I’d kill my babies first before you have them – never, Thoralian. Never!

Thoralian … Zuziana! What had he done to her? Molten fury ignited in Aranya’s breast. Yet in the split second she began to release her fire, the Thoralian-triplicate roared, STOP!

The Word froze her. Aranya could not flick a claw, nor move a muscle. Her lungs would not inflate.

He turned to Zuziana. Kill your friend. KILL HER!

Only the very fringe of his crushing, triple-strong mental power washed against Aranya’s mind, yet she almost succumbed. As a linked triplet, Thoralian was exponentially stronger than before. No need to cajole. He aimed to diminish, to engulf and dominate and destroy lesser minds, yet Zip was beyond reaching, now; the instinct of a mother fearing for her babies stronger than anything the Thoralians could throw at her.

Sobbing, she dug her talons in toward her womb. Don’t. I will kill them first, I swear, Thoralian. I will never betray my friends for you, even should it cost my life.

You seal your doom, little Azure, sneered the Yellow-White Dragons. I always knew you lacked the courage. Yet know this, I can stop you, too, before your talons do more than draw golden Dragon blood. With the Egg’s power, I will extinguish your mind and leave a husk which shall bear my progeny. All you will know is eggs swelling so large in your belly they will split your flesh like an overripe melon – STOP!

Zuziana halted mid-sob. Her paws quivered. Oh, Zip! Aranya had never loved her friend more. Thoralian had forced her into this by some vile trickery or threat against her egglings, yet she had balked.

Thoralian disparaged her, but the Amethyst saw the true face of courage.

* * * *

A Word of Command! Ardan gasped as the constant singing of oath-magic within him, arrested. Paralysed. It seemed his soul was ice, that he must also be paralysed. He could but observe from a distance of a mile and a half as the Dragon Rider wing forged into the heaviest fighting yet, as the Thoralians seized both Amethyst and Azure with that most legendary power. None could resist. And even from this distance, his mind quailed at the font of strength that was Thoralian, at the malice shining from three pairs of sallow eyes as the triplet circled his victims-to-be, bludgeoning them with his mind.

He must intervene. How could he reach them?

Brityx and Huaricithe screamed in, but a touch of the Thoralian-mind mobbed them with hundreds of drakes. He saw the surface of the First Egg briefly appear amidst the miles-wide sea of S’gulzzi; almost, the prize was within reach. Aranya had risked all to bring this situation about.

Then, his sharp, searching eyes caught a flash of sapphire scales on Aranya’s shoulder.

Sapphire!

What could a dragonet –

Inverse, Dhazziala interjected, sounding so mournful his mind attuned instantly to her words. You are the Shadow. Not a lesser being. The Shadow has power in its own right. It is the inverse of light, its muse, its companion, its ever-present antithesis. Only you can find a way. Magic is opposites, Ardan. Opposites, and antagonistic forces.

He could not touch Aranya. Her mind was beyond his reach, now. Nor Zuziana. But the spark of Sapphire’s consciousness welcomed him, and her clever little memory played back not so much the Word Thoralian had spoken, but the extraordinary, immutable constructs of magic that held them fast. He saw Sapphire’s gift and smiled at the mental image the faithful dragonet showed him – that of a parakeet. She was an imitator. Therefore, might she not also un-imitate?

Ardan wrestled the ideas through his thick-as-mud mind. He must reach beyond incapacity and disbelief, and the inner devaluing of his existence. Thou too art mine, Sha’aldior! Fra’anior had predicted Aranya would need him. Was Shadow of Onyx, the darkest of strength? Let it be!

Suddenly, he surged, snapping the saddle-straps as though they were crumbling scrolleaf. Beneath him, Gangurtharr’s wingbeat hitched in surprise. Ardan? Did you Shift?

Nay. He only wished. But his vision was clear. There was another way.

His chest swelled. I AM SHA’ALDIOR!

Ardan’s core strength flooded forth, not directed at the unattainable song of his heart, but to flood into the smaller but no less worthy Dragon-heart that gripped Aranya’s shoulder with her talons. Should a Dragoness possess a fourth heart? Its name was Sapphire.

Immediately, the dragonet parroted back the draconic rune-language he invented, like the relief effect of an engraving. Oddly, this emerged as, Be free!

Sha’aldior chortled gleefully as Aranya’s sevenfold wrath split the night asunder.

Sorry, Thoralian, he chortled. All bets just shifted to the Dragoness who’s about to flay your stinking hide and kick the remnant into oblivion.

* * * *

Oath-magic was deep and ethereal, operating below even the subconscious level in her Dragoness’ perception. But the grieving anger of her Humansoul was real and palpable, and the germ of her Storm worthy of the majestic panoply of her grandfather’s most shattering wrath. It was so visceral, that threat against Zuziana’s unborn babes, that Aranya found herself catapulted beyond rational response. She waded across the Pit of Despair, smashing the Thoralians with blast after booming blast, her thunder pummelling the triplets like ragged cloth dolls across the Suald-dak-Doon. Lightning poured from her clenched fists in concussive blows. Boom! Boom! BOOM! The three Yellow-White Dragons shielded and dodged and deflected, carving canyons through the swarming S’gulzzi as the force of Aranya’s overwhelming attack pounded them up and down, back and forth, and in that fury there was a sobbing of thunder and a hysterical storm-wind that shrieked the exact notes of her ravaging grief, the suffering of a Dragoness and the anguish of an Island-World at war.

Maddened, the Star Dragoness punished the Thoralians while the urzul magic in the Pit sang a low, fervent song. This was true power. Inciting. Spellbinding. A voice of untrammelled magic.

Then, Aranya became aware of a gentle touch upon her shoulder. Ari scary! Not forget self?

Sapphire, terrified – of her!

Gradually, by degrees, she relented, until Aranya faced the tattered, smoking Thoralians across a short space. She wheezed, Give it up, Marshal. Your power is broken.

All for nought, spat one of the Thoralians. Whole fangs dropped from his broken mouth as he slurred, You see, Aranya, your mother’s condition is untreatable. I can show you.

Knowledge lurked at the edge of his mind, hers for the taking. Despair instantly sheathed her bones in ice. Aranya knew his words for truth. Perhaps for the first and only time, Thoralian spoke honestly, for by this, he meant to break her hope. They had used a complex, unique formulation of Shapeshifter poisons on Izariela, seven of which had no known antidote. Despair! Her Storm surged …

Unnecessarily, viciously, the Thoralians added, You can never save your shell-mother. There’s no way, by any form of magic or physical substance, she can be saved. Whatever enters her body will complete the corruption of her Shapeshifter form. She’s as good as dead.

If Aranya had cried for Izariela, her tears would have constituted the killing stroke.

She reeled. No … no, no, no!

Thoralian cried, Now, let my Theadurial – ARISE!!

Gleaming in the fell light of the moons and the fires of the Dragonwings writhing in fatal contest above the Lost Islands, Land Dragons poured up the flanks of the Air-Breathers and attacked the final shield still separating the Island-World from the ravaging S’gulzzi.

* * * *

All was ice. Her world, shattered. Aranya floated above the Suald-dak-Doon, unable to think, unwilling to process what she had just heard. Lost. Thoralian must pay. Yet she was powerless to lift a talon.

Below, the darkness stirred, assuming a new form from which even the S’gulzzi fled like rabid curs. Flapping and screeching and thrashing about in their millions, the shielded pipe between the Air-Breathers emptied to attack the legion Dragons and drakes above, but Aranya’s gaze was drawn to the gloom below; the moving coils of darkness, embracing the First Egg’s gleaming beauty with loving malevolence. The enormity of the creature down there, its eyes glowing like old coals.

A debased form of Dragonish roared over her, filled with clicks and nuances and haunting power of a kind she had never heard before.

SO, YOU THINK MY MINIONS WERE THE TRUE S’GULZZI?

Its power was that of the Rift-Storm, eroding her white-fires magic. Earthen-fires? Or urzul? The Star Dragoness drifted backward, separating herself from the Thoralians as she struggled to preserve her sanity and magic.

Gazing up at the Thoralians, the creature bellowed, THIS IS MY EGG! YOU GAVE UP THE URZUL, YOU FOOL!

The S’gulzzi had stolen the secret of urzul from Thoralian? When?

Eye-cannons blazed in concert, inundating the creature’s enormous obsidian coils with Harmonic magic and light. It shook the Air-Breathers with the bellows of its pain and rage, and the shield disintegrated. What a sound! Aranya could not think before it, feeling as if her very bones were melting. The creature was urzul personified. Already, Lesser Dragons and drakes, Land Dragons and Shapeshifters and even the S’gulzzi themselves wilted before the wash of its corrupting power.

The Thoralians cried, The First Egg is mine!

Never! Aranya surged toward them, gathering her Storm, only to trigger the Yellow-White’s maniacal laughter.

The Egg or the friend, Storm Dragoness? he said. My corrupting spirit is ready, present and potent within her body. I, at least, shall survive this encounter.

The Yellow-White drifted downward; Aranya tried to read his intent. Zip still hovered motionless, not falling, just stuck in the sky as though pinioned to a taxidermist’s dissecting table. The Star Dragoness saw, with the eyes of her sixth Dragon-sense, the corruption lurking in her best friend’s body, enclosing the womb, poised to poison her egglings just as the Chameleon Shapeshifters had left their mark upon Aranya’s own body.

Daimonic spirit! she howled.

The Thoralians folded their wings. The First Egg is mine! Enjoy your friend’s demise, Amethyst.

He hurtled into the conflict below, the Land Dragons scrabbling over each other in a bid to be first into the Pit of Despair to secure the Egg; screaming at the putrefying touch of the creature that awaited them, curled around that priceless jewel, its mere breath enough to turn their flesh to dust and their bones to water, the song of its destruction cutting into the Air-Breathers as the Island-sized Dragons began to flee, drifting apart with cries of agony indistinguishable from the general chaos.

Aranya saw the instant the Thoralians’ vicious magic whipped toward Zuziana. Yet, even telepathy travelled only as fast as thought.

Zuziana!

Starlight glimmered across the divide.

* * * *

Ardan shuddered together with Leandrial and Ri’arion as their force was inundated in a sea of bodies, but the Theadurial-infested Land Dragons had no further interest in fighting them. All they wanted was the First Egg, and the press of their bodies piled up an under-Cloudlands wall ten miles high and fifty wide, crushing tens of thousands. He fed Leandrial’s command pictures of the obsidian-scaled Dragonworm lurking inside the Suald-dak-Doon, the S’gulzzi of all S’gulzzi. Now, they knew what had been lifting the First Egg for two decades. They knew what had been hidden beneath the meriatonium cap concealing that subterranean realm.

The Air-Breathers howled.

Leandrial cried, Steady, my kin. The mountains will break apart. Then, we must be ready to fire. We will be the cannonade of Fra’anior’s justice against that S’gulzzi fiend.

Aye! roared a thousand Welkin-Runners.

Aye, rumbled the enormous stellated Shell-Clan, overshadowing even the Runners gathered before them.

Link minds, said the monk. Then, he cried, Zip, no!

Ardan saw light flicker right over where Zuziana had been. What? Where was she? Where were they, the Star and the Azure?

His Dragonwing drew together at Dhazziala’s command. S’gulzzi surrounded them on every side, like a living, pulsing river of oil, so thickly gathered that they entirely obscured the battle. Their reddish eyes glowed in what Ardan realised was pleasure at the destruction to come. Briefly, he spied Bane and Lurax peering out of one of the Bullet Dragon slits on Genholme’s mountainous back.

Those boys trusted him. But he was no Shadow. He was a Dragon-less … Dragon. Aye, he might not have his Dragon, but he did remember a big-mouthed Western Isles warrior claiming something about starlight shining best against shadow, or some such mystical malarkey?

How could he lift up a Star, if not by helping her to shine?

Across the mile separating them, he called, Even stars must dance to a new song, Aranya-my-soul!

And to the Dragons around him, he cried in a great voice, Art thou Dragonkind? Thou art pure as white-fires, as noble as the suns, as proud as the day is long!

Ah, a tingle of Nak in his bones! Leaping again to his feet, Ardan declaimed, This is Gangurtharr the Great-Hearted, who roost-lived with a Star Dragoness. Over there is Genholme, the Fortress of our hopes! And here is Dhazziala, First Hand of a mighty nation of Dragon-Lovers!

The S’gulzzi stared at him as if he had gone moons-mad. Arguably, he had. They neglected to attack as the Shadow Dragon’s voice rose stridently above the sounds of thousands of wings beating the air, and the booming of Land Dragons. He bellowed:

I AM SHA’ALDIOR, SON OF SHADOW!

Well, that sounded impressive. But he could do one better, for his throat thickened at a touch of Storm borrowed via his oath-connection. Ardan’s song boomed over the Islands:

Arise in wrath magnificent, thou sons and daughters of Fra’anior,

Thou pride of his right paw, thou voices of infinite justice,

Dragons of Herimor! Unite to smite the foe!

Ooh, Nak would be chortling now.

* * * *

Aranya whirled in mid-air, frantic. Where was Zip? Sapphire? She called to them, forlornly, but the silence mocked her desolation. Where were her friends?

She stared at paws white as starlight. Betrayed? How?

When she finished this task, she might ask her questions.

Furling her wings, the Amethyst Dragoness plunged toward the Suald-dak-Doon, entering a howling maelstrom of Harmonic magic, screaming urzul and bellowing Land Dragons, intensely aware at the same time of the proliferation of S’gulzzi and the guttering of so many fire-souls. This was wrong. Destruction fed urzul as nothing else – that was what had roused the creature in the first instance. She apprehended her mistake now. When she had poured forth the paean of her Storm-powered anger and grief, the S’gulzzi had supped well. Now its song rose triumphant, brutalising the Dragonkind. Minds snapped. Theadurial writhed. Lesser Dragons fell senseless into the Cloudlands and Dragon Riders screamed. The S’gulzzi swelled in power and stature, glutted on the terrible cry of their god, or whatever that thing was. They would gut the Dragonwings.

Dimly, she heard Ardan sing within her mind, yet his notes struck her profoundly, at the level of her soul and their oath-magic:

Even stars must dance a new song, Aranya-my-soul!

You alone can bring us the starlight,

Be the star.

Sparked by his belief, incredulity gave way to insight. Choice. A choice framed in love so raw and potent, it galvanised her inmost being with wings of white-fires. She knew clarity. Just as she had demanded of Fra’anior, she had a choice now, at this crucial moment. It lay in her paws.

She could chase the First Egg and ultimate power, or she could change the Balance.

Her Dragonsong could espouse destruction, or she could sing the greater song Ardan alluded to, an anti-urzul song, the song of a true Daughter of Storm. For that was urzul’s power – annihilation. Anti-creation, anti-life, anti … anti-love.

Ardan?

A-A-Aranya? He grasped this truth burning lambent in her breast!

Ardently, she called, From this day forth, Ardan, I promise to be authentic with you. No more hiding. No more falsehoods, Ardan-my-soul’s inmost fire, for I … I have played thee false, wretched fool … I am … her mental voice cracked. I am for thee, and thee alone, if thou wilt have me. Eternally.

He choked out, Thou … I love thee, heavenly Immadia. I’ve always … helplessly –

And I thee, Sha’aldior.

I-I am for you. And, I would … have you. I will – forever!

They spoke brokenly, yet the oath was forged afresh, and in that burgeoning beauty of oath-fires, Aranya saw a new way. Her heart seemed to tip onto a new axis, recalibrated, Balanced.

The star believed.

The First Egg sank steadily into a morass of writhing, smoking, crumbling bodies. Thoralian and the S’gulzzi clashed over it, and the conflict they created would devastate all, for its power brutalised her senses with mind-numbing force. The pile collapsed faster and faster as the badly injured Air-Breathers fled the battlefield at their maximum speed, a stately walk.

Yiisuriel, I need your strength, the Star Dragoness commanded. Ardan, summon your Shadow. Dhazziala, turn your people to my command.

Seconds stole away from her as her friends organised themselves.

Then, Aranya seemed to rise on weightless wings, sovereign over the Island-World, for the immense resources of an Island-nation of Dragons, Humans and Shapeshifters shifted into her mental paws, but she was only the vessel. She was the focus and the filter of a merciful, nascent Dragonsong.

She lived in fire. She was the purity of starlight.

Aranya exhaled.

Starlight exploded from her breast, her body, her paws and wingtips and tail. It shot outward in a series of concentric rings of pure splendour, washing over and through the moving mountains and the mounded bodies and the ranks of S’gulzzi and Dragon Riders, and all the armies of the Lost Islands, lapping from the puffy white clouds now fragmenting to reveal a twinkling night sky, to the floor of the world hidden beneath the Cloudlands, and over every living creature ensconced within the warm ambit of her love. The soundless soul-concussion whispered of broken chains and freedom from corruption. It spoke of an end to urzul’s ghastly song. It breathed life into brokenness and dissolved the Theadurial still greedily sucking upon the brain-stems of Land Dragons, and blew the marauding S’gulzzi away like pollen on a breeze.

Perhaps her power was a zephyr of starlight, after all. A greater Storm had never struck her Island-World.

Aranya touched the white scale hanging just beneath her throat on its slender leather thong. Miraculously, it had survived everything. Thus I honour thee, Istariela, shell-mother of my lineage.

A mighty chorus of Harmonic magic answered her song as the Welkin-Runners and Shell Clan fired down into the Suald-dak-Doon, enveloping the S’gulzzi giant in a blinding stream of light. The ghastly obsidian of its corrupt flesh began to crumble beneath an inexorable onslaught. Vapours shrouded the S’gulzzi as it voiced a single, final blast of defiant fury, and that blast fizzled into a violent hiss that presaged its protracted demise. At the last, the Star Dragoness gave of her song to finish the beast, as the coils incinerated from within in great bands of dusty black Earthen-fires.

Then Aranya saw the First Egg tumbling end-over-end into the gloom, already eight leagues deep and plummeting as though sucked away by the S’gulzzi still hiding beneath the Island-World’s crust. No Lesser Dragon would catch it now, not even Leandrial’s kin who chased the Egg into the deeps.

Where were the Thoralians? Destroyed in that final, titanic blast?

Victory!

A pyrrhic victory, for she had failed to succour the Pygmy Dragoness and at the last, had allowed the First Egg to slip through her talons. So many souls snuffed out. And Zip. Oh, Zip and her egglings, and precious Sapphire! The cost was unbearable.

Aranya lowered her muzzle, and wept.

* * * *

Upon the melted brow of Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, Ri’arion stood as stiffly as an aged plank as the Star Dragoness did a passable job of drowning his boots. Ardan understood tears. After all, he had cried more in these last months than he suspected he had ever cried in all the years of his warrior-life before. The night’s work had been storm winds and lightning and starlight. Dawn’s work, clearly, was the wet and wild end of Aranya’s Storm-making, and in true Aranya style, she was letting it all gush out. The floodwaters were rising.

All around, Dragons slowly congregated upon that stone peak as the first light of dawn pinked the eastern sky. Riders milled about, checking their Dragons. Human soldiers conversed or just stood by, dazed. Leandrial and fifty Welkin-Runners perched atop the great stellated carapaces of Shell-Clan just offshore, shining their light-beams on all who needed healing – they used their Harmonic healing-song, rather than plying their destructive eye-cannons. The Air-Breathers had halted their flight, desperately injured but no longer in immediate danger. The area below their mountain flanks seethed with Land Dragons, especially Shell Clan and Living Springs attending to the healing of their kind, and the nimbler Runners diving and returning with fallen Lesser Dragons, some of whom could be resuscitated.

Most especially, they watched the girl they had come to know as the Star Dragoness.

Kneeling before the painfully embarrassed monk, Her Celestial Majesty, worshipped by three quarters of Herimor and feared by the remaining quarter, the incomparable Enchantress of Immadia, granddaughter of an Ancient Dragon, Islands’ sakes, vanquisher of the powers of evil and a legend whom balladeers would swoon over for centuries to come, clutched Ri’arion’s bootlaces and blubbered and bawled and tore at her hair …

“Don’t,” said Ri’arion, capturing her wrists gently.

“I lost my best friend!”

“I’m not convinced about that,” said the monk.

Aranya wailed, “I destroyed her babies!”

“Now, we’ll see –”

“Sapphire! Zip! Oh, Ri’arion.”

“We’ll find them.”

“I b-b-burned them … i-in starlight … in a s-s-star …”

Drawing the tall girl to her feet, Ri’arion said firmly, “No. That’s not what I saw, nor Ardan.”

“I don’t have your faith!” she shouted. “How do you know? I killed them, Ri’arion. I’m a wretch, a beast – don’t hold me! Curse me, Ri’arion! Curse these hands –”

“No!” Again, the monk held her, but not roughly, trapping Aranya’s hands as she gouged at the already-ruined flesh of her cheeks. “Calm yourself.”

Aye, it was enough. Stepping forward, Ardan declared, “You had faith enough to illuminate the Island-World with starlight.”

Aranya blinked past Ri’arion’s shoulder. “What?”

“Faith enough,” Ardan laced his fingers into hers, “to stand up to an Ancient Dragon, and to carve out a new future for all Herimor.”

She made an unconvincing noise – dissent, of course.

Disentangling himself from Aranya’s arms, Ri’arion impelled her toward Ardan, adding, “Faith that conquered a tyrant and his hordes, through the power of oath-love forged mid-battle.”

“Uh …”

Ardan loved it when the Shapeshifter Princess was lost for words. Now was such a moment, as he drew her resolutely into his embrace. Her gemstone eyes were wells of amethyst, never more luminous, never more lovely. Slowly, he lowered his lips toward hers. “Faith enough …”

“Ardan, I –”

“Immadia, enough is enough.”

“But, Ardan,” she protested, suddenly a-tremble. Aye, she had never trembled like this during a battle, but that was Aranya. Beneath the adamantine will and Island-shaking powers lay a heart craving and deserving to be wooed. He twined his arm around her trim waist, and added a brief headshake as he gazed longingly into her eyes. Aranya spluttered, “Oh. But … mmm?”

A tremulous, wistful smile spread either side of his silencing finger.

He said, “Today’s work is finished.”

“Why, you obstinate –” Aranya inhaled sharply as her yearning Shapeshifter locks weaved their way around his upraised fingers and wrist, and from the shoulder of the arm that drew her irresistibly against him to his waist, binding them together in ropes of multifaceted glory. “Well, if you must insist, Shadow Dragon.”

“I most certainly do insist,” he growled, and deliberately shifted his hand to shield their protracted, passionate kiss from the onlookers.

Nonetheless, the cheers of thousands rocked the Islands.

Chapter 35: Second-Soul Enigma

Upon Yiisuriel’s mountaintop, the Shapeshifter Princess received the fealty of the peoples of Herimor. She had argued the odds, but Huaricithe and Brityx, Dhazziala and Gangurtharr, Ardan, Leandrial and Ri’arion, and finally, the irresistible, venerable voice of Yiisuriel herself, determined her course. Oaths must be made. Fealty observed. The all-important honour of Herimor Shapeshifters, Humans and Dragons must be restored, in order to shape the future wisely.

Aranya put on her best royal face, donned a magnificent robe of samite, and stood erect even though she was utterly bone-weary, and endeavoured to speak her utmost, gracious, fiery, worthy-of-Fra’anior words to every creature that approached her impromptu throne – Gang’s paw.

Naturally.

First came the Air-Breathers, the stateliest of the Dragonkind. Then the powerful Shell Clan Stellates in all their varieties made homage, and following them, Mist-Runners and Welkin-Runners, Blue- and Deep- and Current-Runners, and fifty minor varieties besides, and with Leandrial, the Thunderous Thirty who now numbered two hundred and five individuals – tripping rather less snappily off the tongue, Aranya chuckled inwardly. After these came the Land Dragons who could not easily rise above the Cloudlands, but were lifted upon the shells of Stellates to make their obeisance, such as the Living Springs and Fire-Sporters, and the Cerulean Potentates with their more illustrious cousins the Cognates. From the deeps came the booming rumble of the Deep-Dwelling Clans making their oaths; they could not survive passage into lower pressures.

Ardan pressed a water gourd into Aranya’s hand. “Drink.”

“Overnight, you appear to have grown a touch demanding,” she observed drolly, with classic Immadian understatement.

“And as possessive as a gold-glamoured Dragon,” Ardan said just as deprecatingly, dropping a kiss upon her fingers before pressing a seeded bread-roll into her hand. “Eat.”

“Um,” said Aranya, eyeing the throng pensively – still thousands strong.

“Tell you what, my scrrrrrrr-umptious petal,” he said, so Nak-voiced she chuckled again, “you stick to thrashing despots and tipping Islands. I’ll go supervise your sycophants.”

And so, for five hours straight, Aranya shook hands, bobbed her head, bowed straight-backed and Fra’aniorian-flowery, growled where appropriate, and fretted without trying to seem as if she were fretting. Zip! Oh, what had become of the mischievous, irreplaceable Remoyan? She could not remember, for that moment had passed in a flash, too fast even for a Dragoness’ eyes to register. She had leaped for Zip, meaning to stop the urzul from breaching the barrier of her womb, then flash! Nothing. No Zip, no Sapphire – and she knew she had not left Sapphire behind. She had checked.

Once the bulk of the Lost Islanders and Lesser Dragonkind were dealt with, save those too severely injured to approach her, Aranya made to step down.

“Not yet,” said Gang, who had been enjoying a little snooze in the bright suns-shine while others did the real work. “Just a few more.”

Aranya saw Huaricithe and Tari and … “No. You. Get out of line!” she complained, pointing at Ri’arion. “In fact, all of you – shoo.”

“Stay put, Scrap.”

“No.”

Gangurtharr growled, “Stay put, or I shall sit on you.”

Aranya give him her most sizzling stare. “I haven’t forgiven you for letting Ardan kiss … whoever it was, whom you’ve all conveniently forgotten.”

“I’m not convinced he didn’t plant a smacker on my gorgeous backside,” claimed the Gladiator. He was looking somewhat worse for wear, having been liberally chewed in the wings and tail, and oozing blood from a dozen flesh-wounds, but he was otherwise hale and downright curmudgeonly – as usual.

Spying Marshal Huaricithe in her Human form, an irresistible urge to foment trouble suddenly bit Aranya. Aside to Gang, she said, “Wow. Huari’s really pretty. What do you think about kissing her?”

The Dragon made a strange, almost strangled noise in his throat as his magic wavered. “It is … inappropriate, as a Dragon.”

“Don’t you desire her in both forms?”

“I …” He snapped his fangs together above her head. “Shut your blasphemous trap, Scrap. I do not …” Gang managed to imitate a hundred-and-forty foot, armoured ralti sheep as he evidently realised what his wobbling voice communicated.

Aranya gave him a mental prod, and a sample of special magic. “You transform like this, Gang.”

That was how the Princess of Immadia ended up sprawled on her backside in front of her friends, for with an audible pop! Gangurtharr snapped into his Human form for the very first time.

Those closest to Aranya hushed as the Dragon gazed at his hands in slack-jawed amazement. He tried to take his customarily belligerent four-pawed stance, and promptly fell flat on his face. “Aranya!” he howled. The Dragon sprang to his feet, flexed into a muscles-popping angry-male-Dragon pose, and toppled backward. “ARRRRAAANNNYYAAA!”

“Aye, Gang?”

“What have you done?”

“Me?” The Immadian offered him her hand. “Easy, Dragon. You’ll soon get used to the change in perspective and senses.”

Bewildered, the huge man scrambled to his feet, having to employ Aranya’s shoulder for balance. That almost staggered her, for he was built like a Dragonship through the beam, all massive, smooth muscle up to the crown of his head, seven inches taller than Aranya herself. He had to weigh four or five times what she did, the Immadian thought in admiration.

Since no-one else appeared capable of comment, Aranya beamed at Huaricithe. “Well, what do you think?”

The Shapeshifter blushed spectacularly. “Um … aye!”

That was when Aranya remembered that Shifters transformed sans coverings, which was fine for a Dragon, but patently impressed or embarrassed most of the women out there. Thankfully, Ri’arion whipped out a piece of cloth and set about draping it around Gangurtharr’s hips.

The Dragon’s eyes bulged in amazement. “What is this?”

“Humans wear clothing,” said the monk. “Well, mostly, anyways. Clothing is complicated.”

“And you … kiss?”

“Smack on the lips,” said Ri’arion, with the confidence of recently acquired expertise. “We don’t nuzzle and twine necks like roosting Dragons.”

“Who pinched my Dragon? Scrap? You’d better start squalling, or … I’m a Human?”

With a twinkle in her eye, Huaricithe sashayed forward to take Gang’s paw in her tiny hand. She peered up at the giant from her five-foot-nothing height. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of questions, Gang. I’ll help you settle in. But first, let’s make our vows to the Star Dragoness. In my culture, men bow like this.”

Gangurtharr turned to Aranya. Copying Huari, he bowed deeply from the waist. This action promptly deposited the cloth at her feet, thereby presenting several thousand Humans and Dragons to his rear a singularly unforgettable view.

* * * *

Ardan stalked into the hangar bay-turned-infirmary, more than ready to yell at Aranya. But he found her tucked into Dhazziala’s forepaw. Someone had covered her shoulders with a thin blue blanket. The wounded Cobalt-Green was deep in earnest conversation with a grizzled Dragon Rider Ardan had recently met, Kantuka of Ergani, the leader of a Vassal State which had lost fifty-three Islands to the Island-shooter. Like many of the Herimor Riders, Kantuka was a proper giant, easily topping seven feet, and that was before the clunky boots and armour better suited to a Dragon than a man.

He let out the breath he had been holding. Mercy, in that pose, with her raddled cheek tucked away, he could almost imagine Aranya lay untouched by the pox. Ardan wiped his left eye. Leaking again? Precocious enchantress of Immadia!

“Dragon Ardan,” rumbled Kantuka. “The Star Dragoness was treating Dhazziala, then we spoke, and she grew more comfortable than expected.”

“Exhausted herself, against orders,” Ardan said flatly. “How fare your wounds, First Hand?”

The Dragon Rider chuckled massively, rising from his small stool to grip Ardan’s forearm in the manner of greeting these Riders preferred. “You would issue orders to a Star Dragoness?”

“She could stand taking in paw,” said Dhazziala, not without a hint of resentment colouring her words. “Noble Ardan, I lost my left hind paw, five feet of my tail and the outer left wingtip to the S’gulzzi horde, but I am undismayed. To see the Thoralians cast down was more than worth these trivial wounds.”

“You are brave,” said Ardan, meaning it.

“I was being eaten alive when Aranya vaporised the S’gulzzi.”

“I wish I had my Dragon.” Perhaps he betrayed more bitterness than he ought, Ardan thought, feeling ashamed.

“You were singing her songs,” Kantuka joshed.

Dhazziala purred, “Don’t puncture that idea with your Dragon lance, Kantuka. He was Shadow Dragon enough to turn the course of the battle – thrice. The Star Dragoness herself made that clear. She told us you broke the power of a Word of Command, Ardan.”

“Which ranks alongside plucking stars from the heavens, in my humble estimation,” added the Erganian Rider. “Would you take her to roost now, Dragon Ardan?”

“I … shouldn’t disturb her. Or you.”

“Are we that obvious?” asked Kantuka.

“Obvious?” asked Dhazziala. Ardan could not tell if the Dragoness was dissembling – shrouded in her habitual, devious Herimor glamour. He could never have loved such a woman. Give him Aranya’s unadorned simplicity any day!

Then, he laughed. Unadorned simplicity – Aranya? Who was a prize ralti sheep, Ardan?

“There is much diplomacy to conduct between the Inscrutables and the Vassal States,” said Kantuka, managing to turn his bland statement into a declaration of unshakable romantic intent. “When will you dive for the First Egg, Dragon Ardan? You do intend to complete your mission, don’t you?”

“Of course.” His eyes turned compulsively toward the Princess of Immadia. “I’ve several missions in mind. Urgent missions.”

The Dragoness and the Dragon Rider laughed simultaneously.

“Aye?” prompted Dhazziala.

“Aye. I’ll make no secret of it,” said Ardan. Sinking to one knee, he tucked the blanket beneath Aranya’s chin. “She’s dreaming. Look at that magic shining beneath her eyelids.”

Amethyst. Ruby. Onyx. White-fires. Did a Star Dragoness dream of the beauty of stars?

Wonderingly, mostly to himself, he said, “I hope she’s dreaming Zuziana back into existence, wherever she might be. And of healing her mother. We’ll find a way, Dhazziala – don’t you see? Fates yield to the Storm Dragon’s song. When my Shadow Dragon returns, we will dive together into the Suald-dak-Doon, and wrest the First Egg from the S’gulzzi, wherever it might be. And then we will breach the Rift-Storm and turn history to its rightful path. Along the way, I will find a way to heal this woman, for if love can find a way …”

In Dragonish, Ardan whispered, Let it be!

Aranya stirred in her sleep, mumbling, “Ar? Sapphire?” She settled again, but her eyes flicked rapidly back and forth, and the light shone ever more brightly through her skin.

Ardan touched her febrile forehead, and stroked her cheek with his blunt thumb. “Sleep easy. Dream of miracles, Storm Dragoness. Dream of Azure.”

* * * *

For once, Aranya did not have to scale the cliff or fight storms to reach her soul-space. One moment she was reliving the terrible moment when she lost Zip, the next, she stood alongside her slumbering Dragoness on a flat, onyx mountaintop. Human-Aranya let out her breath soundlessly. Her Amethyst manifestation mirrored her scars, now – what did that mean? Was this place a product of her dreams, or a real connection between her Shapeshifter souls? Why did they call it a second-soul, when both Izariela and Hualiama had stressed the ‘one soul, two manifestations’ mantra?

Did she have a schism in her soul?

Almost, Aranya rushed over to wake her Dragoness. Her foot paused, toes delicately poised as if readied, prelude to a dance. What had she just heard?

Dream of Azure …

She scanned the cosy mountaintop, and everything from the edges of her domain to the starry horizons. Suspicious. No, Fra’anior was not hiding behind a storm, baiting her. Ardan was not so much a joker, although her first impression of a stern warrior melted daily into a rather more complex understanding. Imagine him singing to her mid-battle? Which had only changed her mindset from raging vengeance to healing – just that minor, destiny-distorting fillip.

She could paint the Azure, if she had the materials.

Painting inside of her soul? And the Daughter of Storm leaped gaily off the Isle of insanity …

No. What if Ri’arion’s faith-claim were true? What if Zip had vanished – uh, somewhere she could not imagine as yet – and only needed to be educed into actuality? Aye, insert an old Immadian joke that compared Enchantresses to cracked pots.

If she yearned strongly enough, could she evoke her friend? Aranya’s right big toe described a circle on the dark, warm stone. What a magical night sky. The kind of night when anything could happen. Anything at all.

Zip was dead. Slain by her best friend’s starlight. No, her instinct had been to protect, to love, to enfold – aye!

Her toes traced long, flowing chestnut hair. An impish nose. The notes of Zip’s laughter lifted her feet. She remembered Hualiama’s lesson, but in her mind, replaced her Aunt with Zuziana. She had never painted her friend, had she? Now, she must correct that oversight.

Aranya closed her eyes and painted with her dance. She lost herself in the imaginings of a Remoyan laughing, celebrating, teasing, crying, dancing, blushing at that first sight of a monk’s chiselled torso … fainting at Aranya’s first Dragon-manifestation, dying, being reborn. Her limbs moved with the increasing freedom and facility of her newfound belief. She flung back her head, laughing with the joy of all she had shared with Zuziana and with Sapphire, her devoted saviour. Her feet danced on air, over her Dragoness’ slumbering form and back again, dancing the length of a body which still sometimes struck her as unfamiliar and exotic. A miracle of magic that by rights, should not exist.

Her heart must dance. Her soul must desire nothing greater in the world, or beyond the world, than the gift that was Zuziana.

A single tear of joy, all she had left, dropped onto her Dragoness’ damaged calf muscle.

As if that droplet of magic had wrung her out, Aranya spun, and then whirled into a graceful finale. She bowed to her unseen partner. “Thank you for the dance, o Zuziana, joy of Remoy. In sorrow, we –”

“Aranya?”

She whirled. “Z … uh? Zip!”

“Aranyi!”

A chestnut-haired blur flung itself over the space at Aranya, squealing with childlike delight – and now a flash of blue, as an Azure Dragoness ambushed the sleeping Amethyst! Aranya’s Dragonsoul woke with a snort of incredulity, and then voiced an unending bugle of pure delight as Sapphire whizzed overhead too, gurgling with such a surfeit of joy that she could not even chuckle or sing properly. The Dragonesses nuzzled fondly.

Human-Aranya and Human-Zip whirled each other around and around until they were dizzy, shouting:

“Aren’t you dead, Zip?”

“No, petal.”

“Really?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I must be dreaming in the colours of starlight!”

Zip stamped her foot, laughing merrily. “Which part of you shall I pinch to prove it, petal? I’ve never felt more alive.”

Aranya stopped, staring wildly about her. Sapphire thumped into her chest; she cuddled the dragonet. “How many babies?” She pointed at the Azure Dragoness, then the Human. “Six?”

“Silly Humanlove,” said her Dragoness. “There are, of course, three egglings or foetuses displaying six manifestations – and don’t roll our eyes at us.”

Aranya cried, “It’s impossible! They aren’t really … are they? Love can’t make this happen, surely?”

Little Zip folded her arms rather crossly. “Don’t make me start, Immadia! Do I need to lecture you on the nature of love? Love enfolded my womb in starlight. Love stole my babies away from the taint of urzul, and before that, your love gave me the power to resist the Thoralians even though I betrayed you. I took the higher path because of you, Aranya. I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

Suddenly, she reached up to touch Aranya’s injured neck. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Aranyi. I’m so, so … desperately …”

Aranya took her friend in her arms, and the Dragonesses embraced simultaneously. “We love you, petal. Uh, petals? Whatever! You’re forgiven. I can only imagine how that threat must have torn the living pith from your hearts, but you beat back the Thoralians! You! Zip, how can we get you back? Are you inside of me? How did you come to be inside my soul-space, if I’m not dreaming?”

“You folded me away, like a monk in a handbag.”

That made Aranya’s Dragoness and Human burst out laughing at once. “Oh, Zip! You’re a hoot.”

Human-Zip said, “I’m serious.”

Then, the Azure Dragoness added, “You see, Ardan loves you. You love him. And now that you’ve worked that out – certainly took you long enough, you obdurate offspring of a storm in a puddle – you have freedom from fear. It’s about finding the way to the light. You of all people should understand that, Aranya. You are light.”

* * * *

Aranya woke with a song in her heart and the wind in her heels. She ran out of the hangar and found her way to Ri’arion and Ardan’s room. Bang-bang-bang!

“Ri’arion’s at breakfast – Aranya?”

“Come with me, Ardan! Call – call everyone!”

She ran two doors further. Bang-bang! “Gang, you scurvy old reprobate! Shake a wing. Stop cuddling Huari and come listen. That’s an order.”

Laughter trickled out from beneath the door.

Tari! Leandrial! Yiisuriel! Genholme! Wake everyone and come with me, all you Dragonkind. Watch-Dragons, sound the bugles of joy! Let there be joy!

Uh … we don’t know those protocols? Dhazziala’s mental voice puzzled.

Aranya’s crazed feet winged her down the corridor, down five levels of circular stairs, and out into the kitchen quarters of Dhazziala’s fortress. Dimly, she heard Ardan charging after. “Aranya? Alright, madwoman, I’m with you!”

To the winds, she shouted, Work it out, First Hand! You’ve thirty thousand minds to help. Thunderous Thirty! Wake the Dragons of dawn! Shake the suns in their eternal courses!

BRAAA-BOOM!!

Well, their instinctive response certainly swept the cobwebs out of a few sleepy heads.

By the time Aranya found Ri’arion in the third mess-area she tried, her lungs burned and she skidded to a coughing, spluttering halt at the table the monk shared with Bane and Lurax. Judging by the diagrams on the scroll lying unfurled on the table, Ri’arion was teaching the boys warrior-monk lore. His finger paused mid-point to take in the whirlwind that was Aranya.

“What?” he said.

“Wait.” She coughed violently.

“What is it?” Ri’arion’s voice rose; his lips quirked upward in response to her helpless, jubilant smile. “Aranya? What’ve you done now?”

She made him wait for the others to crowd into the room, and for the mental congregation to be watching through their eyes and ears and magical senses, even though she wanted to burst for sheer exultation. Then, she whispered, “Well –”

Ri’arion cried, “Aranya, please … just tell me.”

“She’s here!” She thumped her chest. “Zuziana’s right here. Inside of me.”

“What – what are you saying?” the monk demanded. “She’s … dead?”

“No, alive.” Aranya tried to explain about her soul-space and what she thought she had done, but she fabricated such a dreadful, muddled explanation that Ri’arion’s brow drew down and his face turned to graven stone. The grief was too close, too visceral. Eventually, Aranya broke off to plead, “This isn’t a joke, Ri’arion. I’m not that kind of person. I feel so awful, so awkward … I truly believe – Zuziana, you tell him.”

She beckoned inwardly. Zip?

But before Zip could speak, a chorus of melodious, chirruping giggles popped out of Aranya’s mouth. Ari silly petal. She gasped. Sapphire tell truth. Star-Ari have six souls. Six! Is babies and Ari and Zip-Zip and me! Clever-me, yes, yes?

Ri’arion’s jaw unhinged; Aranya shrugged helplessly. That dragonet. Give her one ounce of attention …

A second voice emerged. Hush, Sapphire. Monk-love, it’s me – Zuziana, with all three of our babies. We’re safe in here, and well. Aranya’s not a dreadful hostess, mind, but we’d really rather be with you.

The ashen-faced monk could only mouth, Zuziana?

I love you dearly, husband, but I’ll have a word with you. The voice took on a waspish, unmistakably Zuziana snap. Under no circumstances does this equate to any bedtime cuddling with the Immadian!

Aranya clapped her hands over her mouth in shock.

Zip! bawled Ri’arion.

And then such a clamour of celebration broke out as to shiver the dawn, and truly, the Islands danced for joy.

End of Book 3

Book 4: Beautiful Fury

By Marc Secchia

Only beautiful fury will quench all grief.

Blighted. Scorned. Crushed. With the loss of the First Egg, Aranya’s campaign to liberate the Island-World from tyranny has reached its nadir.

Long are the memories of the Ancient Dragons, and depthless their enmity. The millennia-spanning rivalry between Fra’anior the Onyx and Dramagon the Red, played out through the lives and deeds of those sworn to their service, threatens global annihilation. The pyres of destruction burn unceasing. As fate thunders toward its finale, can the boldest of paws yet stay the looming calamity?

From the ashes, one will soar. Refined by anguish, Aranya’s purpose burns adamantine. No evil will she bear. No tyrant’s triumph will she suffer. As the Star Dragoness plumbs the deepest secrets of her lineage, she must forge an alliance of legends, of Chaos and Onyx, Amethyst and Shadow, that will cast down the Thoralians and thwart Dramagon’s plans forever.

For when a star shines in the panoply of her most beautiful fury, all eyes will brighten, and hope will illuminate the world.

Chapter 1: Repercussions

BEAUTY GILdED RUIN. How Aranya wished that her fate could not be encapsulated in three simple, life-repudiating words. She gazed over an Island-World deeply wounded – perhaps mortally so – by the travails of a catastrophic conflict, and shuddered at the force of her grieving.

Methodically ordered ranks of mounded ochre and granite-grey Air Breather peaks flanked Aranya’s vantage point upon Yiisuriel’s mountaintop, but the stalwart Dragonkind in turn stood surrounded by random heaps of death. The piles of rotting grey-green Land Dragon carcasses were heaped so high to the North and South and West, a below-Cloudlands depth of over two leagues could not occlude them, nor had the labouring Runner Dragons been able to clear much more than the mouthparts of the entombed Air Breathers. Each corpse among the millions, each broken Island of many thousands, each and every life snuffed out in a paroxysm of horror heaped upon tragedy strangulated by cataclysm, tolled the worthlessness and dishonour of a Star Dragoness worshipped here in Herimor … o bitter, bitter irony!

Her tears blurred all that remained.

As she wept, Aranya reflexively trapped the flow of precious, sparkling droplets in a wide-mouthed gourd she had taken to carrying at her belt. Enchanted tears. Polychromatic motes of magic swirled within each bead of moisture, like miniscule star-fire dragonets sporting amongst liquescent worlds.

Plink. Plink-plink. The irregular chiming of crystalline teardrops mingled with the wuthering of breath through her blighted windpipe.

Would that tears could heal her Island-World. Would that hope might dawn like the febrile torrents of golden light scything from the East now, released to shine beneath the towering curvature of the Yellow Moon. That same radiance enflamed Mystic’s northerly flank until the much smaller moon came to resemble an incensed Dragon’s eye-fire, burnishing every detail in mordant brush strokes of such gruesome splendour it seemed to Aranya that the very bones of the Dragonkind and Humans and Islands devastated by the Thoralian triplicate, those cast down and crushed by his ravaging paw, must rise up shrieking for the vengeance denied them in this life; that the sevenfold thundering of Fra’anior himself must resound from the blackest deeps to the stars above in tempestuous bellows of elegiac, world-shaking woe.

Grief a soul to sunder, she breathed, thinking back to a scrap of her mother’s writings she had once found. What white fires insight had Izariela experienced – or anguish, foreseen – to scribe such elegiac runes?

As the visions beset her and innumerable bleached white bones soared aloft, taking the forms of Dragons wreathed in the most terrible of spectral fires, Aranya shuddered harder and harder, squeezing her knees as if self-inflicted pain might by some miracle deny this travesty of non-life.

Her tears were not for her own ruin, true mirror of the leagues her eyes surveyed. No. Those tears were long since spent. Hope’s ashes shrouded spent pyres, grey and dormant. Her anguish rued her incapacity, endlessly replaying what had transpired in the sure knowledge that she could and should have done more – despite all reassurances to the contrary – to prevent the Thoralians’ triumph. The mighty Shapeshifter had seized the First Egg. He must have, for during that final conflagration her nemesis had vanished into the pit of the Suald-dak-Doon, these three days hence, and nothing she could do could transform this spectacle of destruction in the slightest degree. Hourly, it seemed, her emotions soared to the stars or plunged into the hellish depths of a Cloudlands volcano – never an in-between. Never a steady course for this navigator!

Always the storm.

Furthermore, with the utmost ill-intent his hateful hearts could muster, Thoralian had chosen during their battle to reveal the precise concoction of immedicable Shapeshifter poisons behind her mother’s near-death condition.

Aranya bit her lip. Oh Izariela, mine mother-star, how thou art fallen!

Unbearable, shattering knowledge. What power of this Island-World or any other could restore her now?

She stiffened at the sound of a footfall behind her, deliberately heavy. The intruder knew that although Aranya’s eyesight had been healed, the better to inspect the consequences of her failure to uphold anything resembling Balance, nothing else of her person or powers had recuperated.

Even the starlight-powered healing of so many Dragonkind could never suffice – she bit off the thought, angered yet grateful for Huaricithe’s intrusion.

Time to rejoin the living, a voice said brusquely within her head.

Aranya winced. Zip? Mercy. I thought you were –

Sleeping? Oh, precious amethyst-eyes. Her best friend’s tone made her picture velvet ice. Aranya’s heart sank farther, if that were possible. Soul-hugs for thy priceless tears, purred the velvet, while the ice added snippily, Quite enough sloughing about in self-pity and mourning for one day, Immadia. Snap out of it!

Aranya’s hands jerked as a jangling, discordant shock accompanied her discomfort. Zuziana had promised she would try not to take over command of her best friend’s person, but since this unprecedented situation put into perspective the Fra’aniorian saying, ‘Friends closer than pollen’s shadow,’ what else could they do but soldier on, sharing as they did the same physical warp and weft? She alone understood the terrace lakes of Aranya’s grief, and dared to describe these tears as a gift, even a weapon, that would one day restore the Island-World to wholeness.

What a beautiful, infuriating and utterly irreplaceable friend it took to speak such words into her life!

Where did a disembodied Shapeshifter disappear to? How might her best friend and her three precious embryos be enfleshed once more? At least she had rescued them from a fate worse than death, that of being daimonized by the Thoralian triplicate’s ghastly spirit.

One lone straw of victory succoured from endless charnel fields of defeat.

Leaving us as confused as a dragonet flying backward around the suns, petal? Zip teased, but the note of aching gentleness in her voice caused Aranya to clutch her chest as if a talon had pierced her heart. So poignant, she almost imagined …

Soul-hugs for Ari? trilled yet a third voice inside of her.

Sapphire, too. Aranya scowled without real force. Her soul space, as dear Aunty Dancing-Toes would style it, had become a tad crowded of late. Could that be the reason she was so overwrought? Zip and her Azure Dragoness, her three Shapeshifter babies and her faithful dragonet companion all existed as living souls somehow trapped within the confines of Aranya’s being. No longer two manifestations of one soul, but home to many, her Shapeshifter soul was beginning to feel frayed at its margins. What person had ever harboured six souls?

Confusing? Aye! Privacy? Non-existent, and for an introspective Immadian … she sighed. Never alone. Never undisturbed within her own soul.

Don’t forget me, said her Dragoness, elbowing her way to the fore in a virtual sense. Hearken to dawn’s emergence, o Princess most felonious!

Human Aranya chuckled, Criminal me? Ancient history. Catch up with the times, Dragon –

Her Amethyst presence put in, Silence, thou rough-hewn yokel, thou overweening excuse for an icicle of the North. Listen with both of your pointy ears for a change. Huaricithe and I have arranged a surprise for us. A fine treat.

Not more slavering over monkish musculature? Aranya groaned.

What’s wrong with my Ri’arion’s abdominals? the Princess of Remoy almost howled. Do you have the slightest conception how hard it is not to be able to – well, eliding the saucy details … she pulled up with an inner smirk. Oh, very well, read my mind. Your choice.

A picture flicked through her awareness.

Aranya experienced the sensation of blushing inside and out all at once. Zuziana, you … scandalous little rajal! I did not need to know that.

Wicked chuckles tickled her innards as she rose upon rickety knees, careful to keep the precious hoard of tears from sloshing about. Aranya stoppered the purple-flowered taskumi gourd with fingers as gnarled as an old woman’s, and fastened it at her belt. Before she could consider avoidance, Huari’s arms snaked around her middle and drew tight.

Your seventh-generation niece is quite the hugger, Zip observed dryly.

Aranya scowled at the radiant suns-rise as if to decry its rubescent magnificence. Don’t think that gives you license to hug me oftener.

What, like this?

Mercy! She gasped as a benison stole about her soul, burning like tender embers. Zuziana might be snippety-plus at times, but she had the truest of hearts. She had even forgiven the theft of her body. But if Aranya ever caught herself kissing Zip-Zap’s monk …

With a mental touch, the Princess of Immadia, the newly elevated potentate of all Herimor, fondly clipped her best friend across the existential earhole. Do that again, and I’ll never stop crying.

Stoutly, the Remoyan retorted, If we must heal the Island-World one teardrop at a time – let it be.

Aye, let it be, Dragoness Aranya breathed.

In an instant, her knee joints were reduced to hopeless wobbliness. Wonder. Frustration. And an inkling of … hope?

Human Aranya allowed herself to be drawn forth by Huari, and responded warmly to her relative as the two women walked arm-in-arm across the top of what everyone incorrectly referred to as Yiisuriel’s head – in truth, her mountaintop, for her extensive brain-nodes were located leagues below this level – and down into the sprawling cavern-complexes, roosts and Human dwellings deeper within her vast body. En route, she speedily partitioned off her consciousness to check via the mental network on how the healing of her mightiest charges was progressing, especially the newly-budded Air Breathers who had been bowled over during the chaotic climax of that battle. Buried alive, they had survived due to the protection afforded by miles of Dragonflesh mashed together with the Islands thrown at the Air Breathers during the worst of the attacks. She approved sixteen new healing protocols after modifying seven, dealt with seventy-three disparate requests and issued nine new orders. Dhazziala did like to keep a Star Dragoness busy. Doubtless, there would be much more graft in the pipeline.

She grinned inwardly. Good thing her Dad had raised a dutiful little fire-breather then, eh?

Shortly, Aranya inquired aloud, “So, what’s the surprise, Huari?”

“You’re an educated Immadian, aren’t you?” the tiny Shapeshifter riposted, her voice dripping with simulated sarcasm.

“You’re an impertinent Dragoness, aren’t you?” Aranya echoed with a verbal impersonation of a Green Dragon’s acid attack.

“Define the word, ‘surprise?’ ”

“Define, ‘defenestrate?’ ”

“No windows around here,” snickered the other, indicating the grey-speckled granite tunnel. “And don’t you frown as if to suggest you’d simply carve a porthole through reality with your talon tips, Your Inordinately Celestial Obduracy – like your new title?”

Aranya favoured this sally with a dignified sniff of disapproval.

At once, Huari needled, “How’s Ardan?”

“How’s Gangurtharr?”

“How’s about we stop asking each other silly questions? Gang is –” a trickle of suns-shine bloomed in her relative’s cheeks “– wonderful. Just between us girls, he worships every inch of ground trodden by your magical paws.”

“Oh, windroc spit to that. Your paws, to be precise.”

“But you wouldn’t squeeze that truth out of him if you trained that S’gulzzi Lord to sit upon his head. How did I never see it before?” Huari shook her blue locks with such a display of woe, Aranya had to chuckle. Waving her hands, she expounded, “What woman knows her own heart? It’s like knowing one of the great Chaos Beasts of Wyldaroon – now there’s an experience not to be missed! Lethal beauty. And your dark flame, how’s he?”

“Ardan’s equally wonderful – gallant, ardent and possessed of unshakeable faith,” Aranya admitted. “Do you think it’s easier to have faith if you have no past, Huari?”

“The past is the canvas upon which the true artist paints her future. He has a past, Aranya. It’s just forgotten.” Marshal Huaricithe clasped the taller girl’s hand firmly. “I wonder if healing relies upon remaking a better past, or yearning for a better future? Or both, intertwined? Are the materials not one and the same? It all depends upon how one approaches the central conundrum.”

Herimor philosophy. Worse than the monks of Fra’anior, Ri’arion had opined. They loved to circumnavigate any and every consideration with exaggerated leisureliness, and to juxtapose existential sesquipedalians in ways that frankly, made Aranya’s head hurt. But there was a nucleus of balance or symmetry about their thinking that appealed to her. No simplistic answer would satisfy a Herimor Dragon. Thus, to the challenge that confronted them now – the First Egg of the Ancient Dragons had plummeted beyond reach, no mortal person or Dragon could hope to approach the Egg’s depths without the power of Shadow, but in a decidedly inconvenient and not to say dubious coincidence, Ardan had been deprived of his Dragon powers by Marshal Yar’nax’tix, who had met a dreadful end as Thoralian cannibalised her second heart.

Given what the Marshal had tried to do to Ardan, Aranya did wonder what a scorned star might have essayed in revenge. Better a vengeance denied?

Was her last-ditch attempt to heal the battle into submission even … draconic?

Were Fra’anior’s omnipotent creative labours even … draconic? her second-soul echoed her line of thought trenchantly. Unlike what our Human aspect seems to believe, we Dragonkind are not unthinking engines of destruction, raining volcanic brimstone and hellish fires upon any and every effort to build civilisation! Unless we’re planning to switch sides in this war?

Acid rose in the Human’s craw. Don’t bait us, girly-Dragon.

Bait? Who’s girly? The insults I suffer!

Arguing with her own second-soul? One way to develop a clanger of a headache!

Aren’t we jolly this morning? Zip put in impertinently. Huari, hurry up or this starlight-weaving Dragon-petal will be late. She’s already steaming like a Remoyan sugar sap pudding freshly plucked from the oven.

Zuziana and her Remoyan-isms! The Navy-Blue Shapeshifter made her throat-clicking sound, which Aranya kept meaning to ask her about. What did it signify – droll amusement?

As they briskly forged deeper into the fortress of Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, she questioned the Land Dragoness, Zuziana and indeed, any creature who might be listening, about this supposed surprise, and received a sum total of zero answers to her increasingly impassioned pleas. Bah, to borrow a leaf from Nak’s favourite scroll of conversational grunts. Clearly, she needed to train her worshippers in the finer nuances of grovelling and unquestioning obedience.

The young Shapeshifter felt her lips quirk into a bleak, scar-twisted travesty of a smile. When she and Zip first embarked upon a madcap quest to break the Sylakian yoke upon the Islands, who would have guessed at this fate?

Absolute potentate of two-thirds of her Island-World, give or take?

Ruler of brokenness.

Her Dragoness said, No. That’s spelled, ‘harbinger of hope.’

And then Aranya found she could no longer speak, nor even think, for a sensation like warm, supple wings curved about her soul, and enfolded her being in sweet tendrils of the whitest of fires.

* * * *

Brityx and Huari had been even naughtier than promised, Zuziana commended them mentally, ogling her newly acquired husband as flagrantly as was wholly appropriate. How much lean, sweat-glistening muscle, mister ex-monk? Those mounded, ropy abdominals thrown into full relief by his straining posture? Scandalous Islands of yumminess! How happy she was to have corrupted him within a short few days of his adopting a new profession, namely, helping her and Aranya beard Sylakian tyrants. Masterful work on the man-acquisition there, she congratulated herself, but she did desperately wish she had lips to lick, because she had a burning desire to do some serious drooling.

Still, Zip hoped he did not drop that boulder on his left big toe. That might spoil his day.

As Ri’arion staggered off down the short track toting a sizeable hunk of granite upon his shoulder, Gangurtharr and Ardan sprinted ahead with their loads to the far end, dumped them across a rope line, and hefted even bigger boulders for the race back. The men were barefoot, clad in nothing more than the calf-length, deep blue leather trousers beloved of a people once entitled the Dragon Haters. That – praise the stars above – left Ri’arion’s well-muscled, battle-scarred upper body bare. Her man was no stripling, having trained at the fabled warrior arts of the Fra’aniorian warrior-monks since he had taken his first toddling steps, but he appeared slight, even boyish, in comparison to the sculpted magnificence of the Shadow Dragon’s Human physique in which every muscle and fibre stood individually etched beneath the sable beauty of his scarified, tattooed skin – no doubt a response seeping through from Aranya’s mind, Zip realised dazedly – and then … Gang. Roaring rajals! Man-mountain. Shoulders in keeping with the eye-popping physique of an angry male Dragon. Strength enough to raise a boulder of eye-watering proportions above his head, but as she watched the recently embodied man lost his balance, drawing horrified gasps from the crowd …

Aranya awoke at last. Introspection broken, her serious-minded friend glanced about in alarm. Although Zip was convinced she could not possibly have spied the danger, her instinctual whiplash of magic wafted Gang’s load out of harm’s way. The boulder bounced off the sand to one side as the huge man crashed to the ground, thankfully not copping that pebble atop a cranium more durable than any Dragon’s scale-armour.

Thanks? Not a chance. The ex-gladiator thundered his discontent!

Typical Dragon.

Ardan paused to make a show of helping Gangurtharr rise – riling him further, which was absolutely the point – while Ri’arion staggered toward the pair, still labouring to complete his second boulder. Zip experienced the curious sensation of not-her-eyes scanning the crowd and her unfamiliarly dull hearing taking in the clamour reverberating around the balmy warrior-training hanger. A sandy floor of perhaps two hundred feet in length by a hundred wide was bracketed by a decent crowd, thanks to Brityx’s invitation. The Lost Islanders cheered lustily for their favourites as the men set to their competition once more, and Aranya’s awareness noted the mostly female sound.

Zip buttoned down her thoughts. All part of the despicable plan.

The men sweated through two more rounds of boulders. Ri’arion, not having the benefit of draconic strength, failed to shift his boulder on the third leg and Ardan lost ground to Gang on the fourth. To rousing cheers, the newly-minted Shapeshifter Dragon raised his fifth boulder, a speckled granite beauty weighing substantially over half a tonne, two feet off the ground before lurching off down the track. Ardan could not even reach around his boulder to grip it.

“A little healthy competition?” Aranya said dryly.

With a shake of her lustrous dark curls, Huaricithe said, “Lifts the spirits.”

Her eyes followed Ardan through a short foot-race, seven laps of the cavern touching the wall at each turn. Ri’arion won with Ardan breathing down his neck, and Gang lumbered through in a distant third, huffing and puffing mightily. Not his event.

Aranya elbowed Huari slyly. “How does he ever catch you around the pillow-roll?”

“Have you considered that I might enjoy being caught?”

Zip chortled appreciatively.

Growing rather more heated of cheek, her hostess coughed, “Someone’s keeping score?”

“You know Dragons,” came the reply, raising Aranya’s suspicions immediately. Dear Immadia. She had no clue, Zip thought. “Why don’t you let yourself be distracted?”

How fascinating to observe from the perfect insider position, another woman’s regard for her man. Zip’s derision evaporated in a rush of amazement. The artist in Aranya picked out details at a dazzling rate, each image intense and complete. Flick. A snapshot of the sweat beaded upon Ardan’s battle-scarred left deltoid. Flick. Noting how the magical lights dangling twenty feet from the ceiling burnished the veins bulging over his biceps with coppery tints, highlighting the pulse and flow of his inner life-magic. Flick. A perfectly synchronised contraction of the right quadriceps muscles as his weight pounded his heel into the sand, throwing a deep but healed-over injury into momentary relief. Flick. The visceral reach of her desire for his manly-draconic scent. Flick. The tempest of oath magic seething between them, playing through her memories to unearth traumatic echoes of their first meeting, coupled with notes of profound regret.

Oh! Zip sighed. Now who was intruding upon whose private memories?

The men worked at push-ups until they dropped; to her surprise, Ardan won easily and was continuing to show off, doing one-handed repetitions while Gang and Ri’arion egged him on. “One hundred and fifty, one hundred fifty-one …”

Eventually he collapsed, groaning without need to resort to fakery. Two hundred and twelve! The crowd’s hooting and whistling, however, brought him to his feet with a bound and a broad grin. He flexed his pectorals and then arched his arms overhead, tensing every muscle in his body until Aranya’s poor eyeballs nearly scalded their sockets in appreciation. The Immadian breathed, “Unholy smoking volcanoes!”

Undeniably. That was pure, volcanic Dragon. The crowd’s delirium struck a deafening pitch. To Zip’s mounting surprise, Aranya yelled and cheered lustily for Ardan, despite causing herself a coughing-fit. Nothing of polite, reserved Immadia in that dance, the Remoyan decided with glee!

Her attention shifted to a particular person standing in the crowd.

Patience, little one, Brityx replied privately. In her Human form, she was a tall, raven-haired Shapeshifter matron who appeared as lean and deadly-striking as a Dragoness’ talon. After the wrestling.

Aye, noble Brityx, Zip responded.

Gangurtharr took the anvil-toss with ease, making the crowd scatter as he struck the back wall of the cavern with a throw fuelled by a roar of almighty frustration, but then Ri’arion snatched the honours from Gang by a rajal’s whisker in the third round of wrestling – small as he might be compared to the Dragon Shapeshifter duo, his skill in hand-to-hand combat was nonpareil. He did come out limping and wheezing, however, courtesy of a signature Gangurtharr body-slam straight out of the gladiator pits of Wyldaroon.

“Gang held back,” Aranya whispered to Huari.

Huari pursed her lips. “He doesn’t know his Human strength yet, Aranya. Better that than broken bones. The monk destroyed Ardan.”

“He didn’t enjoy that,” said Aranya, measuring the tenor of the Western Isles warrior’s fires.

Ardan clapped Ri’arion on the shoulder. “Well fought!”

“Speed and trickery,” said Gang, clasping Ri’arion’s forearm. “You’d make a fine gladiator. Next time, though, I’ll rake this sand with your splintered bones.”

“Next time you’ll be the one eating sand, noble Dragon,” the monk grinned back fiercely.

As Aranya watched a squad of soldiers quickly setting up bars, Zip picked her moment. “Petal, could I take over for a moment?”

“Why?”

“Oh, alright. Can you just ogle Ri’arion for a bit so that I can enjoy this, too? Enough visuals of strapping Western Isles biceps for me. I’m a married woman.”

Aranya’s fires streamed into her body. “Zip, I’m not trying to –”

“I’ll settle for a few lascivious glances,” she goaded her friend wilfully. “You know, focus on those cobblestone abdominals, slaver over the backside wrapped in scandalously tight leather; all the scrumptious manliness on display over there. Like you used to stare at Yolathion when you thought no-one was watching.”

“Zuzi, you just – you – stinker! Fine!”

As maddened as a feral Dragoness, Aranya acceded. At once, Zip walked her new and unfamiliarly tall personage over toward the monk, eyeing him up with unmistakable intent. The oath magic hissed around her and through her, spitting like a furious snake. As she had suspected, the oath magic was an indiscriminate protector of what it saw as Aranya’s inviolable connection with the Shadow Dragon. Perfect plot. Aye, Fra’anior might have apologised for slamming the pair together in the very hope that such an inviolable bond might be formed, but the repercussions echoed through Aranya’s life to this day. Much of her partial victory over the S’gulzzi which had risen from the Pit of Despair could be ascribed to this very connection, arguably the deepest and most mysterious expression of all draconic magic.

However, the oath magic could be turned to other purposes … may it never become a liability.

Zip reached out to stroke Ri’arion’s arm. “Islands’ greetings, handsome. And what might your name be?”

The monk jumped almost as much as Ardan. Aranya’s increasingly stormy presence fulminated in the background. Thunder chuntered around Yiisuriel’s mountaintop. “Ara … uh, Zuziana?”

“Aye, it is indeed your very lonesome wife, who is entertaining some deeply immoral thoughts just now, you sexy beast.”

Ri’arion coughed, Whaa-oof!

Ardan growled, “I just can’t get used to –”

“A Human beating two Dragons?” Zip put in smoothly, touching her throat as Aranya’s voice box operated at an unfamiliar pitch and timbre. “What are you ahead by, Ri’arion dearest? Three points?”

Gang and Ardan snarled in concert, “One!”

No mind that she could no longer tuck herself beneath his arm. Zuziana swallowed, and pressed her body against Ri’arion’s with the air of a tavern tart touting for business. Lowering her voice, she purred, “Will you win for me, my lovely leopard-man?”

To say that the monk was discomfited – as was she – was an understatement. Ri’arion twitched away, his eyes full of questions. It was wrong to abuse her friend’s person like this, but Zip persisted, pursing her lips to blow a few kisses at her husband. Pique was needed. Brazenness. And a full glamour-shielding of her intent. Just what they would expect from a dissolute Remoyan Princess, she thought despondently, cringing at her friends’ expressions.

Ardan looked incensed.

Zuzi … Aranya puzzled within. What are you doing?

The more she salivated over every sensation and emotion that pertained to Ri’arion, the more strongly the oath magic reacted, graduating now from a few hisses to a full-throated thundering like a Land Dragon’s eye cannon warming up. Aranya observed with mounting concern, but did not yet grasp her intent. The response from Ardan was every ounce as visceral as one might expect from a Dragon spited. Fire. Deep-seated, jealous rage. A physical swelling of the muscles and a thrumming of tendons in readiness for battle. The impossibility of his mate dallying with another male – betrayed! Wounded! Enraged!

Deftly, Huari slipped between them and said, “Gang, you’ll show these two reprobates how it’s done, won’t you?”

Ardan rounded upon the next drill with an inarticulate snarl.

Having marked with blue chalk the desired position of each man’s hands upon the bars, the soldier running the event called, “Ready, combatants? Friends, I mean …”

No-one laughed.

Chapter 2: Give of Thy Fires

Ardan CHAMPED HIS teeth, so sick with wrath it seemed to lodge in a heated ball in his throat. Freaking Remoyan … whatever! He did not want to think ill of her, for he knew how deeply Aranya’s ever-ebullient friend must rue the Thoralians’ attack that had led to her downfall, but this was unacceptable behaviour. Disturbing! Wrongness washed his soul like caustic lye as he dried his hands with chalk dust, and then reached above his head for the metal bar. All he could see in his mind was his girl fondling another man’s arm – no intellectual knowledge that it was Zuziana of Remoy who spoke and acted thus could excise that image from his mind. None! It was beyond perverse!

Gritting his teeth, Ardan focussed on the forthcoming challenge. He was Dragonkind. He would win.

Fury lent him terrace lakes of raw power as the drumbeat started, marking the timing for the three men. Flexion. Chin to the bar. Full extension of the arms. Another flexion, the muscle fibres of his latissimus dorsi – another of those draconic linguistic peculiarities, for Ri’arion said that no-one knew the origins of such scientific terminology – curving in great bands across his back as he settled into his rhythm, matching Gang and Ri’arion repetition for repetition. One for Aranya. Two for Bane. Three for Lurax. Four for Sapphire. Five for Dragon Rider Nak. Quietly, he recounted in his mind his family and clan, so crucial to the cultures of the Western Isles. Thoralian had razed his home Cluster of Ur-Naphtha with Dragon fires. He had no family, no place and but few fragmented memories of the past; no foundations to his world but these.

Eleven. Twelve.

Ardan’s gaze touched the leather ur-makka wrapped about his right wrist. Sha’aldior. How had they known? Who had pierced the veil of the future to gift him a spirit-name of such visionary power? He vowed he would protect his own with all of his being, beyond life if necessary, against the depredations of the Thoralians.

Never give up. Never give in. He was … Dragon!

Twenty-one. Again. One more.

Yet, despair rimed his heart with bands of ice and iron. Surely, when he thought like this, he must sense the stirring of his inner fire life? Yet all within his breast was a frostbitten wasteland. His Shapeshifter Dragon slumbered. This was the peril of the triple-strong Lavanias collar with which the Marshal had enslaved him … suffering skanky windrocs, and now he felt her gaze reaming his back, and even the touch of her eyes sparked upon his skin with a prickling sensation like tiny briars of flame!

Thirty-one. Thirty-two.

Ardan pumped out the repetitions, minimally aware of Gang’s gasps to his left and Ri’arion’s cool, controlled breathing to his right hand. He existed in another space. No magic – he had none left. Just the pure power of muscle, tendon and bone, the abilities he had been given as a man, and the concentration upon a single goal. Winning.

Forty-four. Five. Six.

Gangurtharr’s roar chilled him to the bone! The intangible oath magic roared once more as he began to see via the implausibly vivid projection of Aranya’s mind, the individual striations of his muscle fibres thrown into sharper and sharper relief by bourgeoning luminosity, the sweat steaming off his torso, the bar gleaming as though burnished in furnace fires. Knowledge seared his mind afresh. He was Ardan, warrior of Ur-Naphtha and Dragon Shapeshifter; the adopted son of Fra’anior himself! Her vision sharpened upon his physique with excruciating exactitude. Revelling. Glorying. Appreciating him with all that was woman and Dragoness and artist rolled into an overwhelming awareness of febrile perception. Aranya’s searing regard. Her desire. Her amethyst gaze piercing his flesh like burning talons!

Fifty-nine! SIXTY!

Heat and power swelled his heart as Gang dropped away with a low curse. Ri’arion’s breath hissed sharply. The monk plumbed his last strength, but Ardan powered on and on, abiding in the furnace fires bathing his entire back now. Humbled. Exultant. Terrified of what might be; of failing to become more.

Suddenly, he became aware of his own voice babbling, Please … oh, please …

And another voice commanded, Paint him, Aranya. Paint your Dragon.

Sapphire? Or Fra’anior? Ardan could no longer tell, for the exercise hanger had grown lambent, suffused with the unbearable whiteness of the first fires of draconic creation, and the watching faces shifted in smeary white blurs as people and Shapeshifters dropped to their knees, and his flesh assumed the pristine translucency of untainted water as that extraordinary light gleamed right through his being, forcing the raddled shadows to combust like aged linens tossed upon a bonfire. The consuming fire! Fragmentary memories of his past made bile surge into his throat. He would burn, burn, burn!

As if spirited away upon fearful wings, the conflagration mellowed into the wondrous notes of a new melody. Sweet relief coursed through his veins in viscous spurts of molten flame, as if her fire-song now evoked his inmost being, the true nature of what he must become. The flesh of his back, shoulders and arms became her canvas. He saw every bunched muscle, every mound and hollow and dip, every detail of every ancillary muscle and battle-scar, down to the verimost pores of his skin, captured in perfect detail – described in the poetic language of infinitesimal rune-fires, he realised. This was the magical insight of a Star Dragoness which the Remoyan Princess had once explained to him; rune-magic expressed at the atomic level. And now, a sense of rippling spreading across his flesh. Tingling. His skin began to transform in her mind’s eye. Roughening. Forming a patchwork of crenelated ridges. An outline of scales. Changing with every breath. Gathering definition. Armoured hardness. Metallic lustre. Becoming Dragon!

Could Aranya thus resurrect his Dragonsoul?

To the once-Shadow Dragon, it seemed that tumultuous waves bore him aloft upon gossamer wings. Whose eyes were these, that knew his being so intimately as to reclothe him in Dragon hide? That sketched each talon and so accurately rendered the deathly, slightly curved steel blades until they were indistinguishable from what had been before? That traced the phenomenal bulk of a Dragon’s flight musculature behind his neck and across his trapezius and deltoid muscles? That breathed living fires into his soul? The Immadian Princess stood before him now, gazing upon him as though she sought to plumb the very essence of Ardan-ness. Her lips, shining with such pure luminance that only the faintest hint of rose touched their otherworldly appearance, curved upwards at the corners as always when she was amused or simply content.

Starlight indwelled the depthless cosmos behind her gemstone eyes.

Ardan plunged into eternity. Stretching, tumbling, a mote helplessly afloat upon a tidal bore of magic, yet he still could not make the vital breakthrough.

Her shining hand rose to cup his cheek. O Dragon, come forth.

He wanted nothing more in the Island-World that to respond to her tender summons, but his best effort was still lacking. Ardan groaned, I … I haven’t … please, Aranyi. The Immadian intimacy caused her smile to traverse the twisted, ruined side of her face. Ardan knew only that his deepest wish was not for him, but for her. Shine afresh, o Aranya, star of mine heart. Shine in truth and let this travesty be no more!

Magic seethed about his very bones with a sound and sensation like torrential rain, refreshing and renewing his being.

Joyously, she sang, SHA’ALDIOR, ARISE!

Ardan cried out as whiteness detonated behind his eyes. He knew only the storm within and without, as if he had stepped into the incandescent heart of a comet, and a voice like an orison of Storm crying:

Dragon, arise … aye, come alive, my Dragon!

That thundering! It was him, the mighty thickness of his throat reverberating like a drumskin as the beast bellowed his jubilation to the heavens; his Shapeshifter Dragon burst into being four-square and proud, stretching and shaking out his wings with a shiver of pleasure. His scales gleamed like smoky obsidian fired by a blacksmith’s labours, and mighty fires seethed within him, as if his naissance were excruciation, and what he needed most, was the agony of renewal.

And then, the storm’s aftermath, Sha’aldior, be at peace.

Ardan saw that he clutched a node of pure light in his forepaw – a girl! Nay, a young woman who though blemished, was to him beauty incarnate, and the fury and mystery of his Dragon fires embodied. With a trill of laughter unlike anything he had ever heard pass Aranya’s lips before, she shielded both her person and the crowd around to protect them from the monstrously triumphant fires gushing forth from every pore of his being, it seemed.

Ardan belatedly snapped his jaw shut. Clack!

Amidst the swirling plumes of fire contained by her shield, those incomparable amethyst eyes materialised to capture his Dragonsoul with her gaze, and now her smile widened as the wistful, upward-quirked lips parted to breathe deep of his fires.

Aranya!

For thee alone, Ardan crooned zealously, awash with white fires love.

From her tongue she expelled a thin stream of fire directly against his muzzle, a multi-coloured thread of flames so similar in appearance to her hair, the Dragon almost mistook her gesture at first. Then, the enchanting scent of a Star Dragoness’ soul invaded his nostrils, igniting sapphire and lilac and pure white constellations behind his eyes, as though the night skies danced for the glory of their revealed presence, no longer faraway, but intimately grafted into his being. Soul-fires!

Mighty as he was, the Dragon crumpled to his knees.

When his vision cleared, it was focussed upon the girl standing within the crook of his forepaw – her expression focussed to the point of inscrutability. Draconic. Artistic. Now, a dawning of delight that mirrored the exultation rising in his soul.

Aranya raised her hand to his muzzle, and chuckled with that peculiarly Immadian musicality, You’re my incandescent passion, thou, my soul’s –

FFIIIIIRRREE!! thundered the Dragon, and her laughter embraced his roaring from within.

* * * *

“O grand shell-father, do you not despise my frailty?”

Fra’anior had a way of occluding the horizons like the apparition of a thousand-year storm. He effortlessly dominated her surrounds with steepling thundercloud-mantled necks and the mayhem of lightning bolts a hundred feet in diameter constantly sparking between the spine spikes so awesome, he could skewer Islands like the spicy kebabs these denizens of Herimor so dearly loved – however, as Aranya considered him, she knew something had changed. She sensed tenderness. Esteem. A growing cognizance of his unfathomable, brooding soul’s brightening toward the scrap of life that watched the edge of his forepaw approaching like an onyx cliff sweeping across her skyline. How could they even embrace? How had she never appreciated this aspect of his character before; how had he not recognised her resemblance to his beloved Istariela?

How could the creator Dragon have forgotten his first love?

Overwhelmed, she genuflected with her gaze. Who might presume to call the most majestic of Ancient Dragons, grandsire? Yet in his weakness; aye, in his loss, he seemed both nobler and easier to empathise with. She supposed that the truth of his vulnerability must seem a blasphemous thought to many. Nevertheless, who else knew the fires of this supreme Dragon’s hearts?

“Arise,” commanded the Storm of Storms, the Great Onyx. When she stumbled in finding her paws, he chuckled, “I intended no reprimand, wishing only to warn thee.”

Famously, he loved the tiniest creatures of the Island-World with a fierce and abiding affection.

Turning her rising into an impulsive bound, the Amethyst Dragoness sprang aloft, startled to discover a presence rather than a weight upon her shoulders. Second-soul! Her neck twizzled about to examine … herself. Oddly. Curiously. Lamenting the scarring. To her, Human Aranya was a girl of knee-length tresses that rippled in kaleidoscopic colours across her back in the breeze briefly generated by her Dragoness’ flight; the soul behind her eyes was at once mysterious and familiar-yet-not-herself, making her wonder afresh at the dichotomy of possessing a second-soul, separate yet one.

She landed upon the pad of the nearest of Fra’anior upturned fore-talons. Even a butterfly landing upon her Human’s fingertip was proportionately larger by far; she felt as a gnat or a speck of dust clinging to a gleaming mountain of onyx scale-armour. The rest of him was beyond awesome. He was miles and miles of sinuous, storm-girded battlements of Dragon armour; so eye-wateringly humungous that the leagues of his body vanished into the distant gloom.

“I preferred the butterfly image,” rumbled the third head to her right flank, jostling with its neighbours to overawe her with – for the very first time – the combined gaze of fourteen fiery lakes.

Aranya hoped he did not sneeze. Gnat in a gale.

Another head rumbled, “Chin up, o Daughter of Storm.”

Now a mischievous quip accompanied by a curl of fire that raged two miles wide and five long overhead? Dragons said the suns flared like that, but her eyesight had been too weak to join in the observations at Gi’ishior’s celestial laboratory. It was hard to imagine her grandsire being overshadowed by anything in the Universe, but she supposed there must be powers mightier than he.

At which, the remnants of her rational mind threatened to pop like a lava lake bubble.

Aranya glanced down at her tiny soul space, the now-overpopulated peak of that spectacular spire of rock. At least half a dozen of Fra’anior’s eye-fires tracked her motion.

“A worthy deed,” he rumbled. “The answer is nay, shell-granddaughter. How canst I despise one who hath spilled out her very soul’s essence in service of her Island-World? Or deny the sorrows that dampen mine fires when I consider all that mine envious desire for vengeance wrought upon thy frame and fate?”

Aranya dismissed his statement with a wave of her forepaw, feeling brave and mawkish at the same time. “Spent fires, o noble Fra’anior, much as I appreciate thy sentiment. What of the Thoralians?”

The congregation of his mighty eyes measured her being with such seething majesty, she felt faint. The tenor of his storms betrayed his response before the Ancient Dragon replied, “Aye, Aranya. This was mine purpose in initiating this meeting. Indeed, the Thoralian-spirits survived the battle and even the immense wash of thy healing magic, protected by their command of urzul’s corrupting force – but they are unable to penetrate the First Egg. Not as yet. The Suald-dak-Doon’s very nature, namely the presence of enormous deposits of meriatonium, precludes that possibility. Therefore the Thoralians will attempt to fly the Egg into the Rift Storm and there, augmenting his power with that which he would steal from Infurion, he shall seek to penetrate its innate magic – as thine friend posited.”

She considered this new information, her wingtips betraying an anxious quiver. Her Humansoul said, “Fact or supposition, o Great Onyx?”

Phew! Dragon-direct! her Amethyst Dragoness admired, mingling draconic respect-indicators into her tone. Nonetheless, Fra’anior laughed his monstrously basso laugh, which beat against her chest and abdomen like amplified paw-blows.

I am direct, her Human sniffed privately, to which the Amethyst replied, I like that quality in you. Your personality is akin to the strike of a mystical talon.

What?

Her inner mirth merged into Fra’anior’s as he chortled, Doth Human doubt creep in amongst thy draconic candour, o Aranya? Fear not. I have lately eschewed the taking of insult in my dealings with thee. Nay, consider this: is mine the only dragonesque paw seeking to work its purposes in the Island-World? Am I the only one who dares speak with mine charge, mine delight; thou, the BEAUTEOUS FIRES OF MINE THIRD HEART?

Clinging on with all twenty talons, Aranya was nevertheless whisked four hundred feet backward by the wash of his ebullience.

Shaking her skull spikes, she blurted, Thou canst not essay plain speech?

Fra’anior’s following inhalation threatened to suck scales off her hide. Meantime, not far away, Zip was giggling at her antiquated phrasing. Later, there would be leisure for the plenteous swatting of cheeky Azure Shapeshifters. Aranya made a mental rune mark to remind herself that when she awakened from this dream, she must find out if her Shadow had recovered completely.

The Onyx growled, Prophetic or overly specified speech hath power to change the fates. Why question what thou knowest, thou troublesome mite?

Oh, so my words don’t matter? Thanks for the clarification, grand shell-sire!

With a withering curl of acrid smoke from his nostrils, the three heads occluding Aranya’s right flank snorted, There’s a small difference in magnitude!

Alright, I’ll say it – Dramagon, Dramagon and more Dramagon the ruddy Red Fiend! Aranya stormed right back, Dragoness and Human speaking in perfectly synchronised cadence.

Fra’anior made no reply, but the multiple cannonades of thunder provoked by her rash response were all the confirmation she needed. Such power! For the longest time, she could only stare up into his seething eyes, and tremble. Lightning exploded from his fangs, turning the Ancient Dragon’s mouths into immense caverns of sheeting electrical mayhem.

Dragon Aranya clung to the fragments of her courage. Foolish Immadia! Why did she always have to rile her grandfather? The fate of her Island-World was no game!

At length, the seven dark heads intoned in booming concert, Dramagon indeed.

Her wings juddered in shock! She settled them with a discontented rustle. He was gratified? Had she just released … a capacity within him? Somehow, unchained fate’s hold upon his tongues? Was that not what she observed secretively gleaming within his eye fires; a pattern so quickly abolished, it seemed illusory?

With an air of ineffable gravitas, the Onyx of Ages boomed, Attend, o Aranya. Despite this apparent grandeur which cows thy awareness so sorely, many matters mine cognizance doth not encompass. I never was a star traveller, save within mine Egg. Who knows what manner of paw launched our First Eggs across the cosmos? Who knows from what unspeakable fate the progenitors of our kinds did abscond? From where amidst the starry array? Or why? Scant memory avails few answers; many conjectures puzzle mine awareness. Now, I perceive events in thine Island-World but dimly from mine fortress of self-imposed exile, praying that the nostrils of those foes of yore do not tingle at the fragrance of our fire-lives, nor thrill to inhale the sweetness of all we have laboured for, built and placed under our protection here.

Aranya was immediately intrigued by the nuances of his delivery. What protections? Before she could consider the implications, the Ancient Dragon moved swiftly on, rumbling:

Yet apposite to thine place and time, I adjure thee: The spirit of Dramagon hearkens to the labour of the Thoralians. Mine shell brother is most gratified. His is not an easy paw of service. He will deal with thine archenemy, and mine, in his own time. I believe that the Ancient Red seeks the lost remnant of his spirit, the ruzal once possessed of thine shell-aunt, the so-called Scroll of Binding. Dramagon’s rekindled attention implies that he suspects the foulness of ruzal must remain hidden within thine demesne. Therefore, thou must deal with mine errant shell daughter, Hualiama!

While her Human swallowed hard, unable to speak, the Amethyst Dragoness managed to squeak, O Fra’anior, pray do not set me against my flesh and blood.

Do not misapprehend mine purposes! thundered the Dragon, his blast smacking her backward once more. Aranya had to throw up a shaped aerodynamic shield to prevent being blasted away … no, not aerodynamic after all. Some kind of magical flow … the Onyx urged, with peals of thunder and ebon clouds boiling out of nothingness to wreathe his body in elemental storm, Nay, not against the Blue Star. With her. For yea, I foresee with a powerful frisson that seizes all of mine spines, fraught with the fantastical and wondrous scent of destiny, that this gathering of Star Dragonesses presages a truly remarkable passage of events in the history of many worlds. Succour the Egg, mine cherished grand shell daughter. Set its Balance to rights. But always, always, always guard against the despicable schemes of mine shell brother, Dramagon!

Trifold emphasis! As if her nemesis were not almighty enough already, she thought bitterly, emerging from beneath the blast with a displeased wingtip fluttering. Now the very master of genocidal infamy, her great shell-uncle, stood against her, too!

Fra’anior’s tempest boiled prodigiously.

Yet … a gathering of Star Dragonesses? Incredible; a vision beyond her imagination. What was the Onyx hinting at? Why was this revelation allowable when others were not? Hualiama, Istariela, Izariela, herself … maybe the Pygmy Dragoness? Was she a family member, too? Should they not number seven, the draconic number symbolising perfection? Was she fated to give birth to another Star Dragoness?

Her spine felt as if tiny talons were racing up and down its length, each prickle a deliciously alarming portent.

Thrusting aside her stubborn pride at the pang of realising she might be but one of a number of Star Dragonesses, Aranya said, I serve willingly, grandfather. But in an escalating war between two Ancient Powers …

The Onyx’s seven heads dipped simultaneously. Aye, rightly dost thou speak. Thou cannot imagine nor be told the powers and perils at stake in mine domain. Know that I struggle for thee. Always. But as for thine domain, by which I mean all the realms within the Rim Wall Mountains, o breath of mine innermost fires, thou must be mine strong right paw – wilt thou be?

A command not assuaged in the slightest by the quintessentially draconic non-apology tail-ending his statement, Aranya realised with a chagrined inner smile. Aye, she could refuse. She might as well cast herself into Thoralian’s paw in the doing; worse, earn herself the untrammelled wrath of the Onyx! Yet she understood that by his phrasing, Fra’anior intended to be gracious.

Confounded Dragons!

Aye, so was she. Fired up by this realisation, Aranya flashed one hundred pearly white fangs at her shell-grandfather, and purred in tones like gravelled honey, May my service be acceptable in thy sight, o mighty progenitor of mine soul’s verimost fires.

Fra’anior arched his mighty necks until his fiery smiles threatened to swallow the skies, and replied, Mine watching of thine deeds from afar illumeth mine soul in delight unbounded, o Aranya!

Oh, to be his delight – how she yearned.

* * * *

Come evening of the day following her vivid dream of the Great Onyx, the Amethyst Dragoness limped into the cavern complex to which Brityx had directed her search for the Shadow Dragon, aching in every bone of her body, and stumbled over her paws with a muted growl of discontent. “Ardan!”

The song of his pleasure was a throbbing buzz deep within his chest. Ardan stretched his thickset neck until he regarded her upside down, luxuriating in the action of the heavy rollers brushing against the scales of his belly, flanks and thighs. He said, “They told me you were side-tracked.”

“Working hard, I see,” Aranya hissed, all a-bristle with draconic jealousy.

He lounged upon a broad field of whirring brushes and hissing cloth rollers set at a variety of angles to create shallow, cupped beds perfectly suited to buffing up a Dragon’s scales to within an inch of their armoured lives. Ardan was putting the fullest effort of his Dragon hearts into lolling – shameless lout! He extended his foreleg over a roller and rubbed his left lower flank vigorously against a quartet of spinning, bristly brush columns, purring, “Mmm, you’re a sight for fiery eyes.”

Aranya puffed sulphurous smoke in his direction. Bah.

“The best part was the three hours I spent sweltering in boiling lava,” he averred, slitting his eyes as lazily as a suns-bathing feline. “I didn’t enjoy the mechanical picks cleaning beneath my scales, but after a heavy massage from Gangurtharr – you wouldn’t believe what that gladiator Dragon can do to your joints – I do feel a great deal more limber. The flow and feedback along the magical pathways has definitely picked up. I’ve been stuffed to the skull spikes according to a special recovery diet developed some six hundred or so years ago by none other than your dear Aunty Hualiama, who I’m reliably informed was a highly skilled inventor and scientist quite apart from her legendary awesomeness –”

“Apparently, every draconic ancestor of mine is excessively talented in every possible discipline,” Aranya snarled, three parts Dragoness and one part Human.

Honestly? This was how he chose to cheer up a Dragoness? Well, he could just –

“I do find it fascinating how abundant hard work and training appears to enhance talent,” observed the Shadow Dragon, suddenly pouring off the massive roller bed like a glossy black coal improbably awakened to life.

Whomp! Her inner fires ignited in approbation. Aranya took two steps backward before she managed to arrest the movement. Grr, she blurted out, narked at her reaction.

Grr indeed, mine heavenly muse, he beamed. Clearly, repentance was in scant supply. Fiery flirtation ruled the day.

Humansoul pictured swatting him past the Yellow Moon.

Meantime, her Dragoness’ every fire trembled at the song of his presence. GRR! Stop … looming over me, you … you hulking monstrosity!

That’s an excellent way to stoke my fires, the Shadow paused to note dryly, before he performed a fang-licking routine that reminded her so improbably of a lascivious Nak clothed in Dragon hide, Aranya’s ire succumbed to a torrent of hilarity. Ardan growled. Fulminated! Inquired with wrathful bemusement. He made a few gruff barks of laughter, and when she explained through sulphurous hiccoughs what had ignited her laughter, he assumed a stance of massively igneous masculine pomp, and promptly flattened her beneath his left forepaw.

Ardan! This behaviour is most undignified.

Oh … what fortuitous happenstance! Arching his forepaw slightly, he peered beneath with simulated surprise. Aranya’s lips peeled back from her fangs. As usual, Ardan’s acting was dismal. Hath a pretty fledgling of most fetching Amethyst colouration swoonéd beneath mine mighty paw?

You think your paw’s mighty? I’ve alighted upon Fra’anior’s paw tip, and that’s an Island …

His talon tickling the underside of her scaly chin made Aranya pull up with an undignified splutter. Aye? purred the Shadow. Hast thou remembered when last I clasped thee thus, Immadia? Even as heat thundered through her being, igniting even the most pox-blighted conduits and organs, his gaze mellowed. Ardan stroked the softer scales beside her left fire eye tenderly with the knuckle of his fore-talon. Oh, mine flame heart …

All that was within his third heart welled up in an expression she had neither seen nor appreciated in a Dragon before. The glorious, suns-like unfurling of colours within his eye made her feel as if she were diving at a breakneck velocity into a field of Immadian wildflowers at the height of the season. The monster’s breath hitched as an incongruously fragrant wave of rich scents teased her nostrils. He tried to speak. Gulped. Tried again, and failed … and her treble hearts-beat flew into paroxysms of anxiety. Her scars! He stared at her scars; her greatest shame!

A-A … Ardan? she stammered. O, mercy me, don’t –

Aranya!

Scrabbling to her paws but finding her Dragoness cupped between his massive palms, Aranya gasp-growled, Ardan? Stop. She flinched reflexively as he traced the ruined, exposed cheekbone of her left cheek with a delicate talon-tip touch. Don’t. That’s … stop! Stop! What do you think you’re doing?

At the same time, he gasped, ARANYA! Oh – you must – I will – you have to see!

A vitriolic fireball of humiliation exploded in her belly. No, Ardan … no, don’t. Please! But he was pushing her, physically dragging the far smaller forty-plus foot Dragoness toward a Dragon-sized mirror amusingly entitled ‘The Preening Station’ in bold, golden runic letters each two feet tall, on the nearby wall. Aranya fought back. She spat fire and singed his freshly buffed hide with affrighted bolts of lightning she had learned from Zuziana, and heard one of her inner presences – no, Zip and Sapphire in chorus, she realised – soothing with gentle voices. Despite his great strength, Ardan trod a line of gentle inflexibility, insisting that she must both obey and forgive him; she must look even though she wished nothing less in the Island-World. In a moment he Dragon-handled her in front of the mirror.

His left forepaw cupped her scaly back and flanks, and with the right, he reached around to tilt Aranya’s chin upward – exactly as Fra’anior had just teased her!

Echoes of consequence paralysed her every muscle. Draconic correlation magic, they called it, in a linguistic play on the idea of coincidence – a not-coincidence of enormous, mystical import.

Please, if you believe nothing else, he wheezed, believe me. For my sake, believe this.

She was incapable, at first. Ardan scooted his free paw beneath her chin to catch the blinding flurry of her tears, tears she realised sprang from unbelief and negation – for after all the travails her world had suffered, how could a Dragoness begin to trust again? She deserved nothing, not even the eternal fires of the Dragonkind. Nay, not death. Her lot must be castigation. Derision. Torment. Aranya ground her fangs together painfully. Why had Fra’anior not rained the hellish fires of his darkest creation upon her contemptible head, and hurled the feeble Star Dragoness, who had lost his Dragon-kin’s Egg, into the darkest abyss?

Too soon, the eruption of her emotions sputtered to a halt. Emotional overload dampened the agitated flicking of her wings and the bilious fires churning about in her lower throat. She swallowed it all down. Courage, Immadia! She was so weary.

Aye, it took courage to face brokenness.

From her mother’s interment, she had learned the bitterest of lessons. Dread would never again dominate her life. Thus the Princess of Immadia, the Shapeshifter Dragoness crushed by Thoralian’s paw, forced herself to focus on the slim draconic countenance she beheld in the mirror.

Her gaze scrutinised and assessed the whiteness of bone within its crater of raddled, scarred flesh. A timeless second slipped by. Two. Had something … changed?

Realisation smote her breathless.

Chapter 3: Abnegation

“I LOATHE abstinence,” Zip groused. “I’m a Remoyan girl. I have needs, husband dearest. Needs.”

The monk snorted, “Self-denial is the core of being –”

“Boooo-ooo-ooring!”

“And discipline is –”

“Yawn, yawn, ruddy old yawn! Discipline, duty, it’s all dusty drivel. And as dull as the business end of a Sylakian war hammer.”

Her monk raised his hand, then folded and replaced it as a fist in his lap. Zip’s heart ached at the tremor she saw run the length of his arm muscles. Wearily, he said, “Zuzi, we should focus on Ardan and Aranya’s preparation for their mission into the Suald-dak-Doon.”

Zip threw up her hands – Aranya’s hands. “Aye. Because her Shadow isn’t being shadowy enough, so they can’t keep the mind-meld together in the Shadow-state?”

Ri’arion rubbed his bald pate unhappily. “As the Princess of Remoy gaily casts aside the combined scientific prowess of an entire nation’s contribution to this problem …”

Within, Dragoness Aranya purred sleepily, Permission granted to lock me out and cuddle the poor man. We discussed this, Zip-Zap.

Aye, we did, Zip replied acidly. I still harbour no desire to create unforgettable mental images in my husband’s mind! What kind of a marriage would it be if he’s dreaming about … well, my very best … Her voice trailed off, suffused with chagrin. In a much less bellicose tone, she spluttered, No disrespect, Aranya, but you – true-you and not now-you – are the stuff of enchant … oh, could someone please stuff my mouth with smelly windrocs’ socks?

This is the reality, Zip, whispered the voice, reminding her of the total devastation wrought by the Shapeshifter pox. Lesions. Gaping wounds. Constricted points within her veins and arteries. Scarring to the gut, ravaged heart and lung tissues … contrasting with the picture in Zuziana’s mind; an image of a tall Northern beauty of flawless aspect and wild torrents of multi-coloured Shapeshifter hair – such a woman as outshone the glory of stars, and seized even the most devoted husband’s attention!

Zip pulled up in a welter of acidic self-pity. What? No! She despaired of the horrid, jealous creature she saw lurking within. Don’t hate me, please, the Remoyan protested, watching Ri’arion’s eyes. He knew she was conversing with Aranya. I’m talking Sylakian tavern-trash … you’re neither loathsome, nor a man-stealer. No, dearest –

Petal, I meant differently, Aranya interjected, so equably Zip felt as if a clamp had been applied to her thoughts. Observe. I gleaned a few Dragonfriend-esque tricks from those lore scrolls your husband in a Dragoness’ handbag smuggled all the way across the Rift.

Uh … Zip bit her lip.

Whose images had those been? Had she projected her own simmering resentment into Aranya’s mental processes? How did that work? Worse still, the warmth she sensed from her Immadian hostess now. Zip wanted to sprint away and curl up in a dark corner. Humiliation! How to further injure her very best friend in all the Island-World … she had to chuckle faintly, however, for Aranya’s thoughts flashed briefly to, ‘How far we’ve come from beating one another with staves!’ and then served up a picture of a displeasingly vapid Remoyan Princess fainting into an Amethyst paw.

Rascal! she snorted.

Aranya chuckled, Watch. Firstly, I shall weave a seamless corporeal shield around our person. Thusly done. Now, I’ll paint Zuziana upon thin air, because this is about you, not me.

Watching, wonder blossomed within the Remoyan’s soul like petals unfurling to a delicate pearling of spring rain. This comes from your study of Hualiama’s lore?

Aunty Smarty Paws deserves her moniker, indeed.

What Aranya achieved was as far beyond illusion as the stars lay beyond the far horizons. She was painting in scents, now. Olfactory artwork! Although, Zuziana wondered if she really smelled quite so fragrant, like piquant Remoyan limes tenderly wrapped in vanilla pods. To be known and reproduced in such lavish detail was breathtaking, and her friend’s speed of execution proceeded as quickly as thought itself. No constraints of brush or the need to precisely mix her pigments and paints. Her mind was her tool, shaped by that formidable concentration. Dazzling!

At length, or the flip of a gnat’s wingtip in mental terms, the artist said, Aye. My Chameleon power can assume many guises. Catch your breath, Azure Dragoness. I just became you.

Zip blinked slowly, and essayed a wry smile at her husband.

The person who needed to catch his breath was Ri’arion. He sprang to his feet as though he had sat upon a Remoyan black-banded wasp, crying something like, ‘Issamiracluhzuzihow?’

Incoherence was definitely becoming in a husband. She beamed at him.

With a mental smirk of unapologetically epic Daughter-of-Storm proportions, Aranya added, Wake me when I won’t be embarrassed by your antics, Snoozy Zuzi. Have fun!

* * * *

Given Ri’arion’s mental prowess, however, significant foolery in the psychic realms was required to complete what Aranya – sweet, selfless Immadia – had purposed. One hour later, as Zip and Ri’arion began their training session with Ardan beneath the full brunt of the Lost Islands nation’s attention, nigh one thousand Dragon and Human scientists, engineers, mystics, enchanters and the like, Zuziana was still inclined to the odd guilty wriggle. Ri’arion looked dazed. Amazing what one could achieve with a decent slice of motivation!

Even with an invisible wife.

Still, the ethical ramifications of her and Aranya’s arrangement did not bear too narrow a level of scrutiny. When the ancient philosophical argument about means, ends and justification nagged unhappily at her conscience, she tossed it into the nearest figurative volcano.

Perhaps invisibility had its perks.

Anyhow … Up with the dawn, Immadia, she sang out. Time to take over.

A Star Dragoness sprang from the aether. No, I don’t want to know why my lips hurt – stow it, Remoy. We’ve work to do.

* * * *

Dragons were not able to sweat, but by the time the mental machinery of the entirety of the Lost Islands, spearheaded by the ancient fortress mind of Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, had finished meddling with his brain, Ardan felt as if he’d been run over repeatedly by a team of excitable Land Dragons, before they handed him over to the Thunderous Thirty for a salutary cannonade that rattled every bone in his body. His memories of comfortable lava baths and oil treatments had vanished like pollen on a breeze. He would rather have faced ten rounds with that rogue Gangurtharr in the arena than undergo an interrogation that seemed bent upon drilling ten thousand precision holes through his impervious skull.

Maybe he should clash heads with Thoralian. Mash that flying slug’s brains out through his ear canals. A thought wrapped in pure Dragon fire!

What Human Ardan longed for more than anything was to take a decent swing of his scimitar at an honourable enemy. Now, his paws were his scimitars and the enemy’s malevolent ambitions knew neither bounds nor principle. What motivated a creature like Thoralian? Greed? Madness? A craving for absolute power? The vile pleasure he took in humiliating his foes before executing the crushing finale?

If he could only get close enough … somehow, he sensed, their understanding of the Yellow-White Shapeshifter’s purposes was lacking. Aranya was too high-minded to think in the way of ruthless beasts. He unsheathed three talons thoughtfully, examining the steely blades as if his regard might constitute a final benediction prior to gutting that worthless perversion of a Dragon like a hapless ralti sheep. Warriors could afford few scruples.

His soulmate possessed an unshakeable nobility of spirit, for which he loved her so fiercely, it hurt.

He had Shadowed and Unshadowed more times than was good for a Dragon whilst being scrutinised via 9,422 disparate vectors and techniques, and had run through more of Ri’arion’s monkish brain-frazzling exercises than he could count.

He was finished.

No, he could not sustain a mind-meld with Aranya, which would allow them to Shadow and travel as a team into the farthest depths of the Island-World. He could not fathom how Hualiama had managed it. One legend had her travelling beneath the Island-World’s crust. Physically impossible. Existentially nonsensical, practically ridiculous – clearly the provender of the worst fabulists. Only, Aranya’s many-starred relatives seemed wont to dump common Isles sense upon its protesting cranium nine days a week, and had a galling habit of laughing their way through life’s impossibilities with confounding effortlessness. Contrarian sanity muddlers, the lot of them!

He snorted wrathfully, Principally, your conclusion is that I don’t actually have a brain.

An entire nation of brains, Dragon and Human alike, gasped. Hesitated. Then, a storm of laughter erupted around him. Yiisuriel and her kin voiced basso thunderclaps of mirth. The Humans produced a strangely synchronised volley of guffaws. Above them, the Dragonkind bugled and hooted their amusement and the dragonets’ uproarious chuckling skittered over the cacophony like a flight of joyous birds carolling the dawn chorus.

Ardan roared, Aye, that’s the result of all your monkeying about!

When a further explosion of hilarity had subsided, Yiisuriel queried, What, by my fumaroles, is a monkey?

Another brainless creature? scorned a voice Ardan knew belonged to Brityx.

Null skull.

Hollow as a drum.

He has a valid point. The wilful abnegation of reality serves no Dragon well.

Argument piled upon mirthful jest until Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron clamped down on the hullabaloo with a firm, ORDER IN THE MENTAL SPACE!

Her mental voice out-boomed a thunderclap.

Yiisuriel added, It was the Dragonfriend who first taught us the incorporeality of the Shapeshifter existence. Have any detected the presence of the second-soul, the Shifted form? Have the phase-Shifters and the Chaos Beasts and all creatures birthed of the Star Dragoness’ incomparable fires ever been identified apart from their embodied form? Has the endpoint of transformation been mapped?

Respectful silence pervaded the mental space.

Only insofar as event-horizon phenomena have been observed, but I hold to an additional postulation … the young Dragoness who had blurted this out pulled up with a throaty gurgle as she evidently realised she addressed the entire nation.

Elucidate your research, noble Yistarill, Yiisuriel said warmly.

A mental picture of a shy, slim young Red Dragoness, with the characteristic double set of wings in the Eastern mould, appeared in the shared mind.

She spluttered, I … my research remains lamentably theoretical, noble Elder – she genuflected in a mental representation of a wingtip deprecation – but I believe that the second-plane theory cannot be discounted, despite the logical fallacies inherent in its current formulation. The Dragonfriend’s writings hint at a second plane of existence, essentially undetectable from the material-physical-psychic realm of our experience. In my thesis, I attempt to demonstrate that the very existence of the event horizon in Shapeshifter transformation endpoint mapping, corroborates a metaphysical truism that such a realm or plane must indeed exist. As you are aware, this argument originally arose from the nonexistence law, which states that it is impossible for material substance or fire life to emerge from nothingness. My additional speculation is that this theory may explain the current location of the Ancient Dragons. They are here, with us … but not. I count the Amethyst Dragoness’ personal account of her interactions with the Great Onyx amongst my reflections.

Aranya’s link with Ardan unexpectedly fizzed to life as the Dragoness spoke. She had not considered this conclusion. Always, she had sensed Fra’anior’s distance. He was faraway, somewhere across the cosmos. Could the young scientist Dragoness have identified a key intention of the Great Onyx – that his mighty paw was nearer than anyone had imagined? At the very least, her speculation about an additional plane was intriguing. Ardan’s Shadow power appeared to do exactly what Yistarill had just noted, and was concisely laid out in the data the scientist presented to the mind-meld now. He vanished, slipped through reality like a shadow slipping between two parallel panes of crysglass, and returned unharmed and fully embodied – yet, he remembered that other Dragons appeared to have enjoyed power over his Shadowed form, most notably his recollection of the way Gurdurion the Brown had seized his tail at the Shipyards of Yorbik and prevented him from Shadowing away. His tail still ached in that spot.

Burning with shame, Ardan wrapped up the memory and presented it to Yistarill. I believe that this data may corroborate your excellent hypothesis.

Very good, cherished Shadow, Aranya approved softly.

Ardan flushed fierily as her unshielded thought echoed into the public space. Arrrgggbb, he grumbled before cutting off the sound. Should they not court? He purred back, Thou, mine treasury of starlight incarnate.

Aranya’s fires burbled like a boiling brook running merrily over stones, and her expression turned pleasingly bashful-cross-provoked. Ardan! By the mountains of Immadia –

Grinning broadly at her, he said privately, My specialty is molten Immadian Princess. Like it?

You’re incorrigible.

Do I hear Nak gnashing his teeth in a jealous rage?

You’re like a male terhal strutting down a street.

Admit it, you prefer scales to feathers.

I’ll admit nothing for fear that your grossly swollen vanity might spark a messy explosion, Aranya protested, but her eye-fires seethed as she considered her Dragon with fierce pride. Returning to more important matters – well, other matters –

The discussion, in the way of the Lost Isles, proceeded at the speed of thought. They efficiently hived off mind-cells to examine different aspects of the problem, including nine separate teams to puzzle through counter-arguments and pick apart Yistarill’s work – positively but aggressively, following the custom of the Dragonkind – while Aranya meantime dealt with three urgent disputes. Ardan was unconvinced about the way the Princess had summarily been promoted to Star Empress of Herimor, but she showed no signs of growing overly fond of worship. Contrariwise, she seemed to grow more inward-looking and pensive the more attention she garnered.

A Shadow Dragon could only wish he might one day feel worthy of this woman’s love. How he longed to see her fully healed!

Stars were meant to shine, not to weep starlight tears.

* * * *

In the night’s uttermost stillness, Aranya awoke from a chaotic dream, her heart thudding in her throat like a drumbeat run amok. In her life she had not often experienced such an overwhelming awareness of dread, so as she lay in the semidarkness calming her frantic, muted wheezing and swallowing down the tang of blood in her throat, she attuned her consciousness to the nearby rhythms of life.

First, her own heartbeat and the tenebrous presence of lives slumbering within her soul. Second, the ever-present Land Dragon minds, maintaining the shields and constantly at work with their badly injured brethren. Now, her ears caught a subtle fluctuation in the gentle rasp of Ardan’s breathing as he stirred on the wide couch opposite her low, rounded bed. He lay face down on the edge of a blue orrican-wool pillow, his left arm dangling upon rush tan mats woven through with blue-dyed strands that traced runes recounting a legend of the Dragonfriend. So many traditions here. The rushes and plush woollen coverings were a holdover from the days Hualiama had written about, when the Human Lost Islands had been snowbound winter fortresses not unlike Immadia’s castle, she supposed, and the Dragon Islands had been temperate. Yiisuriel’s vivid memories had shown her the comet bearing Numistar Winterborn’s presence smashing into the midst of the Isles. Through indomitable willpower Hualiama had forged two nations into one. Yet she wrote also of the quest to ascertain their destiny – the quest which had brought the Lost Islands to this location, the resting place of the First Egg.

Their story was far from complete.

How far the shadows of history reached, like great Island massifs looming over the Cloudlands of the lives that swooped so briefly into and out of their ambit.

Her eyes lingered upon her husband as she tasted the strange, delightful echoes of that word upon her tongue. Husband. My Dragonlove, my man Dragon, my shield and warrior heart. Roaring rajals! Aranya’s hand rose unbidden to explore her ruined cheek, examining the achingly slow creep of new flesh growing into the wound. Filling the lesion; slowly consuming the scars. Tender new flesh clothed the previously exposed bone, only thinly as yet, the wound was unquestionably on the mend. Perhaps by plumbing her healing powers, her oath-declared husband had snatched a miracle out of the darkest stronghold of hate and despite, and in so doing had reignited hope’s flame in her heart. Leopard. A dark, beautiful flame of a man wrapped in the innocence of sleep. The power of his Dragon form more than hinted at in the mounded muscles of his shoulders and arms …

Aranya dried the scarred corner of her mouth with a stifled giggle. “Drooling is so unbecoming in a Princess of Immadia.”

With that, she turned to Hualiama’s lore scrolls, and began to read.

Questions swam languidly through her brain like Dragons gliding upon thermals with stately grandeur. Why could she not heal herself, yet the exquisite expression of Ardan’s wish had touched this wound – and no other – with uncanny effect? Why had Hualiama not written about these most profound issues? She spoke neither of the fabled Word of Command, nor of the heritage of Star Dragons. The lore scrolls were silent on that point. Suspiciously silent? Perhaps. Hualiama’s relationship with her birth mother had been one measured in war, overweening greed and ultimately death, as related in the annals of the Dragonfriend. Izariela’s fate was a living death, framed in a darkness of not knowing, of loss yet not-quite-loss. Hers was a life arrested on the cusp of eternity.

Her gnarled fingers cramped painfully upon the scroll, until Aranya feared to tear the vellum. She forced herself to unclench her clawed digits, to roll up the tale of Hualiama’s rescue of Grandion from the lair of Shinzen in the East, and to place the warm scroll within the folds of her night shift. She would read more later.

Rising, she belted the soft turquoise garment purposefully at her waist, and padded barefoot to the arched doorway.

Upon the supplest breath of magic, she departed.

For hours, Aranya roamed the hallways of the Land Dragon behemoth who carried the better part of a nation upon her back. Sore wounded, Yiisuriel would survive. Yet she was elderly for one of her kind, and others of the deepest-dwelling Dragonkind had older memories still, stored in a kind of communal mind archive accessible to all members of their subspecies. Some remembered the days when the terrible paw of Dramagon smote the Island-World with fire and fury; some had even confirmed the legend of Amaryllion Fireborn, the shell brother of Fra’anior who had lived thousands of years beneath Ha’athior Island – her mother’s birthplace!

Enigma within mystery within … life itself.

The Shapeshifter Princess pressed on with her jaw set and her hands clasped behind her back, pleased to examine her readiness for the mission to the Suald-dak-Doon and to find it undaunted, her mettle strengthened by the forges of battle and failure, and her commitment adamantine. The Thoralians would know the measure of her vengeance. They would combust before the purity of a Star Dragoness’ fires. He had made a mistake, infecting her with the Shapeshifter pox yet letting her live, for while she yet drew breath, she would learn and struggle and dance and grow until she found a way to excise his evil from her Island-World!

Grand dreams juxtaposed with grim reality.

At length, Aranya’s footsteps echoed in the tunnel to the surface, to the peak where it was said Hualiama had been Reaved by the Dragon Haters, and had died only to be reborn as a Star Dragoness. Were the scrolls accurate on that point? Or had the fire always burned within her, as it did within her niece? And why a fire distinct from that of all other Dragonkind, a starlight fire that was as unprecedented as it was esoteric?

Dawn had not yet begun to glimmer in the East, where the elusive blue star for which Hualiama was famously named shone in the tales, so Aranya slowly swivelled from that horizon to scan the sweeping, intricate traceries of starlight overhead. Dragons had come from the stars. Perhaps they still existed out there, watching their tiny, distant, unimaginably different cousins sporting and living and warring and dying in an almighty impact crater that, though it scarred the face of their Island-World like her own cratered cheek, must surely appear tinier than any grain of sand to their sight. Somewhere, somehow, in a time before knowing and under deadly threat, the Dragonkind had found no better alternative than to launch their precious egglings across the void between the stars.

Was she such as one of those, shining above? Drawn from one? A precious – well, what did one call the child of a star? Twinkle? Minitwinkle? Aranya giggled quietly as Zip’s dream-sleepy thought filtered up to her awareness. Gleam? Sparkle? Mellow, rippling streams of light poured across incandescent portals, the awakening of dawn. Each drop of starlight infused with life, the verimost essence of her being. A heritage she might never know.

So profound was her yearning, she groaned against her gritted teeth, I wish … how I wish …

A heart wished beyond imagination, for what she did not know.

/O stardrop! Precious … peril …/

Her neck twizzled about so fast, the Immadian Princess tweaked a shoulder muscle. Ouch! Who spoke?

The silence was immense.

At length, Aranya sighed. Disappointment. Her overactive imagination, no doubt, or an echo of these arcane powers swilling about her insides. Sometimes she longed for simplicity and a return to innocence – yet she could never allow that. Too much rested upon her shoulders. She must continue.

Stardrop? What an odd word choice. That wisp of sound had not been any voice she knew. It was definitely a male voice – indistinct, as if emanating from an incalculable distance, and its mysterious inflections were entirely unfamiliar to her ken, yet it triggered a memory of a voice of similar timbre. The accent she recalled had been far closer in every respect to Gangurtharr’s pronounced Wyldaroon burr. When had that been? Neither voice had belonged to Izariela, nor Hualiama. Intriguing! Turning rather more gingerly than before to face the West, Aranya reached out with her Dragon senses on their highest alert. The first voice was mystical, the second, tangible. She had been training in sensory techniques with the Lost Isles Air Breathers the better to detect Thoralian’s nefarious doings, but here was a better application, she wanted to propose. The memory was of a mysterious feminine presence she had … she had once called to out of her Storm! Aye! That was the detail which had eluded her at first.

Excitedly, she reached afar. Westward. Past the Straits and deep into the territory through which she had passed in a welter of trepidation and vengeful focus upon the Thoralians’ doings. There. As she attempted to hone the precise trajectory of her farsight, Aranya sensed part of the immense consciousness of Yiisuriel responding to her instinctively expressed needs. The great Air Breather’s mind was her bulwark, strength and mentor. Wakening immediately, Yiisuriel showed her how not to overreach, how to separate out that elusive psychic scent trace from the myriad fascinations the floating Isles of Herimor had to offer. She bypassed great rafts of sleeping Dragonkind and the profound, redolent life traces left by the unnamed denizens of the deeps, her cognizance awakening to the immense play of life forces across the leagues, their fires like delicate stars glistening in the sable folds of Islands, hidden in cracks and fumaroles and soaring, aye, way above the upper clouds in those ethereal Wisp Dragons, undulating like the most delicate silken cloth of Helyon.

They rippled to the slightest nuances in the aether.

More sensitive than a spiderweb.

Entranced, Aranya observed the play of the delicate, insubstantial threads of their magic. As thin as gossamer, yet as strong as the binding forces of life itself. That was the nature of the sensitivity she required. That presence was coy, apparently not amenable to persuasion. It seemed to shift and morph the more closely she tried to focus upon it. Was this the one she had imagined speaking? Or another voice altogether?

Aranya communed with Yiisuriel, and tried again, with the air of sneaking a sidelong glance. Looking, but not looking. Deploying her softest touch, as if her questions were mere breaths whispered across innumerable leagues. Intelligent, certainly. Feminine? Aye, but she could discern little else.

At some considerable length, she snorted, She’s tricky, noble Yiisuriel!

A whimsical mite indeed, the leviathan agreed so equably that the Immadian sensed a jest aimed in her direction.

She chuckled dutifully. Indeed. I … I think I might better try to inveigle her, Yiisuriel.

How?

By planting a suggestion that when she dreams, she might call upon me in her hour of need. That way – her power is so peculiar, like one of those multiphasic shields Hualiama’s writings describe. I cannot see how I could directly contact her psyche otherwise. It’s weirdly … inchoate. As slippery as a terrace lake trout.

Or a chaotic manifestation, the Air Breather rumbled contentedly, adding her own nuances to Aranya’s insight. A most excellent postulation, little one. Worthy of the Daughter of Onyx.

Aranya shivered at the compliment, and then shivered again in annoyance at her reaction. After several minutes of further discussion, she laid her bait. A hint. Perhaps a nudge of the subconscious which might result in that peculiar – well, most probably Shapeshifter presence – dreaming of a Star Dragoness. The only aspect of this interaction she truly understood, was that a similar inkling had led her to the Shadow Dragon of the Western Isles. How her life had changed since! How long ago that straightforward military campaign seemed now.

Oh Fra’anior, protect her father in his endeavours, and her mother in her undying sleep in the tomb behind Immadia’s palace …

Could it be that the Thoralians purposed to return to the Rift in order to steal further powers from the Ancient Dragon Infurion, as Fra’anior had suggested?

As their linked minds focussed on the matter of the Thoralian triplicate, Aranya and Yiisuriel stiffened simultaneously – the Shapeshifter physically, and the Air Breather mentally. They should have been focussing their attention much closer to home. They should have known, by some unthinkable miracle, that the Yellow-White Shapeshifters would have survived to fight another day. While they had been reaching to the farthest Isles in pursuit of intriguing wisps of fire life, they had contrived to ignore the mountain practically slapping them in the collective nose.

The Thoralians were rising. They had the First Egg.

Chapter 4: O Exalted Egg

DRAGON Ardan stared to his starboard flank, as grim-lipped as a living granite boulder, and thundered a Western Isles execration he sincerely hoped his Rider would not understand.

“The tone’s clear enough,” said Aranya, casually eavesdropping on his mood.

“Sorry,” he snarled.

Her tiny hand patted the scales beside his spine. Despite the thickness of his Dragon armour, he felt her touch keenly. “All our training for that deep dive, Ardan …”

“Whoosh beyond the Moons,” he replied, illustrating with an upswept wingtip.

“Replaced by whooshy excesses of magic?”

“A joke, beloved?” he snorted, playfulness tempered with trepidation. Both knew what this meant. Conflict. Barely a lull; never a day without experiencing either the consequences of battle or the prospect of more. Even he, a warrior born, grew jaded. When would it end? They were so weary.

“A sense of humour, beloved?” came the instantaneous riposte.

“Ha, would you imagine that?”

Every masculine sense, every Dragon or Human reaction within him, had felt hyper-sensitised to all that was Aranya – with or without her direct presence – since she had redrawn his draconic soul in that beautiful yet staggering irruption of what, by all magical science known to the Lost Islands communal mind, was meant to be real, plausible and even possible. Magic could not be created from nothing, they claimed. Aranya begged to differ. Causality must be grounded, they muttered. Aranya graciously swooped past that constraint without so much as blinking. A Shapeshifter’s second-soul must be demonstrably present before it could be embodied. Aarrrgghh … obviously, the draconic wisdom of aeons was as insubstantial as a breeze she wrapped about her incomparable little talons.

“Pollen-fluff to the Princess of Northern Storms,” he growled.

Melodious, husky laughter played over his senses, the melody of Immadia marred by the blighted pathways of her lungs and throat. Even the timbre of her voice had changed. Ardan grinned, yet a pang clenched within his belly, beneath the double-armoured muscular diaphragm that protected the lower lung-set. This marred woman faced her fate with grace, but his anger seethed like Fra’anior’s own caldera, depthless and unchanging.

His dark, lidded gaze turned to the West. To the Thoralians’ rising.

He could not yet see the trio of Yellow-White Shapeshifters, but the import of their revival was clear. Tendrils of eerie green fire leached upward from a broadly oval area of Cloudlands perhaps a league in diameter, spreading like wicked tongues both through the dense grey cloud layers out there and lapping hungrily toward the sky. Ardan suppressed an urge to start scratching his wingpits like a flea-ridden feline. His spine spikes prickled irately at the indignity implicit in his thoughts. If this was the First Egg’s power, it was fey. Had the Thoralians already corrupted their prize?

The region his Dragon-senses placed as lying immediately above the Suald-dak-Doon was beginning to stir and bubble like an ill-tended cauldron filled with a toxic brew of fate. Gaseous pockets burst randomly through the viscid air, roiling and popping and sparking with flashes of torpid lightning as though the magical power seething from the Egg changed the very atmosphere.

Inanely, his mind seemed set upon trying to place the colour of that phenomenon. He said, What do we call that colour – sickly moss-green? Tarnished brass, or –

Aranya grated, What has he done?

Her raw exhalation perfectly matched his response. All around they sensed the Air Breathers starting to react to avalanches of irksome, disruptive magic rolling against their flanks leagues beneath the watching Lesser Dragons; the great outcry in the communal mind as the alarm protocols triggered fear-fight responses especially amongst the Dragonkind. Yet despite the widespread disturbance, the initial clamour quickly settled as first Aranya and then Yiisuriel took charge, examining the vectors of danger. Information seemed to sift and flow about his awareness as Ardan took in the initial conclusions. No immediate danger. Disturbance, aye, and a type of magic unfamiliar to these immense Land Dragons, but unless this was merely a prelude to the Thoralians’ attack, the discomfort they felt would remain just that – discomfort. Still, the communal mind began to slam up barriers and gather its depleted resources, while the fatigued Dragonwings assembled in the great hangers.

Ardan felt his belly clench tautly against his labouring diaphragm, and forced himself to relax those unruly muscles. Perhaps they hoped they had seen the Thoralians’ worst. What did they dare now?

“Drakes?” Aranya guessed.

“Aye.”

From this distance, the winged predators seemed no larger than gnats as they drifted upward out of the seething Cloudlands, surrounded now by a rising funnel of limpid green, like a Western-Isles dust devil clenched in a draconic fist, upended, and given a lease on life that was as immense as it was ominous. The skies darkened as with an unnatural stormtide. Clouds belatedly began to boil out of the Suald-dak-Doon at a phenomenal rate, riding the escalating storm winds that rivalled anything the Amethyst Dragoness could have summoned – and he knew Aranya’s fury by the rasping of breath between her teeth and the sudden leap in her pulse. That Yellow-White parasite dared to mimic her signature powers; nay, even those of her grand shell-sire?

A low, sibilant roaring communicated to his Dragon senses. Ardan shook his head in confusion at the odd, distasteful scents conveyed by that small breath of the deeps, but Aranya immediately stiffened upon his back and shouted:

BRACE!

He saw nothing. Anticipated nothing. But the perturbation that struck them, rocked every Air Breather to its core. In less time than it took a Dragon to flicker his nictitating membranes, Ardan found himself pinned like an insect to an entomologist’s board as a tremendous storm-wave boomed over them, and though his mind tried to flinch and curl his wings for safety, he seemed impervious. Immobilised. Not even vibrating – nor were the Air Breathers!

It was only when his Rider groaned and slumped against his spine spikes that he realised what had happened.

Aranya to the rescue.

* * * *

For a change, it was Zuziana who caught a fainting Princess in her paw. Well, her woefully insubstantial paw. That rather squished a Dragon into the proverbial bath-chamber, a popular Remoyan saying. Propping her friend’s body up inelegantly, she swatted away a semiconscious burble of complaint. “Down, petal. And stay down.”

“Have to …”

“Have to nothing. She’s fine, Ardan.”

He rumbled, “She has to release the magic.”

“As usual, the unstoppable Immadian thought that in one breath she might prevent the Thoralians’ storm from bowling over dozens of Air Breathers, protect the rising Dragonwings from being helplessly tossed and tumbled beyond the beyond, and no doubt she’s propping up the stars and skies all by herself!”

Hearing herself, Zip promptly bit her lip and clamped her mouth shut before it spouted something even more injudicious. Stupid jealousy!

Ardan could not turn his head to glare at her, so he tried a mental glare instead.

Belay that nonsense – most especially mine, the Remoyan said brightly. What’s the plan, Shadow-man?

Attack –

Attack? What foolishness is this? You will attend the Council at once! Yiisuriel thundered.

A split second later, everyone was shouting at everyone else. Zuziana rolled up her mental sleeves, and hurled herself into the fray. She would fight for Aranya. She’d show them!

* * * *

Having bowed beneath the fracas as the force of Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s will swept all before her, Aranya suddenly found herself stretched across her strange mountaintop, watching the starry skies above be riven even as her body felt riven. In that rift was more than darkness. It was void. Absolute, aching, deathly absence, in which dwelled myriad creatures of such unimaginable malevolence, her spirit writhed as if wishing to flee her breast in stark terror. The stretching sensation, the awareness of magic tested beyond mortal limits, flung her straight back into memories of her suffering during the fullest bloom of the Shapeshifter pox with which Thoralian had tortured her and sought to break her spirit.

Now, she feared to let go. She feared the backlash. Yet more death? Intolerable.

Ah … aaaahhhh …

Hers was the voice that pleaded with the sundering skies.

When she glanced at her limbs in surprise, it was to find she was pinioned by nothingness. Could she guess, by her own Word of Command? She did not understand. Aranya cried out in a babble of words, trying to undo what she had wrought, but she did not know the correct formula to use. Unbrace? Undo? Let it be undone? Release? Nothing she said appeared to work, nor were any of her other soulmates present with her, which made her doubt if this was her soul space or merely a dream.

Disaster! Without forethought, her power had spilled across the leagues. Now, she had to act quickly as the demands of that untrammelled outburst sucked away her strength.

Focussing on the pain, Aranya stilled her spirit. Hualiama? Blue-star, promise-star, I need … uh, I know I always beg for your help when it’s all charring in Fra’anior’s own caldera, but I honestly don’t understand what I’ve done wrong this time.

Petal.

She began to turn toward that familiar whisper, when a weight thumped right into her diaphragm and Sapphire snuggled so fiercely against her, it was almost as if her tiny friend wished to burrow beneath her skin. Ari hurt? Ari love, want-my-Ari! burbled the dragonet. Perching happily upon Aranya’s chest, she chattered, Help my petally-girly heal, see? Touch Ari! Good, aye? Goody-goody-good?

Why was Sapphire so animated? Aye, oh, thanks, Aranya whispered, shifting her head to peer past her friend as coolness invaded her overstretched muscles. A touch of healing. The dragonet’s powers were growing.

Blue-star! You came!

Sweet petal, you called, didn’t you? purred the blue-haired twin, the one whom Aranya understood was the embodiment of her Aunt’s Dragoness-soul, or Dragonsoul, for short.

Where she walked, there had to be – Us, said blonde-Hualiama from the other side, with a concerned chuckle. Sapphire’s wingtip tickled her nose, causing Aranya to sneeze her intended greeting into oblivion. Hold firm just a moment more, dear one. What you are experiencing is, I believe, a visual representation of the Command magic acting upon your psyche. You have to end this Command before you perish.

Won’t I just – holy Fra’anior!

She stared at herself. The girl whose approach had been obscured by Sapphire’s antics. The mirror image of herself stepped forward, dropping each of the Hualiama twins’ hands as she smiled at – Aranya blinked – Aranya? Double the Princess? Aranya reproduced in every detail – no, not quite. The other girl certainly had the crazy, kaleidoscopic hair tumbling past her waist. The scarring. The same generous lips and high Immadian cheekbones, lending her large eyes an exotic tilt that she had oftentimes noted in the mirror without thinking much more of it, but now, a pang pierced her breast. She could have been beautiful. Had been, perhaps. But the rest of her life would be lived behind the veil.

Her head spun. Who was this?

Like our surprise? chorused the Hualiamas, not failing to hide their glee.

I’m delighted! the Immadian spluttered. Noble Aunt, how did you … is it –

Your Dragoness. It’s us, Aranya, replied her twin. I invited her along and she managed to embody all by herself. Aren’t you clever?

Whaa – uh, why the amethyst gemstone flowers all over our skin, in that case? The prone Aranya had to laugh at her Dragonsoul’s peeved expression. Roaring rajals – her Dragonsoul! Portrait of a Human gone wrong?

You’re the artist between us, the other Aranya pout-growled.

She was? Only one of her … was? Peculiar.

The pattern that covered every visible inch of skin was aesthetically pleasing, as if an invisible paintbrush had produced curlicue tendrils and loops of pale but clearly discernible flowers, most similar in her experience to the Immadian simmis-lily, which bloomed briefly alongside meltwater brooks and in the shallows of the terrace lakes each summer. But the petals were gemstone-faceted, as were the stems, she adjudged. Only the terrible replicated scars, nodules and pits broke the insculpted, almost lacquer-like organic effect just beneath her skin.

Stop grinning at us like that, you lovely loon, Dragoness Aranya added. We are indeed in trouble, as you’ve managed to figure out. O, Humansoul …

Very fetching body art, my long-lost soul aspect, she returned drolly. Now I know what you – I – think of me. What shall we –

Ardan’s proximate bellowing shook them all. ARANYA! TO ME!!

Last she saw, the Hualiama twins broke into identical expressions of alarm. Oh no, you can’t –

She faded.

* * * *

How dare you simply roll over and say yes to everything that Yiisuriel wants, without the slightest consideration of my feelings or opinions? Ardan raged. Were you even listening?

Aranya blinked slowly. Uh … mercy, Ardan –

Mercy? You dare beg mercy? The Shadow shook the girl in his paw, alarmed by the urge he had to squeeze her frail Human body until she screamed. No! Ferality? He thrust the sense of imminent peril aside. He was entirely sane, just enraged. Who do I have here? Zip, or Aranya?

Aranya.

Then – what’s the matter with you? Focus, my – he swallowed hard, trying to control the fires searing his arteries – my beloved. Where were you?

Meeting my Dragonsoul twin for the first time. You took me away.

She spoke factually, but he heard petulance. You never regard me in situations like this. What about me, Aranya? Am I to be your lackey? Your distant second? Your husband for a season, whose lot is to be cast aside whenever it suits the Star Dragoness’ purposes?

Hurt sprang into her eyes. Welling tears. Ardan, I am doing my very best –

Aye, doing your utmost to satisfy everyone else’s needs! the Dragon roared. Despite his better intentions, the words spilled forth, each more incendiary than the last. Every bloody request, every endless demand, every insufferable burden, you try to carry them all because, you tell me, you should and you alone must and it’s just impossible, Aranya. Impossible! Don’t you start crying again, I’m sick of the tears! We need to fight! The enemy is out there and all I hear from your lips is the Princess of Immadia, the Star Dragoness, the freaking grand-shell daughter of Fra’anior himself shrivelling before the will of others! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

He had never seen her look so shocked. She was meant to be the unflappable Princess of Immadia, and he had just injured her inmost being. Ardan hated himself. He abhorred exposing his inner putridity to anyone else’s awareness, but most of all to Aranya, for he realised that he lived and died by what she saw in him. He was weak! Selfish! How could she claim to love a creature like him?

Beloved Shadow, I have neglected thee –

Aye, this is all about me! he lashed out thunderously. Me first, for once in our lives!

Again, she flinched. That was not what Aranya had been about to say, and he knew it. The emotions were scribed upon her unguarded features, and this warrior-Dragon felt sick. Shuttering his primary eye-membranes, he drew in a deep, shuddering breath that incongruously tantalised his nostrils with the very tips of her long, wavy locks. Nor what he had meant to say. Ever.

Why did the words just knot up in his throat every time he spoke to her? Why not tenderness; why not the eloquence of a balladeer to celebrate how he felt about her?

His eyes snapped open. For the longest time, they linked gazes, and with all of his soul, Ardan willed her to see beyond the bluster to the inner pain. The regrets. He always hurt her. Always! From the very first, when he had surrendered his will to the seductive call of the oath magic and selfishly made her his alone, he had been the one to inflict distress upon this woman’s incomparable heart. She deserved better – couldn’t she see that? Captured by her amethyst eyes, he knew yearning. Dignity. A hint of the many-splendoured facets of her being. He thrilled to the brightness of her living fires, and a sensation of sinking, or even falling … was it him into her, or her into him? The Dragon found that his muzzle rocked forward, ever so slowly, until they touched lightly, skin to scales, her forehead resting against the skull-ridge between his flaming orbs, and she lifted her hands to embrace him tenderly with her arms curved just beneath his eye-sockets.

They communed.

She did not move her arms, but he became aware of her hair rising, spreading across his sensitive scales, yearning. Caressing. Exploring. Calming and understanding. Was this enough?

Ardan grated, I’m … sorry. So sorry, Aranya, for … everything …

His tongue shunned eloquence, yet communicated his shame all too clearly.

I will fight for you, my Ardan.

Don’t. They speak sense. Perfectly detestable mountains of good Isles sense. We are wrung out like sapless trees. We should fall back; consolidate our strength. To attack is a terrible idea.

For thee, she said. Not because I must or I should, but because I want to, Ardan.

No. You mustn’t.

Great as his Dragon hearts were, they laboured almost to a standstill beneath the force of the emotions cramming through their portals now, throbbing heatedly, searing like the molten heart of a Star Dragoness’ whitest fires. Each hearts-beat was thunder. Each realisation, breathtaking. This woman. This oath-bound love. This paragon of enchanting insanity. This was what he had fallen into.

Aranya breathed, This I would do for the joy of loving thee, Ardan.

* * * *

In a flash, Zuziana saw a picture fashioned within her best friend’s mind, as clear-cut as finely wrought crystal. Two of Aranya, one bending over another to kiss her forehead. Sapphire’s paw upraised as if the dragonet were making a grave point. Two unfamiliar girls, whom she mistook at first for Marshal Huaricithe, stood calmly beside Aranya’s prone, splayed form as she convulsed, and then screamed a word that the Remoyan did not understand. Bedazzle? Bespeak?

BEZALDIOR!!

As if unsnapped from invisible catapults, the aftermath of the Thoralians’ storm slammed into the Air Breathers and the Dragonwings clouding about their peaks, but the overwhelming force of the first perturbation had passed them by. This, the Land Dragons could withstand. This, the Dragonwings could shield against. They gamely fluttered back to the relative safety of their hangers whilst the Shadow Dragon hovered with greater power and steadiness above Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s peak.

Rising within the Shadow Dragon’s paw upon trembling limbs, Aranya said, I am ready.

Ready for what? Yiisuriel inquired acidly.

I have decided to attack. Ardan is right, and I know how we will achieve it.

HOLD! We must regroup –

You will regroup, the Immadian interrupted, colour blooming in her cheeks as Zuziana’s warm regard hugged her within.

My friend! That’s my friend! she thought fiercely.

You’ll be essential to this enterprise, Zip, Aranya said privately to her. Summon Ri’arion, Gangurtharr and Huari. We’ll need them all.

Warily now, and clearly angered, Yiisuriel demanded, What are you planning, Star Dragoness? We need to examine this vector from every angle and assemble our predictive battle scenarios. It is not inconceivable that the Thoralians are also tired and damaged, and therefore vulnerable to a surprise attack, but you will need the full support of –

Then accord us your support, Aranya cut in again, not disrespectfully, but in a tone that booked absolutely no countermand. We’ll need you and your brethren, Yiisuriel, and every ounce of your strength, or we shall most assuredly fail.

But what will you do? What’s the plan? the mighty Air Breather almost howled.

Zuziana whispered a word into her friend’s heart.

We plan to improvise, said Aranya.

With that, she leaped out of Ardan’s paw and transformed.

* * * *

The seething of Yiisuriel’s ire was like flying headlong into the caldera of Fra’anior, where Hualiama had once battled the power of an Ancient Dragoness, and her very own mother, and won. Aranya knew she had insulted a mighty ally. Touchy, the Dragonkind, and few mightier, wiser or more hidebound by tradition than these – yet she also sensed that the last response Thoralian would expect was an attack right through that storm he was building out there. Conventional and unconventional tactics had taken them so far, but their nemesis had contrived to escape every time. Now he held the First Egg within his grasp. Should he learn to use it, or corrupt its power, they might never enjoy this chance again.

There was a time for debate, analysis and synthesis, as she well knew from her strategy sessions with her father. But there was also a time for improvisation. After all, she and Zip had contrived to bring down the Sylakia’s tyranny by precisely that means. Well, she scowled to herself, throw in a decent slice of luck and the fact they had no clue what they were doing when they started …

The power of ignorance, Zuziana chuckled within her. Petal, are you staying we were so stupid we were unstoppable?

She grinned. Nak swears by flying by the seat of his trousers.

Depends where that seat might have sat.

Like, atop an active volcano?

Zip quipped, It’s nice in here – in other words, your resourcefulness kept me and my brood alive. For someone who hadn’t a clue, that’s a pretty respectable result, if you ask me.

Bah, but for a glimpse of thy peerless pulchritude, o Remoy, Aranya imitated Nak adroitly, turning to watch the substantial form of Gangurtharr hurl himself upon the winds, with two Riders upon his back – Huaricithe and Ri’arion. I owe that much to your lovely monk, anyways.

I miss that garrulous old letch, her friend said wistfully. So, what do you want of me, Immadia?

I need you to ride along, Remoy, and then at the right moment, you’re going to leap out of our air-drill and zip-zap the Thoralians with one of your cutesy little lightning bolts.

Making him sparkle and light up the night?

Zip, that’s a terrible pun. But, aye. We will go in following Hualiama’s style. Ri’arion will channel everything our Land Dragons have into you, and you will execute the strike. We’re aiming for total overload. While he’s stunned we’ll split up and go for the kill. Three of us versus three of him.

Two minutes later, Aranya set about explaining the layout of their cavalcade to the newcomers. Ri’arion took in the proposal with a firm nod, Huari made a skyward punching gesture and Gangurtharr, predictably, started swaggering and posturing in the air. Of course I’ll do the heavy lifting, he boomed. What am I here for, after all?

Brainless muscle? suggested Zip.

When Ardan sniggered, the Gladiator Dragon growled, I’ll gladly push Aranya’s shapely tail along, Shadow, but your ugly butt, I plan to kick.

Again, the Remoyan put in.

Aranya rolled her eyes. Alright, Zip, the boys are riled up and ready for battle. Enough with the insults.

Very well, little Princess, her mouth said.

GNARRR! That’s Princess Dragon to you. Aranya linked paws with Ardan. Ready?

Aye. He initiated the rotational movement about their common axis.

To forge through the constant fey blast, they set about fashioning shaped aerodynamic and pneumatic shields, layering them carefully in the manner prescribed by Hualiama. Focussing a leading point ahead of their muzzles. Creating enough width for Gangurtharr to fly behind in order to provide the rotating drill’s impetus. As the Gladiator Dragon pressed forward steadily, the wind whirled faster and faster about Ardan and Aranya’s corkscrewing forms, as if drawn to play amidst their spine spikes. They made adjustments so as not to lose altitude, ensuring they kept their wings very close to their flanks, fluttering minimally to generate the initial rotational effect. At the wind speeds they planned to achieve, a Dragon’s wings could be sheared off his body if they were not careful.

Behind, Gangurtharr flew against a kinetic air-shield, which in turn pressed Ardan and Aranya forward yet allowed them to rotate with an absolute minimum of friction. Huaricithe provided cooling and structure to the main shields as their speed picked up.

Good, said Ri’arion. Extend the cone slightly, Aranya. Perfect.

Zip said tersely, He’s lifting the Egg with those winds, isn’t he? How big can that baby Dragon be? No sign of the Thoralians’ emergence as yet.

Great flocks of crimson Drakes, as thick as cloudbanks, fluttered away to the West on the wings of the unnatural storm, starting to join up with others over the faraway mountains. Aranya could not help but feel dismayed at how quickly the Shapeshifter Marshal appeared to have reconstituted his forces. They raced away upon the winds generated from the core, perhaps three miles distant, at speeds far too rapid for the Lost Isles Dragonwings to catch up. The rising, whipping Cloudlands that now obscured the Egg’s probable emergence also prompted Ri’arion to add the toxin-filtering constructs into their inner shields.

He and Zuziana exchanged an ethereal kiss. She said, Nice catch there, monk-love.

Thanks. Bringing Yiisuriel into focus, he said. Two and a half miles to the main storm-front, Aranya. Can you use Hualiama’s knowledge to farther sharpen your eyesight via Ardan?

I can. Ardan?

Lend you an eyeball? Just a pawful of feet from her gaze, his huge muzzle opened in a droll grin. Why not? I’ll get used to your penchant for doing twenty things at once.

She squeezed his talons with hers. I will carve out more time for us, Ardan.

Appreciated, he said tersely.

Several tries and a precious minute or two of their time later, Aranya’s Dragoness-vision sharpened perceptibly. Edges! Lack of blurriness! By the mountains of Immadia, she had forgotten what it meant to truly see – well, as a Dragon ought to. She had thought herself completely healed, but there was definitely an element of physio-magical enhancement lacking.

Oh, the endless complexity of magic.

By Ardan’s eyesight, she saw them accelerating powerfully toward a moving wall of grey-green Cloudlands that from this perspective, a mere half-mile distant, occluded the horizon. It had already swelled to three miles above the normal altitude at which the permanent cloud layer began, and continued to surge upward unabated. An immense magical potential seethed behind that barrier. Somewhere within would be the Thoralians. Instinctually, she tweaked their trajectory a second time, aiming to strike the upper centre of that ovoid of magic she sensed hiding within the Clouds. Might they hope to surprise the foe? The wash of the First Egg’s magic was like standing beneath a pounding waterfall, taking the brunt of the flow directly atop one’s head, but if they had hoped for surprise, the Marshal’s opening salvo disabused them of that notion instantly.

Great jets of vivid orange fire curved languidly out of the circular storm-front, homing in upon the tight-knit group in a group of slingshot arcs, almost like sprays of flowers flung to bracket their path.

Brace – my sort of brace, this time, Ri’arion snapped, grim-lipped. Hold tight. This can’t harm us.

GRAABOOM!!

The cavalcade rocked as the fire burst against their shields, but the spinning penetrative shield flung it away faster than it arrived. More gouts of fire burst out of the storm-wall, some missing but others rocking them with blow after concussive blow. Aranya gritted her fangs at the punishing strikes. They were making upward of thirty leagues per hour and still accelerating as they slapped into the moving clouds at an angle to their target, knowing they must inevitably be shoved off course. Grey and orange blurred past. Whip-curls of cloud. Splattering fire. The storm’s roaring shook them mercilessly. Juddering, fighting, holding steady, the companions surged deeper into the gloom like a lance driven into a Dragon’s belly.

Lost Yiisuriel? Huari gasped.

Interference! snapped the monk. I’ll get it … wait … Soon, his low curse informed them of the worst.

A terrible blow. How could Yiisuriel’s power be cut off like that? The Thoralians’ anticipation? Now they were stretched and vulnerable; her magical resources were less resilient than she had imagined, leaving her scraping and scrapping for magical power. The phenomenal outpouring of the First Egg’s magic played havoc with Aranya’s senses. It was as if only one melody could and would be heard in this place; that all others must bow to its strangeness, to its alien, transformative qualities, and it was almost impossible even for a Dragoness to locate the sparks of fire life amidst the mayhem that must point to the Thoralians. She directed their flight half from the sensory data and half out of gut instinct, as her fangs rattled in her jaw and the violent winds plucked painfully at her wings, and her paws clenched Ardan’s with a death-grip. Why, oh why had they chosen this risk? Because there ahead of them there lay a white fires outpouring of beauty like a Moon rising from the foul depths of the Suald-dak-Doon. Its song was wild and seductive and beautiful; the curvature of the quarter-mile diameter, pearlescent dome, afire with a majestic conflagration of draconic life, a heart-breaking counterpoint to the foulness that sought to wrestle it away, the great dark lassoes of a material that Aranya took to be meriatonium slowly dragging the First Egg westward, toward the Straits of Hordazar.

The tracing of netting created by those hawsers prompted Aranya to adjust their flight path one more time, toward the source of the strain, dead ahead and squarely over the top of the Egg.

GRROOAARRGGHH!! thundered Gangurtharr, the roar of his efforts lost in the chaotic buffeting.

She and Ardan huddled closer together, protected as much by momentum as by the centrifugal forces slewing the storm winds and magic about them. Her eyes narrowed. There. A flash of sallow scales. Nak would have approved of her choice of target – not quite aiming at the tail of the trailing member of the trio of Yellow-White Shapeshifters, but at the region just beneath and a little ahead of it.

Aye. She owed the Thoralians one on behalf of the old Dragon Rider.

FOR NAK! she yelled.

Chapter 5: Sacrifice

ARANYA TOOK THEM hard and fast into battle, through the teeth of the scorching gale and over the mesmerising ovoid of the First Egg of the Ancient Dragons. The last first egg, they had joked. The reality exceeded the bounds of his belief. For this font of power, mighty deeds and nefarious plots had abounded, nations had been wiped out, treachery committed many times over, and the Island-World turned upon its head. Every fibre and fire of Ardan’s warrior-hearts focussed upon their goal. Rivers and fountains of green-white fire thundered about them, unleashed by a cunning wave of the leading Thoralian’s paw, but it could not penetrate the fast-spinning vortex they had created. This was the premise of Hualiama’s so-called air drill. It did not oppose the detonations that shook them as they passed over the egg-shell close enough to touch it with a talon-tip, it seemed, but rather snatched the phenomena into its embrace and flung them away before they could do significant damage. Fireballs detonated harmlessly a hundred feet astern of Gangurtharr’s tail. Knots of debris and molten orange lava skittered off their shields with a sound like scimitars skittering off granite. He even saw an ice-electrical discharge strike them head-on, only to wend its way over his back ten times in a spiral down past his tail, blasting them so violently that Huari cracked her forehead against the spine spike in front of her.

He blinked his membranes to clear his vision. Focus. Watch for any trickery, said Ardan.

Alert, said Aranya and Zip simultaneously.

Immadia, the middle Thoralian is an illusion! Ri’arion cried. Attacker above –

She shifted so fast, it almost flung them apart as a power like a coruscating spear of blue ice-fire lashed down past them – the same fire Thoralian had used to break the meriatonium shield apart, he realised – but Aranya’s preternatural reaction-speed was enough. Immense lakes of fire erupted out of the First Egg as the bolt struck its surface, but not even Marshal Thoralian’s power could penetrate the eggshell of an Ancient Dragon.

KKEERRACCKK! The attacker vanished in a sheet of brassy flame.

Flames roared up to the heavens. They were embroiled in a storm of eerie fire and magic now, just as they had been in the Rift.

The same force that had carried them this far in close formation now became their enemy as Aranya attempted to shift their attack, but again, her reactions were near-perfect. He had just begun to react to the insane forces of gravity draining the blood from his head, when Ardan sensed a neat draw upon his powers and they Shadow-dodged, as best he could understand it, leaping four hundred feet sideways before surging onward to smack the second Thoralian not quite in the manly parts, but in the softer underside of his right flank. In the instant the body flashed up before them, Ardan curved his shoulder to absorb the impact. Rock-solid. Bone cracked as his mounded shoulder, the right, first struck the flank and then shattered the point of the other Dragon’s instinctively upraised knee. He even had the satisfaction of burying two talons in the Yellow-White’s wingpit and leaving them there as they hurtled onward, torn loose from their roots. They would regrow.

As one, he and the Gladiator whirled to face the enemy.

BWAA-HA-HAA! roared Gangurtharr, spitting out a chunk of the enemy Dragon’s left wing. His purple tongue slurped about his chops. I’ll rip you apart piece by piece, Thoralian!

Ardan preferred the Western Isles approach. No talk. Just scimitars – or eighteen remaining talons might suffice! Jinking off his left wingtip, he hurtled toward the third of the Thoralian triplicate, roaring his battle-challenge. FOR THE ONYX!

Slug! screeched Aranya, accelerating toward the injured Thoralian. Now, Zip!

Lightning stuttered out of her throat, singeing her enemy, but it was far from the knockout blow they had sought. Ri’arion cursed unhappily.

Ah, lost our connection to our puny allies? sneered the Thoralian squaring up with Ardan. Think you’re clever, do you? Now, feel the power of my First Egg!

* * * *

Zuziana groaned as Aranya arrowed toward her mark. “Failed us all, Immadia.”

“Spent waters. Something was bound to go awry,” hissed her companion.

“Aye, me!”

“Nonsense. Keep Ri’arion close, alright? We may get another hit.”

Aranya banked sharply, twice, as cold-fireballs rocketed toward them on a collision course, searing the air about with unnatural cold. Zip knew that Thoralian was hurting. His attacks lacked the power and confidence of before, but he seemed able to tap into the First Egg’s power, for his wounds appeared to be closing and his eyes brightened with an influx of power.

Careful on the approach, petal, Zip advised.

We weren’t so careful when we were potting Dragonships with your flaming arrows, Aranya spat.

Peripherally, the Dragoness noted Gang and Ardan teaming up to give their quarry a terrible pounding; seeing Ri’arion’s mighty sword whirling into the fray as the monk had somehow made the leap onto the Yellow-White’s back and was making excellent work of dicing up his hide like a Jeradian chef preparing their favourite meal, deep-fried chunks of offal.

Well, one sackweight of flesh at a time if they had to!

Their quarry spun in the air, shielding himself from Aranya’s approach with an opacity covering. From within that greyish blur he cried, Do I sense the Azure lives, o Star, within thine flesh?

Aranya gasped, He knows …

You parasitized your best friend just as I parasitized many others! cried the Yellow-White.

Never! screamed the Dragoness, and Zip’s vision washed through with white-hot fury. Feral! When had Aranya ever become – but even as the thought formed, the Amethyst seemed to shake off incipient fire-madness with her signature mental resilience. You cannot bait me, Thoralian.

Yet the hiatus had given the enemy a chance that he took; before she knew it, Zip found a netting of meriatonium slipping up around Aranya, seemingly sprung from nowhere, snarling her wings and arresting her flight.

The anti-magical material!

No – wait – shield! Zip heard herself scream.

* * * *

Ardan and Gang teamed up, pounding their quarry with fist and fire, forcing the larger Shapeshifter Dragon to give ground second by second. The Gladiator was a fighter and flier of great cunning, apparently able to land blows almost at will even though the Thoralian twisted and feinted and tried a dozen different types of shields, for Huari dealt with those at a speed Ardan understood to be rooted in a love-connection similar to that which linked him with Aranya. As Gangurtharr’s fists and talons bombarded their quarry from every conceivable angle the Navy-Blue Shapeshifter was there ahead of her mate, nullifying or piercing the shields with her own powers, until Thoralian bled from dozens of rents and had a visible dent in his right flank where a vicious Gangurtharr kick had staved in his ribs. Pain rippled through the triplicate, he sensed, a formational weakness perhaps of theirs … but where was the third of their number? He cast about cautiously, Shadowing through Gang to avoid getting in the other Dragon’s way – casting that very interference which had prevented them from landing their opening blow?

You’re pathetic, Thoralian! the Shadow sneered.

I am the most powerful – he grunted as Gang smashed his lower neck with a snaking right hook – Dragon! You can never best me.

Ardan goaded him, Bleating ralti sheep!

What’s a sheep? Sounds tasty, Gangurtharr returned, raking a trench in Thoralian’s upper left flank. From his back, Huari struck with razor-sharp reflexes, flinging a flurry of ice shards into the enemy’s eyes. Thoralian was forced to duck. GNARRR! Gang punched again, a dull thump! against that armoured flank, but the Yellow-White Shapeshifter writhed away in pain as the Gladiator found a nerve-centre. Dragon Ardan loved the bulging surprise in his eyes as the blow landed true, but each Thoralian was an immense beast, as long and sinuous in the body as a muscular Dragon-snake. He could take this kind of pounding all day long and still laugh afterward.

Ardan loathed him.

The hulking males traded blows, circling each other warily as Huari plied her wiles and Ri’arion tried to reach Yiisuriel and her kind, but his every artifice was frustrated by the triplicate. Precious seconds ticked by wherein their alliance seemed to grow weaker, while the enemy endured as strong as ever.

Look to your feckless mate, Shadow! Thoralian snapped suddenly.

Aranya – trapped!

Ardan’s hearts jerked wildly, but he heard her call, No fear, Ardan.

The Amethyst Dragoness vanished beneath a roiling storm of fire and ice, yet seemed to shake it off somehow, even though the black threads – meriatonium – interfered with her producing an effective shield. He sensed the Princess focussing with all of her formidable concentration, summoning that starlight power of hers which must surely be able to burn even meriatonium loose.

Sensing movement, his eyes flipped upward. ARANYA! NOOOO …

* * * *

Alert! The faraway cry arrived within a dulled, hurting corner of her mind. Aranya had a millisecond to adjust before the third Thoralian, hidden by bluff and counter-bluff, smashed into her from above. She felt as if she had flown headlong into a cliff. Dazed. Reeling. Black spots everywhere. Zuziana was unconscious within her – had her friend contrived somehow to absorb the terrible blow into herself? She did not even know how she had been hit without sensing or seeing the incoming attack, only that she tumbled helplessly through the sky, perhaps stunned by a simple, physical strike. One hundred and fifty feet and a hundred tonnes of Thoralian pitted against her forty-something foot, relatively tiny tonnage?

Basic physics did the rest.

She plunged into a lake of emerald fire. Unable to shield. Flickering in and out of consciousness, feeling the upwelling arrest her fall and buoy her up, as if cupped paws of fire raised her as a blood-offering to the waiting pair of Yellow-White Shapeshifters.

With the Egg’s formidable magic, he controlled her fate.

* * * *

Then, the advent of another Dragoness cleaved the fire-storm apart.

LEANDRIAL!!

The aged Dragoness had made her leap from who knew where, and almost, she struck true. Her white eye-beam sizzled the air repeatedly between the dodging Thoralians as she fell down against the First Egg, seizing it in her forepaws with the air of a mother clutching a long-lost infant to her breast. Mine! Never again!

Above Aranya, one member of the triplicate gestured grandly. Now, o Star Dragoness, you are mine! Yes … yes …

The Amethyst Dragoness screeched and writhed against her black bonds, her agony and fury communicating through the oath bond to Ardan. No right-minded Dragon could bear such pain in his beloved. He flashed across the intervening space. Too slow! Too late! Augmented by the First Egg’s magic, the Marshals’ psychic attack was a trifold bludgeon of inconceivable proportions wielded against arguably the strongest defensive mind in the Island-World. Aranya endured. By what miracle, he knew not – but the Shadow Dragon knew he could never allow his Star to be tortured by them again.

Pain indescribable. How could she yet live?

His brain, heated and swollen with the knowledge of her helplessness, felt as if it would throb free of his skull any second. Instinct blurred into decision. Fight me! Ardan roared. At the speed of Shadow, he distorted ordinary physical laws to cross that gap and fling himself bodily between the Marshals and their intended victim. Take me instead!

Aranya cried, Ardan, no!

Could I have wished for better? the Thoralians murmured. The full fury of their Egg-augmented power poured into his mind, and bound it in shackles of the blackest fire. You are mine, now.

Ardan knew only slack-jawed shock.

* * * *

Nothing could have prepared Aranya for the experience of severance. The oath connection with Ardan vanished behind a wall of fizzing, spitting darkness in her mind, a sensation that she had to choose to cut off within milliseconds or face irreparable psychic damage. Somehow, she realised dazedly, the Thoralians had once more exercised their parasitic trickery and stolen some knowledge of magic from the S’gulzzi Lord himself, for the smear left upon her memory she could only liken to a cousin of urzul or perhaps another debased form of Earthen Fires magic. It was untouchable. Anathema. Even the orientation of her awareness upon its presence burned like the most caustic substance beneath the suns.

At last, she recognised the Thoralians’ subtlety. The master plan.

Having distracted and drawn her in with layers of subterfuge, they had veered to snatch Ardan – either to use as a pawn against her, or to attempt to parasitize his Shadow powers. Thoralian could steal all of his knowledge now. An Ardan-cross-Thoralian? She feared to battle such a beast.

The meriatite netting dragged her struggling Dragoness-form downward, helplessly, away from the spectacle of Ardan genuflecting to his new masters, and toward the unexpected boon of Leandrial’s intervention. Her enormous weight had already contrived to overpower the lifting force and slowly – too slowly – she sought to wrest the First Egg from the Thoralians’ command.

Ri’arion, help Leandrial, Aranya called desperately. Why was she so fuzzy? So slow to react?

She could not erase that expression of Ardan’s from her mind. Agog. Hungry to serve the Thoralians. The flicker of his Shadow power as he repeatedly shifted the quartet of Dragons out of harm’s way before the spearing attacks of Leandrial’s eye-beam could harm them. The great Dragoness stabbed the skies and the boiling clouds like a crazed assassin lashing out repeatedly with a dagger – only, her daggers were searing beams of light that crackled like lightning, urgently seeking the wily Marshal. One strike. Just one! Three times, she nicked one of the Yellow-Whites and once Ardan bellowed as he vanished in a flash and a puff of greyish smoke. She did not wish him to be injured, but he was the enemy until she could find a way past the black fires and into his mind. Melding swiftly with Leandrial, she attempted to strengthen the mighty Dragoness, but was once again rebuffed by her own incapacity. An empty vessel. A star who failed to shine.

She tumbled toward Leandrial’s long, slick back, knowing that if she did not slough off this netting, all would be lost. How did Thoralian even command or shape meriatonium to his will? Was it not meant to be impossible? Hualiama would have devised a solution involving manipulating the physical environment around the metalloid material, perhaps, or even a transformation operating on the most elemental levels amongst the forces governing physical substances themselves, but Aranya had no such knowledge. Stubbornness, she possessed by the Island-weight. Yolathion had once netted her much like this, she remembered, and that day she had escaped by the simple expedient of a Shift.

Weariness burned her being with caustic fires. Did she have the strength remaining this day?

Here came Gangurtharr, furling his wings as he pounded into the long spine of one of the Thoralians. WHAM! Aranya felt rather than heard the impact, as a shock jolting the Marshals’ conjuration, and for a several long seconds the Egg began to slip away with Leandrial and she thought she might, dangerously, be able to tear from herself the transformative magic. That was before the Thoralians rallied, and hammered Gang and his two Riders, Huari and Ri’arion, with an immense broadside of ice boulders that, despite their shielding, knocked them spinning through the occluded skies like a leaf trapped in a gale. Aranya sensed the triplicate rallying, drawing together, and the air seemed to suck away beneath her wings. She froze. Then, the Island-World shuddered.

Thoralian’s command to the Egg!

The fires of all creation thundered out of the First Egg, unleashing a continuous peal of thunder that must surely rival the Great Onyx in the full panoply of his majestic wrath. The shadowy green wash of flames nonetheless snatched Leandrial up like a limp rag and flung her away, her body tucked into a foetal posture as if she had suffered a fearsome blow to her gut. Somewhere, Ri’arion cried out and Zip responded with a weak moan. Mentally, battling against the urge to simply fade as every iota of her being screamed what must be the fate of one as battered as her, what could not be denied except by some superhuman act of will, Aranya lurched for her clutch, wanting nothing more in the world to gather them to her bosom. Her brood. She could never lose them again.

All she had left was to shelter them, and to feel the touch of Yiisuriel at the last in her mind, raging at her failure to punch through to aid the attack. Recriminations? Apparently not.

A girl slipped between the meriatonium fibres, and thought she might fly.

Was this not the story of her life?

* * * *

Ri’arion peered into her-Aranya’s eyes. “Zuziana? Aranya? Anyone awake in there?”

“Unnh …”

“Handshumnursh,” the Remoyan managed to slur.

“What? What was that?” the monk inquired urgently. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” the Immadian put in.

“Lessh caush you’re sho shockingly sheeeekshy,” Zip insisted. “Ish wash handshum … ah, thanks, my very best fire-petal. That’s much better.”

Ri’arion gave her a dignified peck upon the forehead.

For that, he earned a perfectly molten Azure Dragoness glare. “Oi. Husband. Is that all I get?”

“Well … those are Aranya’s lips …”

“Ha. I love your principles, but sometimes they do get in the way of some excellent fun,” averred the Remoyan. “I take it we’re alive?”

“Awfully insightful, my love.” The monk pursed his lips, rather ruddier of cheek than a moment before. “You’re not going to like the results of our mission, however.”

“Ugh. I can guess. We failed miserably, the Thoralians escaped with the Egg, and we are all still mired here as we can’t make headway through the debris?”

“Aye. And, he’s sending successive waves of Drakes against us, thousands strong, to keep us busy.” He kissed her again, charily, unable to ignore whose flesh it was that he kissed. “Aranya? Zip? Report.”

“Here’s Aranya.”

“Thanks, dear friend. Zip and three foetuses in good order. We’re sore and bruised, but alright – just exhausted, Ri’arion. Any idea how long it takes for magical potentials to fully recover when they’ve been abused for this length of time?”

Weeks, little one, Yiisuriel put in succinctly.

“What?” Aranya and Zip chorused.

After a second, Aranya deferred graciously and Zip said, “Would you explain the lore please, noble Yiisuriel?”

We are only just rediscovering this principle for ourselves, little one, averred the mighty Air Breather, in heavy tones. Firstly, let me reassure you that no-one is blaming you about this failed attack. That onus must lie upon me. Upon us, and our brethren.

Aranya shifted restlessly within her. Zuziana said, No, we all tried, noble Yiisuriel. The Thoralians were too strong and too cunning – this time. Aranya concurs. The triplicate’s strength relies upon its hostile adaptability as a survival strategy.

Just listen to her Dragoness’ word choice! A Remoyan Princess would never have spoken like that, with learned word choice and archaic nuances peppering her speech. Aranya seemed to be chuntering away to her own Dragoness in there, listening with half an ear as Yiisuriel clarified how the triplicate had moved off to the West with the Egg, as expected. Leandrial was in a grave but stable state, being cared for by her Runner-kin. Ardan had flown West with the Thoralians. Ri’arion, Huari and Gangurtharr were variously banged up but on the mend, and the Council had already been meeting for four hours to work out a way forward.

A couple of seconds later, the Remoyan felt that unaccustomed sensation of joining into the presence of thousands of minds, and a debate summary slipped into her awareness. Aye. The crux of the problem was their inability to move these Air Breathers quickly.

Zuziana glanced about the infirmary chamber where she found herself. Injured Dragons, a vocally unimpressed Gang having patches slapped upon his bleeding hide by an implacable Huaricithe, and the ever-intense Dhazziala speaking to Bane and Lurax – Ardan’s charges, she remembered. Bane had his arm set in a leather-bound wooden cast, and he looked paler than was healthy for a growing boy. Immediately, a part of the communal mind opened to her, showing lists of those injured by chaos within and just outside the hangers. The Egg storm had struck harder than she had imagined, but Aranya’s intervention had saved them from outright disaster.

Bluntly put, we must now give chase, Yiisuriel added now, in scathing tones that trumpeted her frustration. Our mission is not yet complete. We have failed to protect the First Egg as the Dragonfriend charged us six hundred years ago! We failed to protect the Shadow, connubial companion and counterpart to our Star. And I will shoulder the responsibility! I am the oldest of our kind, charged with the protection of all; my paw-pods will neither rest nor will the skirts of my mountain remain unmoved whilst this blood-steeped, sacrilegious tyrant dares to flout the holy rule of Fra’anior and flits free across his skies!

A great thunder of approbation greeted her words.

When the mental tumult had died down, Dhazziala said quietly, But how will we dig ourselves out in time, o mighty Yiisuriel? I, for one, refuse to walk over the bones of friends and allies.

AYE!!

Wow. That had to be ten thousand voices at once. Now they were clamouring about the need for mobile bases from which to fight the Drakes; for the impossibility of running long supply lines into Wyldaroon and where did he intend to take the Egg, anyways?

He wishes to travel North, Zuziana said, sharing with them the information they had deduced about the probable location of the Dragon Rider Academy. We believe that hatching the Egg to his purposes – opening an Ancient Dragon to his power of daimonization – might be his ultimate goal. To achieve that he may steal powers from Infurion in the Rift, which he has passed through before. We understand from your knowledge, Yiisuriel, that there is an ancient route through the Rift called the Path of Dark Fires, which might be the means of limited but continual commerce between our realms. It is very clear to us Northerners, by the presence of Chameleon Shapeshifters, Herimor-sourced poisons and the identity of Thoralian himself as the Emperor of Sylakia –

The recently deposed Emperor, thanks to Aranya and my Zuziana’s revolution, Ri’arion put in, his tone of bleak satisfaction drawing favourable gurgles and growls from many of the Dragonkind.

You played a great part too, my beloved, murmured the Azure Dragoness.

Huaricithe noted, We have searched for this path in times past. Fables and legends place it somewhere in the trackless mountain wastelands which separate the northerly reaches of Wyldaroon from the Rift itself, unlike the main section of Herimor. That is a vast region.

Cartographers estimate that these mountains attain a measure of 2,357 leagues width and, on average, a North-South extent of 671 leagues, another voice added, surfacing a data package to the mind.

Noble Yistarill, approved Yiisuriel. You are knowledgeable.

The young Dragoness genuflected psychically and murmured, I’ve a lamentable fondness for seeking out archaic information which often proves useless for all practical purposes, mighty Elder.

May thine inarguably un-lamentable fires burn ever brighter! boomed the Dragon Elder, in tones of scorching praise-command. Excellent. Form a synthesis group to examine these records-traces, Yistarill. Now – aye, Kantuka of Ergani? You say your Dragon Riders and Dragons possess helpful lore? Please submit your memories for examination.

And, we will fly with you, the giant Dragon Rider added. Our people are pledged to this cause.

Aye! A smaller chorus, but no less resolute.

Yiisuriel said, Now, noble Star Dragoness, what thoughts preoccupy and drawn your attention away from this important Council – care to share with us all?

She spoke her censure without severe rancour, but Zuziana understood the flash of humiliation that made her reserved friend wince inwardly. Aranya had kept the detail of her cogitations private, but not the flash of excitement that accompanied whatever she had concluded. Now, she was exposed before all; treated as a child, moreover, which they all were in comparison to a creature of Yiisuriel’s age, but still …

Strength to thy paw, the Azure Dragoness said formally as she, in turn, conceded.

* * * *

The woman who appeared in the mental network was young, not yet twenty summers, but behind her amethyst eyes blazed the fires of a Shapeshifter Dragoness, her mettle refined by many testing battles and her dignity the product of suffering for their cause. Aranya knew her grief was marked even just around her eyes for all to see. How could she bear to lose Ardan a second time? A molten heaviness lay upon her soul.

Her appearance thus was calculated to convey an unspoken rebuke to the Dragons who had unsubtly agreed with Yiisuriel’s overbearing put-down of one they had recently acknowledged was the potentate of Herimor, the worshipful Star Dragoness. Typically convoluted draconic reasoning, she supposed – or, a natural chafing at authority, especially given her youth. That was no help in an age-dominance hierarchy.

The mental network subsided.

Holding her poise, Aranya said mildly, “I was meditating upon a plan. I propose to fly the Air Breathers out.”

Nobody started laughing or shouting at her. Disappointing. She had rather hoped to provoke a reaction. Glancing within, she chuckled at Dragoness Aranya’s narked huffiness, but very soon an Immadian wink disabused her of the notion that her Human didn’t see the funny side of the situation. With exaggerated Sylakian-style gruffness, her Dragoness said, Go on, girly. Show ’em what we’re made of.

The Princess continued, “So, in outline, the plan is to float our Air Breather brethren like dirigible balloons, using sky-hooks at the top and legion helpers at various levels below to push them along. My proposed strategy avoids trampling on the bones of our kindred and starts the chase six days earlier than any of your previous projections. Any questions so far?”

Stunned quiet.

“Just one,” First Hand Dhazziala managed to blurt out. “Is this a flash of Star Dragoness inspiration, or have you gone five-Moons mad?”

Chapter 6: Bobbling Mountains

FITTING THAT HE should spy upon the Amethyst Dragoness’ doings. Not so fitting that he could make neither head nor tail of what she was doing, nor could the Masters.

Report.

Every half-hour, night and day, the triplicate pulsed its demand. Being inferior to these mighty Shapeshifters, Ardan was always the fourth and final participant. In strict sequence, the Thoralian designated as Prime ruled for a twenty-seven hour period, thereafter Secondary became Prime, and finally Tertiary took his turn at the helm. Ardan understood that this arrangement was due to the heritage replication requirements of the triplicate – essentially, for each Prime day, the dominant Thoralian hosted and updated the essential data upon which their survival depended, right down to the memory and cellular level. In this way, even if two were lost the third member could always replicate himself, and the most current data was at most a mere two days old. The practise had begun at the time one of the triplicate had rebelled and fled to the North – the ‘replicand ancestor’ of the Shapeshifter who had come to rule the Sylakian Empire, and decades later and an unknown number of reincarnations later in defeat, had determined to rejoin his long-lost shell brothers in Herimor carrying the vital information of First Egg’s location.

With the arrival of a fourth replicand, as they called themselves, the Thoralians had communed, determined the weakest member of the quartet, and executed him without hesitation. Only the strongest must rule.

Always stronger. Always change, adapt and layer power upon power – this was the mantra.

Prime summarised: I travel with the Egg. We are passing through the Straits into Wyldaroon as planned. Everything is proceeding according to schedule.

Secondary said: I am raising and imprinting allies from the Islands of Wyldaroon and from the secret breeding chambers of the Drakes up to four hundred leagues South of the Straits. Tomorrow I fly North and repeat the process, as planned. Everything is proceeding according to schedule.

Tertiary added, more gruffly than the previous two: I have flown through the Straits and into Wyldaroon, seeking knowledge of a power over death. Legends of the notable deeds of one Azhukazi the Iolite Blue, a reputed Necromancer with the power to raise Dragon and Human bones from the grave, falls like warm fires upon my ear canals. Hearken, brothers, to the details of my report.

The three gave each other little quarter, Ardan had observed. This communication was typical, laden with superiority-indicators that trumpeted this Thoralian’s opinion that his task was far more important than the functions undertaken of his brothers. Oddly, a scene from his youth flashed into his mind, that of youths taunting each other and catcalling as they trained at wooden scimitars in the heat of the day in Ur-Naphtha Cluster. That had been a happy time. He remembered! This was the first time a clear memory of the time before he first transformed into a Shapeshifter Dragon had come to mind, and it staggered a man who thought he had lost his past.

The prospect is agreeable, the Thoralians agreed. We will seek this Necromancer. Adjust the plan to take cornering this feeble Marshal Azhukazi into account. Shadow, report.

The dark shackles tightened between his temples.

I am tracking and observing, he said. Much of the expected activity has ceased. The Runners clear paths for the Air Breathers but not to any reasonable depth. Thousands of carcasses still hem them in and they will not crush the bones of allies. Meantime, there is a hive of engineering activity around the peaks. No sign of the Star. The greatest Runner, this troublesome Leandrial, shows signs of recovery from her wounds but as yet rests upon the Elder Yiisuriel’s flanks. My full-spectral analysis has determined greater than normal concentrations of moisture, meriatite and trace metals, leading to the speculation that they prepare their Dragonwings and Dragonships for an all-out assault on the Drakes. Our battlefront formation must remain fluid in anticipation.

Agreed, intoned the Prime. Make it so, Shadow.

Aye, Masters.

Ardan blinked. Stared. Blinked again, and ground his knuckles into his eyes as if that could clear his disbelief.

What? Report! boomed the command.

She’s – oh, great leaping Islands!

The unbreakable bands tightened until the Shadow Dragon groaned, imagining his mind smoking like the peaks of those rising Air Breathers out there. Rising! Floating! That was what Aranya had been doing, and he admired her most ferociously for her genius. Clearly, at least five of the peaks had begun to rise perceptibly out of the Cloudlands, exposing many tens of feet of lichen-encrusted, never-before-revealed flanks to the bright afternoon suns-light. Their general eavesdropping on the mind – not shielded nearly as completely as those ancient Land Dragons of the Lost Isles imagined – had identified Aranya’s voice as the Prime, issuing commands and making plans together with Yiisuriel. The Thoralians had dismissed any kind of engineering solution to the problem of moving those Air Breathers. Aranya was not capable, they had adjudged.

Rising steadily, the slimmest of the peaks had already exposed an additional half a mile of her upper flanks to the air. Above the Air Breathers, the flotilla of Dragons and Dragonships resolved in his mind. Lifting power! Or, steadying power, linked as they were by heavy-gauge hawsers to the mountaintop. Thousands of Dragons fluttered above, supported by Dragonships. His spectral analysis revealed the presence of many, many Runner Dragons beneath, steadying the rising, urgently smoking mountain – the youngster acted panicked – whilst hundreds of Cognates and other mental giants stood off a small ways, supplying steadying and lifting power on the kinetic level. The mind pulsed in a relentless rhythm, synchronising all of the different parties.

Brilliant. Simply brilliant.

His mental bonds hissed. Remember, the Star is the enemy!

Air Breathers must of course possess natural buoyancy. Any creature that stood two to three leagues beneath the Cloudlands possessed a natural buoyancy related to the far higher air pressures at that level, just as a boat floated in terrace lake waters. But to toy with a balance so delicate – what if a mountain tipped? Without fresh air, the mountainous Land Dragons would die. How had they supplied so much lifting power?

Gas. Meriatite degrades into hydrogen gas, Secondary Thoralian noted. Chambers deep within the Air Breathers have been filled under pressure. There is significant danger of completely flipping over, hence all the support.

Ardan’s hearts crammed into his throat. He knew this was Aranya’s signature pawprint, changing the Balance of events in the Island-World. The grey granite flanks of the Air Breathers poured majestically toward the heavens. Clearing two miles above the Cloudlands. Damp rock steamed energetically, creating great white billows of moisture that mingled with the light teal exhalation of their air spiracles. The mind made its calculations and fine adjustments while Runners swarmed about the base, pressing against a gentle under-Cloudlands air current.

Gently bobbling in the afternoon breeze, the Air Breathers began to float to freedom.

O Aranya, thou –

Enemy! The shackles shifted and settled, conforming more intimately to the patterns of his mind.

Beautiful Amethyst …

ENEMY!

Momentarily blinded by great sheets of sooty black flame, the Dragon shook his head as if broken-hearted. Then, his vision cleared. A new, vicious note entered his voice as he spat, Enemy! Attack!

* * * *

In an exhilarating, exhausting afternoon’s work, the Lost Islands Dragons lifted seven Air Breathers clear of the debris and wafted them away to better locations to the Southwest, from which they could walk – or more accurately, roll upon their foot-pods – unobstructed down to the Straits. Yiisuriel’s fast-moving scouts, the younger and lighter Runners, were already reporting from under-Cloudlands locations ninety leagues distant, mapping the world’s floor to find a viable route. No Air Breather had ever ventured into Wyldaroon. The terrain was unknown, and in many places, treacherous.

Progress? Aranya said tiredly.

Yiisuriel touched her mind fondly. Little one, you must take rest.

I’ll rest when we’re all moving, she replied, groaning as Brityx’s immensely powerful, blunt talons worked fragrant healing creams into the lesions upon her back and shoulders. Massage-aided work? These Herimor Dragon-kin were certainly an odd crew in many ways. They believed the right aromas and oils were beneficial for a huge range of healing and restorative functions, and had amassed over ten centuries of experience and scientific proofs to support their case.

Brityx smoothed the nape of her neck with the tips of her smallest talons. Aranya felt but a toy in the Dragoness’ paws, but her touch evinced the ease of many decades’ experience. Think healing thoughts, Aranya. Your muscles are one big knot. Unwind! Relax!

Not too much there, noble Brityx, or we’ll have an uninhibited Immadian on our hands, Zip quipped, sounding as if she was enjoying herself too.

The aged Grey-Green Dragoness smiled warmly in her mind. How fare thy egglings, o beauty of Azure?

Passably well, I believe, said the Remoyan Princess, who had been taking much instruction from Brityx in all matters related to pregnancy, birth, and raising ‘rambunctious younglings.’

Triplets! Hard work.

Even my buoyancy is reaching critical thresholds, Yiisuriel added. So far the inner pressure shields are holding well. One point seven more hours and I shall commence floatation. Enough time to deal with another meddlesome wave of Drakes. Your mate Ardan is up there, directing the attacks. He thought upon you earlier, but his mind has been subsumed into the triplicate once more.

Aranya stiffened again. He thought … of me?

Yiisuriel said, I distinctly heard something like, ‘beautiful Amethyst,’ as a zephyr upon the breeze. I was listening. He is not lost. Not yet.

To allow hope is hard. Aranya sighed, trying to force herself to relax as Brityx worked down her lower spine. Do I sense the environmental conditions worsening?

Aye, but your plan remains sound. Astonishing, but sound. Yiisuriel chortled massively. You conceive the inconceivable, o Aranya true-heart, o white-hearted ally. And I know we clash over some matters, but do not be afeared or cowed. As many as fight for our cause, t’would be strange if disagreement did not arise. My fires burn true for thy grandsire, the holy Fra’anior.

I value your counsel, Yiisuriel.

Your pods swim deep in the current of destiny, o daughter of Istariela.

Aranya did not bother to correct her, for she knew that the Land Dragoness meant daughter in the general genealogical sense. It did start her thinking upon the whisper she might or might not have heard. Stardrop. No, /Stardrop./ Was that a variant upon Dragonish? When she put the question to Yiisuriel, the Dragoness deferred to the linguistic specialists, who expressed puzzlement but promised to investigate. So, if she understood a different language, was linguistic ability innate or learned? Or was there a difference between Dragons and Humans? The lore noted an innate ability to speak Dragonish as the hallmark of a Shapeshifter. Yet when she sang the chiming notes of the other words she had heard, the linguists definitely began to scratch their bearded or scaly chins, leaving Aranya greatly bemused. Perhaps she had imagined it? But no, they assured her in a chorus of breathless splutters, those cadences, nuances and dracotonic intonations definitely indicated a draconic language – just one of which they had not the first clue apart from her best translation of the concepts, which she immediately supplied.

She left fifty-three linguists in a flurry of great excitement. A new language! A star-language! It was as if the skies had opened to rain philological treasures upon scholarly heads, be they of the bald, the hairy or the scaly variety.

They were not the only ones perplexed by a matter that seemed to grow stranger the more she dwelled upon it. Only four words existed in her vocabulary, as if a few stars of a mighty constellation had winked alight in her brain, but the rest of – well, whatever that might represent – remained stubbornly dark and inaccessible.

Brityx prodded her charge’s backside. “Sleep.”

“Just a few more things,” Aranya protested.

“There will always be more. You’ve four other souls inside of you.”

“Five.”

“Making babies demands extra rest.”

“But Brityx …”

“But I will sit on you until you squeal, youngling,” growled the enormous Dragoness, drawing hoots of laughter from Zuziana. “Not one more word – nor worry, command, response nor any contemplation whatsoever. Not one! If you need a mother –” she hissed between her fangs “– ah, forgive me. You have a mother. What you need is a drop of common Isles sense!”

Her paw rested heavily upon Aranya’s back. The Dragoness breathed, O Fra’anior, I beseech thee, as it were with thy fiery creative breath of yore, breathe life into Aranya’s dear mother, that she might be hale and fire-filled once more. O great Onyx, let it be.

Finding a place of unexpected tranquil in spirit, Aranya’s eyelids drooped at last. O Izariela …

Hope must be cherished.

* * * *

By the roseate light of a blusterous evening, amidst a storming Drake-battle and rising winds, the greatest of the Air Breathers left her paw-pods for the first time in all the centuries of her life and floated serenely aloft. She was stuffed to the gills with highly volatile hydrogen gas and escorted by eight thousand Dragons and one thousand Dragonships aloft, whilst well over three thousand Runners swarmed about her lower flanks to supply a helping paw or shoulder. With the utmost precision and delicacy, the communal mind directed the enterprise, compensating for the changing pressures as the entirety of Yiisuriel’s bulk became subject to the variable tides and currents of the immeasurable below-Cloudlands realm. Ahead of her, tight-knit squadrons of Runners cleared a path through the remnants of the Thoralians’ allied forces with what they politely described as ‘vigorous’ measures.

Having slept dreamlessly for three hours, Aranya and Zuziana participated in the Drake battle in the only way they were allowed – supporting Ri’arion, Gang and Huari from afar by tracking and predicting where Ardan would be. By focussing deeply, Aranya found she could often sense him through the oath-connection. Feeding that data back to their forces, particularly the Land Dragons who felt that pinning an ultra-elusive traitor to the cause with an eye cannon shot would win them untold honour, provided so much disruption that his contributions became almost entirely ineffective.

The Immadian Princess hoped they would not strike true, however!

Eight hours later and one incredible kafuffle over a twofold increase in the deep-airspeed that eventually tipped Yiisuriel’s mass over by all of one point three degrees before it was corrected, the living mountain touched ground with the improbable grace of million-tonne butterfly, and heaved a suitably mountainous sigh of relief.

Congratulations, Star Dragoness – but I never wish to do that again!

The flying wasn’t good? Aranya inquired.

As you younglings would say, coursing the airy spaces is a highly overrated experience, Yiisuriel said, with a booming laugh than shook them all. Enough airborne nonsense for this old Dragoness. To the next adventure, onward ho!

Her progeny and family, including those so far left behind, shared her relieved laughter.

Two days of hard labour remained before the last of the Air Breathers, heavily injured in the battle with the S’gulzzi and thus less able to hold sufficient hydrogen gas in his lower-third chambers, was able to be lifted free – this only by clearing far more debris than had been shifted for the others, and moving him with great care.

You must leave me behind, Kiisan-ap-Yandon had argued.

None of my family shall be left behind, Yiisuriel insisted.

I’ll only slow you down.

Aranya, will you try to heal my kin-brother?

In the end, they found a way, but it cost Aranya dearly. She decided she was highly allergic to being put to bed by those who were correct about the matter, and made a terrible patient to boot, so Yiisuriel threatened to shut her out of the communal mind. Gang, being a pragmatic soul, stationed himself across the doorway of her chamber and went to sleep – for five days – only allowing the entry of Huari to bring her relative food or scrolls to peruse.

Thus, she entered the realm of Wyldaroon which she had conquered in the guise of Aranya the Assassin, spending her days reading Hualiama’s lore as broadly and deeply as she could, reminiscing about her mother and, incongruously, that faraway call she had heard out of her Storm but had been unable to locate since, wondering how Beran, Nak and Oyda, Yolathion and Kylara and many others they had left behind fared. By way of relaxation, she painted a full-length, life-size portrait of Zuziana of Remoy in her bridal gown as a gift for the newlyweds.

What a bittersweet delight to retrace her best friend’s physical form.

Ari sad? Sapphire asked her one morning as she stared pensively at her depiction of Zip. Ari inside-sad?

Aye. I suppose so, Sapphire, said Aranya, chuckling as the dragonet imagined sniffing around her brushes and paints. A happy-forlorn feeling accompanied her wish. I’m feeling very low these days. The loss is so … it aches, my darling, and every touch of love that I enjoy around me, such as from your fiery sweetness or even that spavined old codger blocking my doorway –

Heard that, Scrap, Gang murmured.

Aye. All this faithful, unchanging love seems only to grow this ache within my breast, until I feel perfectly hollow, Sapphire, and feel I must fill it with art or effort or … making myself useful. Why can’t I stop? Who or what is driving me beyond the mortal coil, and why can I not stand for others to labour alongside me – is that a misplaced desire to snaffle the glory for myself? To be the Star I so desperately need to be …

The dragonet said, Is the shining not enough, Ari? When shining not enough? Star born a star, star shine … she clucked her tongue and expectorated a frustrated spurt of fire as she failed to find words to express her thoughts.

Wise mite. The Princess could only stare unseeing at her picture, paintbrush frozen in hand.

Eventually, Sapphire said, Star-Ari born to shine. You fight the shine. Fight everything, even Ari self! Not patient, not to wait for this Balance big Leandrial talks about.

Balance must wait upon the tides and times, Aranya quoted.

Hualiama had taught her to dance. Dance, like painting she supposed, was a synthesis of many forms which could each be learned individually, but eventually, had to be released as easily and simply as breathing. Unbidden, her bare toes traced a tiny dance-step between her paint pots. Music rose in her soul, then subsided amidst a welter of self-recrimination. Dance was Hualiama’s expression. Painting was her own forte.

Pensively, Aranya returned to touching up the lustrous chestnut curls of Zuziana’s Shapeshifter-length hair with languid swirling motions of her brush, wishing she could create fate with the masterful ease of a Fra’anior. Sapphire was right. She fought everyone and everything, because she was impatient, driven and never satisfied with anything bar perfection. That quality was a single coin of both strength and weakness. She supposed what she needed to learn, was how to harness her core strengths and turn them against the Thoralians without killing herself in the process. That would be a trick. Beran would strategize. He would count the cost and the opportunities; Aranya could not face knowing the cost. Not anymore.

No, what she longed for most, was to follow her heart, and to a Cloudlands volcano with all thought of consequences. Could she not sing of Harmony and Balance? She was supposed to be a Star Dragoness, and she had no idea what to do next – all she knew was that the pursuit of evil had thrust her unimaginably farther than she had ever imagined, and cost more than her soul could surely bear.

When would it become worth the pain?

Was that even a question she should ask, and did she fear the answer?

* * * *

Wyldaroon was a mighty realm, in extent a goodly fraction of the size of the entire Sylakian Empire of yore, and its farthest reaches were shadowy places of myth and legend. Chaos Beasts. Elemental water storms. Treasures beyond its mountains. Thousands of unique species of draconic life, including many dragonet, dracofloral and protodraconic forms foreign to her experience. A barren region called the Doldrums which on its own, measured some seventeen thousand square leagues. Wyldaroon was called a backwater of Herimor, but in reality, it was a vast, dangerous wilderness in its own right, lorded over in part by powerful Dragon Shapeshifter and Human Marshals, but also plagued by many renegade mercenary Houses and warlords.

Three days after passing into Wyldaroon, Aranya was finally allowed out of her chamber. Finally! She took fresh air aloft upon Gangurtharr’s back, riding with Huari and Ri’arion in addition. She did feel more rested, but Hualiama’s lore had clarified a Shapeshifter and Dragon principle called the ‘law of diminishing returns’ – pun intended, unfortunately – which stated that the greater the level of depletion, the slower the initial rate of return. Rates and capacities varied with every individual Dragon, but below the three percent mark, the return of capacity became exponentially slower. Many factors such as rest, diet and even the Land Dragons’ idea of community singing could influence these potentials, and so lengthy scientific exploration had been undertaken into the phenomenon.

“Meat,” Aranya sighed. “Heaps of meat.”

“What’s wrong with meat?” Gang growled, licking his chops like an overgrown Nak spying a pretty girl.

“Liver is foul, and I’m vegetarian.”

“A vegetarian Dragoness? No such thing!” he snorted. “I saw you eat meat in the Pits.”

“All part of the Assassin’s cunning disguise,” she needled. When he did not respond, she added, “Besides, I was actually preparing you for Huari, did you know, Gang?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, someone had to teach a crusty Gladiator a few manners of paw and fang. And, I made her purchase you. See? Aren’t I truly a wonderful friend?”

“Made me? Hardly!” Huari growled unhappily.

“Purchased?” Gang spat in disbelief. “I am a free Dragon!”

“Hate to stoke your fires, but I’ve been reading my histories of Herimor and Wyldaroon,” Aranya goaded him. “Technically, under the Pits purchase system, you’re still Huari’s bond-Dragon until she formally releases you.”

GNARR!!

“Oops, appears I might have forgotten to mention that detail,” Huari teased.

GNARR!!

“My gorgeous Gladiator, I shall have to correct this oversight.”

“Better.”

Zuziana put in, “Actually, I say keep him under that bond until you –”

GNARR-GROOAARRGH!!

“– I mean, he’s too nice to let loose,” the Remoyan added impudently, making her hostess smile. “We don’t allow any wayward husbands around here – I advise you keep him on a close leash. I mean, I installed my Ri’arion in a handy saddlebag to keep him close at all times. I’d tie this one down. He strikes me as the misbehaving sort.”

Curving his neck until his left fire eye flamed toward Aranya, Gang said, “Thank you for sharing the finer points of Remoyan bedroom custom with us prudish Dragons, Zuziana.”

Colour rushed into Aranya’s cheeks. Zip gasped, “Gang!”

“Nothing to do with me,” said Aranya, fanning her face ineffectually with her sleeve. “You’re on your own here, Remoy.”

“Huh, says she who hails from a family of piratical, bride-abducting kings?”

“Ooh, do tell!” Huari enthused. “You’ve an interesting background, Aranya. You haven’t shared these details with me.”

“King Beran would not appreciate the tone of this conversation,” she protested weakly, but it was little use now that their companions’ interest had been piqued.

As they surveyed the horizons, she told Huari and Gang the tale of a bold, bearded Immadian who had dared to swipe the most beautiful girl in Ha’athior from beneath a dozen suitors’ noses, only to discover years later that he had unknowingly kidnapped a Shapeshifter Dragoness. Izariela could have escaped at the proverbial snap of a talon, but she had chosen not to for love’s sake.

Sometimes she wished such a tale for herself.

Rather than what? What did she loathe about what she had become?

Out there, the Egg storm raged high and mighty, filling Wyldaroon from shore to shore with treacherous tempests, dark clouds and squally winds. The tainted green fires rushed upward in dozens of locations against a backdrop of black clouds laced by constant flashes and bolts of lightning, and many of the Islands that they had begun to pass had been razed. It seemed that the Thoralians pursued a policy of ‘join us or die’ and their sweep was wide indeed – perhaps a thousand leagues wide, or more. Already that morning, they had despatched a strong force to fly and run in aid of Huari’s home Islands, but they would need more. Four leagues ahead, flashes of orange and white proclaimed the unending battle against the Drake packs – Dragonwings and Dragonships from the Lost Islands, supported by the Runner Dragons from below, fought night and day against the Thoralians’ forces, pushing and harrying them as hard as they could.

Aranya searched with more than her eyes. Where was that thread of fate she had detected? Why was that strangely evocative presence quiet now? Would they be forced to fight an attritional battle against the triplicate right across Wyldaroon, and what did he want here anyways? Just passing through? Annihilating everything in his path … or?

Huaricithe said, “We’ve just received intelligence from my home Islands of a curious interaction. It seems that the Thoralians have been asking after a certain Azhukazi the Iolite Blue. Azhukazi is a Marshal of powerful and fey reputation. He’s said to be a Necromancer.”

“As in, he plays with bones and stuff?” asked Zip. “Ew.”

“As in, the rumours say he’s able to extract magical power and even living spirits out of Human and draconic remains,” Huari said evenly. “He has quietly been amassing power and followers for a number of years now.”

“Isn’t it impossible to harness a spirit after it has flown?” Ri’arion inquired.

“Different context, but ask Aranya about that particular impossibility,” Huari replied, making both friends squirm uncomfortably.

Drily, Ri’arion said, “I could imagine the Thoralians would be more than enamoured of a power of Necromancy. Imagine if they gained the power to sustain their parasitic life-forms forever? He’d effectively be immortal. This must be what he seeks here in Wyldaroon.”

Everyone in their group, including Gang, shivered.

“Aye,” said Huari. “Oddly, the same Azhukazi has just travelled up to visit the Uxâtaayn Kahilate, or ruling body of the realm known as Yazê-a-Kûz, to inquire after a rare and very strange artefact called the Jewels of Instashi, so from this we can conclude that he has his own agenda, which does not appear to be related to our enemy. Now, Yazê-a-Kûz is the oldest, most powerful, richest and most the most aloof Human realm of all Wyldaroon. They occupy a huge area in the Northeast corner – not all that far from the Gladiator Pits, as it happens – and have held that territory with great tenacity for hundreds of years. Their ruler, the Uxâtate Shan-Jarad, is also reported to possess unnamed and unidentified magical powers, but they have never produced any Shapeshifters, as best we know.”

“One of my informants suggests that the Jewels were stolen years ago by Shan-Jarad’s estranged brother, Marshal Chanbar, who leads a Mercenary House of ill repute, called the Mistral Fires.” The Shapeshifter said, “I am telling you this, in part, because the doings of the Uxâtaayn Kahilate have always fascinated me. They have an unquenchable love of magical artefacts and the wealth and power to seek them across the Island-World – even to the point, perhaps, of seeking Dragons’ eggs for their own nefarious purposes, so might well posit a connection between the Thoralians’ chosen route and this Shan-Jarad’s ambitions. Secondly, it was said that perhaps seven or eight years back, the Uxâtate’s only daughter went mad with an illness that was undoubtedly draco-magical in origin. That means they have a very sizeable talon to grind against the Dragonkind. And, most intriguingly, I just heard that Azhukazi paid a visit to the Mistral Fires and defeated but did not destroy them. In the realm of Wyldaroon, that event is in a word, unprecedented.”

“What do you mean?” asked Aranya.

“I mean that this is a confluence of forces, desires and powers that must surely interest us. It could be as simple as the machinations of Dragon against Dragon – say, Azhukazi seeks to use Chanbar and his Mistral Fires against Shan-Jarad. There’s ample historical precedent. But I do not need to tell you that in Wyldaroon that is woefully simplistic thinking. The underlying motives will be more devious. If Chanbar possessed the Jewels, why did Azhukazi not simply take them? If he failed to find this artefact, why not destroy the Mistral Fires – and why, by the first talon, take the step of riling all of the other Mercenary Houses at the same time? It makes no sense. Why then visit Yazê-a-Kûz when he will have known the Marshals Thoralian are coming? To risk such a long journey immediately after a costly conquest, again, makes no sense.”

Ri’arion asked, “Do you think this Shan-Jarad’s daughter is involved? Perhaps the Jewels are a cure?”

“It stinks of politics,” sniffed Gang.

“We are obliged to pay attention to whatever Thoralian wants,” Aranya said simply. “It’ll be about power or access to the First Egg.”

The Gladiator snarled, “We are surely not suggesting an alliance with a foul Necromancer?”

“Never, o febrile fires of my soul,” said Huaricithe. “But knowledge is power. To fight a straightforward frontal battle across Wyldaroon defeats any rational purpose. We must think faster, wider, deeper and more wisely than ever before if we are to turn this conflict in our favour.”

“Where are these Mistral Fires located?” Aranya inquired. “That would be where Azhukazi is bound, correct?”

“Far to the West, in a region called the Fringe. Many Mercenary Houses make their bases there.” Taking a moment to orientate herself by the suns, Huari pointed. “Just about exactly there. Over one thousand leagues distant – a long ways off track.”

Awfully close to where you sensed that trace, Aranya, Yiisuriel said flatly.

She shuddered! Was that Balance? Did she hear the voice of fate cry out: ‘I am here?’

This was how she had found Ardan.

Chapter 7: Elusive Allusive Wisps

Nothing like a Herimor-special Shapeshifter flame-fever to lay a girl low. Having been more than prepared to start chasing fate around Wyldaroon, Zuziana and her hostess were back abed properly this time, as miserable as they were sick. Soaring, sweating bouts of fever alternated almost hourly with shivering fits during which it seemed they would never become warm again.

“We are supposed to be chasing tyrants,” she shouted at Ri’arion, who deftly popped a bucket beneath her chin. “Not being sick in a leather bucket! Nor boiling eggs upon my forehead.”

“Easy, beloved. This will pass.”

She subsided back on the pillow-roll, panting and clutching her stomach. “Something in the water, did you say? I feel as if I’ve been poisoned.”

“You’ve taken all your medicine?”

“I hate medicine!”

“Don’t be petulant, Zuziana.”

Lashing out with her arm, she failed to hit him. Actually, Zip failed to move her arm off the orrican-wool blanket. “You are a bad husband. A font of unsympathetic barbarism. You need lessons in how to treat your adorable wife.”

“The back-rubbing, bed-arranging, sick-catching, unsleeping service does not suffice?”

“Insensitive brute.”

“I’m told it might also be a touch of pregnancy sickness. Uh … morning sickness. Aye, that’s what it’s called.” Ri’arion scratched his stubbly beard. Clearly, pregnancy was a great mystery to an ex-monk.

“Morning sickness? Morning? This is all-day sickness! You men know nothing. And it’s not even my own body!” Zip screeched, and then subsided. Mercy, she was acting like a shrewish washerwoman. “I hope you don’t take my bellyaching too seriously. Don’t look so alarmed, dearest man-petal. I still love you, but the yelling does help me feel better. I sound terrible, don’t I?”

“Like a wet feline with a raging toothache,” Ri’arion suggested helpfully. When Zip made a face at him, he added, “A sodden, tooth-achy feline being dragged backward through a patch of muddy brambles, screeching its little head off …”

“Ri’arion!”

Wretched beast, he had the gall to look pleased with himself. Zuziana was less than impressed by his facility with description, particularly as it related to her mood.

“Now, you inquired about Leandrial, dearest Princess of my heart.” He patted her upon the head, which on another occasion, would have cost him a finger or two. “She is very much improved, and even participated in a battle this morning. There appears to be no change in strategy from the Thoralians, nor Ardan for that matter. Azhukazi has vanished into the blue yonder. We have moved two hundred and fifty leagues some six compass points North of West, and that is all. It’s boring out there. You’re missing nothing.”

“Boring?” She threw up into the bucket again.

“As dull as a sleeping Bulk Dragon.”

“And taking care of me – us – is what? Interesting?”

“It’s this or slap Drakes all day long.”

She spat into the bucket and pushed it weakly back in his direction. “You know, you could have earned yourself some serious kudos right there. Massive kudos. But no, Ri’arion muffs his opportunity with spectacular abandon.”

The monk made a face. “You women are far too complicated. Can’t you –” he waved his hands about helplessly “– ah, suffer in silence?”

“How dare you?”

“Erm, I –”

“Barbaric torturer,” she warbled feebly.

“You’re nothing but an endearing little dracowasp. Azure stinger and all.”

Finally, Zuziana gave it up and laughed until her stomach hurt. “Silly man. I love that you know me so well. I so badly need to escape this body. Going mad in here – poor Aranya, putting up with all my foibles and mischief-making and worst of all, my stupid, trite jealousies …”

Ambushed by rawness, her voice broke abruptly.

Ri’arion touched her cheek tenderly. “I know, my beloved. Don’t cry.”

“I’m a horrible person.”

She sensed Aranya come awake within her, but her friend remained silent. Hesitant to intrude, perhaps. What? she sniffed privately.

Dearest petal, I love the silliness, your foibles are characterful, the rascally tendencies keep me from disappearing into a fog of high-mindedness, and your jealousy isn’t half what you think it is. Zip made a dissenting noise. With affection that radiated warmth from her heart to the tips of her toes, Aranya explained, It’s because you think so little of yourself, Zip-Zap. The jealousy is just a way of putting yourself down as you feel you deserve – like that patently false statement you just spouted. Nobody but you thinks you’re horrible. It’s a lie, and that I will not tolerate!

Stunned.

Ara … Aranyi, you –

Petal, having you inside lets me see you, just as you see me. There is excellent reason – many excellent reasons – the Nameless Man of Fra’anior fell rainbows over Islands for you. If you ever lose sight of that truth – Aranya gulped. Let me put it this way. One more word of such drivel, just one, and I swear I will kick that infuriating derriere of yours right past the Mystic Moon!

Mercy! What made you so threatening today?

Ri’arion said, “Now, laughter? What is this?”

“A stern girlfriend talking-to just cured me,” she said. The monk made a mock-befuddled face. Zuziana added, “It was about the lies we tell ourselves – and loving each other for who we truly we are. I love you dearly, Ri’arion of Fra’anior.”

“Phew, that’s a relief,” he chuckled. “Because I love this crazy Shapeshifter girl, and I almost mislaid her recently. When I feared you were truly gone …”

Slowly, his head sank upon her chest. She draped an arm over his neck and squeezed him close. After a moment, Zuziana felt his shoulders shake, and realised that the Nameless Man was weeping – the first time she had ever known him to cry.

His terrace lakes were so much fuller than she knew. She just had to learn to see past the barrier walls.

* * * *

Ardan gritted his fangs in frustration. Another unanticipated, under-Cloudlands attack! They were learning fast and deploying their forces far too adeptly, these Lost Islands Dragonkind. Despite the best holding patterns he could devise, his command was steadily losing ground. Soon, Aranya’s forces might have the slow-travelling Egg within their reach.

The First Egg was another matter. Not one of the injured triplicate had been able to penetrate its secrets. On the contrary, the more they sought to draw from or meddle with the prize, the more strongly it appeared to react, emanating seething energy fields that disrupted the weather across thousands of square leagues and caused the Dragonkind no end of irritation – not actual damage, they had determined, but more like a constant scale-itch that drove the Drakes into a useful frenzy and alerted all Dragonkind in their path that they were approaching. The triplicate’s advance generated an immense wave of activity, a curling and rippling away of refugees into what they fervently hoped were safe havens. There they were systematically rooted out and recruited, or destroyed.

Report.

Prime said, I command the search for Azhukazi the Necromancer. The lead to the Uxâtaayn Kahilate was a false trail, a trip undertaken as a ploy or without fruit. I am interrogating Dragons until I find where he has vanished to. The search proceeds but the schedule is compromised.

Secondary noted, I am manipulating the tides to move the First Egg rather than relying upon the flexible meriatonium bonds, due to their deleterious backlash observed upon our shared psychic state-data. The degradation will reverse given sufficient time. The Egg travels slower than scheduled due to apparent resistance which we have been unable to isolate. We must expend more Theadurial-infected Land Dragons in order to accelerate its speed.

Agreed, pulsed the triplicate.

Tertiary said, I have completed the task of rousing the Drakes and will return to the Eastern battlefront to oppose the Star Dragoness and her minions. Nothing must be permitted to compromise the schedule – Shadow!

Aye, Masters?

Redouble the attacks until I arrive!

Aye. Shall I report now?

Prime thundered, Only when you perform your tasks adequately! Lazy, slap-pawed idiot! Get back to the battle and stop them!

The Shadow Dragon bowed his muzzle, his throat burning with acidic shame. All shall be as you wish, Masters. The schedule is paramount.

* * * *

The haunting reminiscence of the capricious presence which had called to her during the storm, or perhaps cried out because Aranya’s Storm-power had hurt her in ways she did not understand, preoccupied her mind, distracting her thoughts and attention when she was supposed to be providing battle support. Drakes clustered so thickly in the skies, it seemed the pearlescent, eggshell-pale azure of morning had taken on a bloody cast caused by the reflection of suns-light off millions of crimson scales. The Lost Islands Dragonwings were arranged in tight battle formation opposing the seething, maddened packs of predators. Ordered. Disciplined. Providing covering fire and watching each other’s backs and flanks.

Aranya eyed the disposition of their forces, a broad arc some fifty miles wide and four tall. Ardan’s initial attack had sought to overwhelm by sheer weight of Dragonflesh, but once his Drakes had been beaten back, the Shadow had chosen to hover off a little ways with a powerful Dragonwing of Thoralian-bonded Dragons, plotting. He had been taught to the tune of heavy losses not to throw them directly into battle, not even with the support of his Shadow power.

Not when Amethyst eyes tracked his every move.

Everything she touched turned to dust. Even him – Aranya could scarcely bear to watch her sworn companion fighting so relentlessly upon the enemy side, nor could she bear not to watch him. Ardan was hers; a beast of dark and fearful beauty. She must win him back. She must change the Balance! Searching within, an unexpected compulsion seized the Amethyst Dragoness.

Daze. Disconcert. Dance!

Twirling impetuously upon a wingtip, she flung out her presence as far and accurately as she could. Given the distance her power must surely be diminished, but she gave as much of herself as she was able. Starlight, warmth and welcome in one wing-frazzling package. She sang, Tickle, tickle – BOO!

A faint squeak of surprise rewarded her effort.

Dragoness? Maybe.

Immediately, the Princess tried again to contact her quarry, but the faraway presence shimmered like the suns rippling off Immadia’s indigo-chased terrace lakes, clearly anxious and agitated. It whizzed through at least a dozen changes of character and contour, as best she could fathom of that intensely malleable mind, before disappearing entirely – except that she sensed the creature must still be listening. How elusive was she? How mysterious her presence, as if that faraway trace were merely some allusion to a deeper or different state of being, describing an expression of magical life such as Aranya had never imagined. So supple and pellucid, yet as mischievous as the boulder-strewn course of a gaspingly cold babbling brook, the kind that tinkled down from Immadia’s mountains during a spring thaw. She herself was of Star Fires. The immutable lore of Fra’anior stated that the naissance of all draconic life was fire – and so this creature seemed at once familiar, yet profoundly singular.

Aranya yearned to know her with an inexpressible pang.

Eventually, she sent another playful tickle and a tender laugh, saying, I would know thee, o wisp of life incarnate, o wanderer afar. I am the fires of starlight, and if I have perchance hurt thee, my regrets flow deep. Come to me when you are ready, and be received with love.

Plink. Vanished, like a dawn mist feeling the suns’ full brunt.

Coy pest! Her wingtips stuttered in annoyance. Perhaps this Immadian Princess liked to have her own way just a touch more than she cared to admit.

Unexpectedly, Leandrial’s voice entered her mind. I have identified a useful mound, o Aranya. Want to wake your lover with an ambush?

Zip said brightly, Aye, the Amethyst would love to snack on crisp rump of Ardan.

Whilst you sup upon medallions of fresh monk slathered in snark-sauce, Your Incorrigible Indolence? Aranya snorted, blushing in a way that set the Remoyan off in fits of giggles.

Pregnancy is an excuse for all sorts of pampering, Zip managed at last.

Zuzi, how hard can it be to carry triplets who weigh nothing at all?

I plan to enjoy the privilege while it lasts, o delightful slave to my royal existence, her best friend shot back. You work, I indulge. So, may I ask, what exactly are you doing lolling about over here when that backstabbing lump of soot is over there, begging for a colossal, richly-deserved slap?

The Amethyst Dragoness wheeled in the air with a belly-laugh, and then arrowed toward the sound of Leandrial’s voice. She had soared to a very high altitude, at least two leagues above the main Drake battle, which in turn raged a league above and three leagues ahead of Yiisuriel’s peak. Ardan and his Shapeshifter Dragonwing stood off a further half-mile, where a flotilla of once-pretty floating Islands now smoked heavily after the destruction vented upon them. Toward the horizon in every direction, clusters of grey Islands usually topped with scrubby khaki and tan vegetation floated along the courses of their ever-changeable migration patterns. Very few Islands in either Wyldaroon or Herimor were mountains rising from beneath the Cloudlands, unlike the North, so much so that the rarity of a ‘rooted’ Island was spoken of with reverence.

She conferred rapidly with Zip, trying to craft a plan that would surprise Ardan. They needed something unexpected, something that would rock the stolid Western Isles warrior in his scaly socks. At length, the girls sealed their agreement with a mental handshake.

O mighty ally, set thy eye cannon to stun! cried Zuziana.

What? Why, little one? Leandrial chuckled. I don’t understand your joke.

The Remoyan said, We plan to paw-slap that Shadow Dragon. Your stun modulation is easier to bend or reflect when Aranya sets her mind to the task.

Oh! You are cunning – both of you, approved the Dragoness.

Let’s try this, Aranya interjected, and slipped a plan into Leandrial’s mind in a guarded manner she fervently hoped Ardan would not detect. She was under no illusions that the oath magic could operate in either direction, exposing her to his influence.

Then, she opened the channels of communication.

Ardan.

Star Dragoness? his voice dripped with malice.

Why are you cowering behind these puny Drakes, you feeble-minded ralti sheep? Have you lost your stomach for the fight?

Zip whispered, Call those insults?

The faraway dark form barely missed a wingbeat. Your defiance is so pathetic I wouldn’t demean myself by lifting a talon.

Softly, Aranya said, I miss the time when you were a warrior worthy of the name, Sha’aldior. Such a sad shell of a beast you are, cast into dishonour. I cannot respect what you have become.

Respect? That touched a raw nerve. I deserve more than your respect, Princess.

Oh, you have that, Sha’aldior. It’s called contempt.

This time the distant form hitched visibly. The Amethyst Dragoness pressed her advantage with an overly effusive wingtip-genuflection that had the dark space in her mind spitting sparks. She clamped down on the pain, sending back taunting pulses as she accelerated. To her left Gang surged into formation and Huari winged up to her right flank in her Blue Shapeshifter form.

Ardan had the backing of over two hundred stalwart Grey-Greens; Aranya’s group swelled rapidly as allies winged over to join the sally; still, they were but a third of that number. In the distance Genholme winged back to home base for a well-earned rest, her immense metallic form instantly recognizable amidst the Lost Islands forces, whilst another Dragon Rider group poured upward from Yiisuriel’s hangers to provide relief. Between Aranya and Ardan thick knots of Drakes reformed into their characteristic packs, usually several dozen strong, as they liked to mob-attack their larger cousins. Acrid green-black smoke drifted away on the breeze, the remains of a Dragonship which had exploded in the fray.

GRABOOM!! The light cannons fired, clearing a path. It would quickly be filled again by the mobile Drake packs, so she surged ahead, calling in the second wave of Runner attacks and the Dragon Riders as a further distraction. Let them think this was all a well-coordinated plan. The brilliant white light beams targeted Ardan’s group, while the invisible stun attacks focussed on Aranya and Huari, who reflected them according to a very precise phasic reflective-shield formulation. There had to be agreement beforehand, Aranya realised, or she would have been knocked from the sky. Suddenly, Ardan’s group found themselves under attack from two intersecting vectors, and they rippled in response, throwing up their own shields and beating their wings hard to gain vital altitude.

Faster! Feint the attack! Aranya ordered, leading the charge with clipped, efficient wingbeats. Leandrial’s group struck again from both vectors, striking true to take down a half-dozen of Ardan’s command.

The change in attack velocity drew an accordingly urgent reaction from the enemy Dragons. They called in the Drake packs by barking commands in a debased form of Dragonish which the Lost Islands linguists were actively decoding, and spread out as they climbed vigorously, giving each other more wing room.

Aranya hissed, We have to drive them downward for this to work. Again, Leandrial.

New phasic modulation structure – initiate! roared Leandrial, forgetting she was speaking Land Dragon magical shorthand with one as yet unversed in their ways.

The Star Dragoness reeled as information flooded her mind. Scramble! Deploy! Barely had she slammed up her shields using the new command structures, when magic hammered into her underside and beamed off into Ardan’s group, slapping them about as though they had run into a violent patch of clear-air turbulence. Powerful wind shear effects sent them plummeting; Aranya’s group responded with an eager thunder of battle challenges as they speared downward in pursuit, ignoring or dodging those Drakes which tried to intercept.

They must engage or let the plan slip. In a millisecond, the Amethyst determined to pursue the stratagem.

Once more! Leandrial was in her element now, sensing success. Aranya and Huaricithe rocked violently in the air as their ally’s aggression almost overwhelmed their protections, but Gang was on hand with a deft hold upon Huaricithe’s neck that smacked suspiciously of a draconic caress best essayed inside the roost, whilst for Aranya he laid a perfectly decorous steadying paw upon her torso.

Rascal!

Then, as Ardan’s force was buffeted a third time, they plunged amidst the flustered Dragons with a chorus of brutish growls. Aranya spat sharply, peppering the vulnerable, tangled up enemy Dragons with her tight, tiny blue fireballs which had served her well many a time. Pfft! Pfft-pfft! Her staccato barrage was a curious, almost embarrassingly diminutive counterpoint to the massive bombardment set up by her Herimor Dragon escort, not one of whom was less than twice her size, but their effect was nonetheless immediate. Ardan spun and Shadowed, and Shadowed again as her pinpoint accuracy homed in upon his eyes and muzzle. He roared and sprayed a mighty, churning wall of flame across her path, forcing the Amethyst to brake sharply or face being immolated. She glanced over her shoulder in parting, eying the black-edged, blossoming fires with wonder and trepidation. What power was that?

Here came Leandrial’s countdown. Five, four …

Ardan’s talons ripped into one of his opponents, crippling the Grey-Green’s left wing. The Dragoness fell away with a wild cry. He Shadowed immediately, and emerged to savage another Dragon with rending, crippling precision in the base of the next behind the skull spikes, killing him instantly.

… three, two …

Light-cannon strikes smashed into a quartet of enemy Dragons in Aranya’s path, whilst a stray kinetic blast reflected wildly off her rotating body, striking many Dragons in range. Aranya struck out and then barrel-rolled away from the fray, roaring, BEWARE ABOVE!

… one …

Every Dragon in Ardan’s command glanced skyward to check what new danger lurked in the heights.

Aranya’s Dragonwing heard the code phrase and broke away to the West, in the most unexpected direction, as Leandrial breached the Cloudlands from the mound she had discovered. The enemy Dragons glanced about in shock. It was unheard-of, even undraconic, to abandon a battle in this way – indeed, half a dozen Grey-Greens of Aranya’s command were still attacking, too far immersed in battle-rage to hear or respond to commands.

Over her shoulder, Aranya sneered, You are fool, a shadow of the Dragon you were.

Ardan was still peering after her in a welter of indignation when Leandrial’s upraised paw swept through a massive forehand swipe. The aged Land Dragoness swatted his Dragonwing like an aggrieved man flailing at a bloodsucking mosquito.

* * * *

“Relief from the Drake attacks is what we achieved,” said Zuziana, displeased by the severity creasing Ri’arion’s features. “I can tell what you’re thinking, dear husband. You’re thinking we’re frivolous and irresponsible for having fun during that big, serious battle out there. Do you think Aranya and I don’t know the meaning of war – and the cost? Have you not seen our scars?”

“Zuzi …” He gulped, hesitated, and then put his arms around Aranya’s shoulders anyway. “I get to worry. Don’t mistake my intent – I am he who dared to curse Garthion, and look at what that earned him.”

“Huh.”

“Besides, those are my kids in there, too. I worry! However, fear that if they take after you, they’ll be far too gorgeous. How will I ever beat off all the suitors?”

“You’re one insufferably handsome blackmailer.”

“Alright, I am concerned what our allies think about your … uh …”

“Improvising? Shadow-swatting? Inventing snarksome solutions to nettlesome problems? We operate best like this, you know – aye, look at me with just that glint in your eye, my sexy Nameless Man. I know we’re giving Yiisuriel a headache, and given she has a brain the size of a mountain, that’s a truly Dragonesque prospect.”

“Snarksome isn’t even a word,” the monk protested.

“I royally declare it exists in the Remoyan dictionary of Zip-isms.”

Laughing, Ri’arion helped himself to the bowl of cut fruit they were sharing for dinner. “You’re irresistible, do you know that?”

“Of course, I make an art of irresistibility – and that is indeed a word, husband dearest. Look it up if you’re in doubt.”

“This is where I do not miss the opportunity to flirt, right?”

Zip crowed, “He’s teachable! A fine quality in a husband, I do declare.”

Ri’arion’s eyebrows assaulted the domed expanse of his forehead. “Oh? Then know that I plan to look you up – and down – the moment you reappear. Repeatedly. I plan to examine and understand your every nuance in the utmost detail, Zuziana of Remoy, and if proposing that I riffle through every leaf of your scroll passes for a lewd proposition in your despicable little mind … let it be understood, that is precisely the innuendo I intend, not a jot more, and not a jot less.”

“Ooh,” Zip giggled, discovering that invisible people could still blush – invisibly. “Bet they never taught you such naughty language in monk-school, did they?”

“Not even close,” he confessed.

“Verily, I wish to smooch thee breathless, husband-mine,” she said. “Now, Aranya’s itching even worse than me. I haven’t let her out all day. She keeps gassing away in there like a misfiring meriatite furnace engine – Balance this, Harmonic starry-stuff that … you know what I mean.”

Ri’arion matched her wink for wink. “Oh, that I do, aye. Mystical murmurings make me muse mightily, saith the Immadian.”

“Now she’s just – ouch! She bit me!”

“Liar,” Aranya snorted.

He bowed formally to her, with a brief but elaborate series of Fra’aniorian hand-twirls. “A very good evening to thee, darling wife.”

* * * *

Aranya always seemed to find herself blushing when she swapped with Zuziana, which had become an established routine. It was tricky and unsatisfying to try to give both of them the awake time they required, as well as the requisite sleep, and she wondered if that was part of the reason her resources had become so drained. Aye, she partook of Aunt Hualiama’s special diet. Yuck. And the daily mental and physical exercises. Painful but necessary. Now, as she adjusted her face-veil in front of the mirror in her small, neat chambers, with the unfamiliar circular bed and thick orrican furs upon the floor, she took a moment to examine the flesh of her scarred cheek. Healing, definitely. Each day saw progress, minute yet discernible, as though the imperative to return to her previous form encountered some unknown form of resistance. It bore investigation.

At least her hair seemed to have survived the depredations of all the Dragon fire and ire that had been aimed in her direction over the last few months. The crazy colours showed no sign of settling into anything that suggested normality, she thought, rolling onyx, sapphire, white, auburn and golden threads between her fingers – and that was not the half of it. Tilting back her head, she combed out its near knee-length waves with a small magical routine she had been working on. Kinetic magic. Her command was unsure as yet, but it certainly made detangling knots a breeze for a girl with very long hair.

Sapphire? The dragonet peeped softly, then it felt as if a sleeper turned over and settled.

Did dragonets dream, too?

Clipping her face veil into place, she exited her chamber and walked steadily up through Yiisuriel’s levels, conscious of the Dragoness’ mind tracking her progress. Herimor was a haven of nasty bugs and creatures that specialised in assassinating Shapeshifters and Lesser Dragons. It was no secret that the Thoralians would dearly love to do away with a bothersome Star Dragoness, hence a veritable posse of bodyguards and the full-time tracking. Not that she had needed convincing. Five attempted Scorpiolute attacks had alternated with other, less conventional forms of assassination including three food poisoning attempts – those she knew of. But Aranya had only to think upon her mother’s fate to shiver and concede the point. The apprehension it would have cost her was not worth the price.

At length, her cushioned slipper-steps brought her to a surface door, the one that led to Yiisuriel’s main peak.

Aranya walked out into a cloudless late evening, enjoying a still-warm breeze upon her cheek that brought many unfamiliar, heavy scents and tangs to her attention. None of the crisp freshness of an Immadian night, where all sounds were dampened by a flawless blanket of snow. Here were the pungent scents of cedar and nakkiso-bush, the richness of rumis, chimlily and alangar pollens, and the metallic, musty scents of the ever-present ragions, the numberless protodraconic denizens of this realm that floated and linked the mighty rafts of Islands.

How she would have loved the leisure to study all the different, magical forms of life present in this realm. So many types and varieties of Dragonkind, not to mention the tumbling ribbons of flowers and the apparent ability of these Islands to produce their own water.

Sapphire had been laughably unimpressed to be confronted by some of the literally hundreds of dragonet varieties. Bah, overgrown butterflies, she had sneered. Pond-skater! That’s a waddling toad … and what do you even call the frilly nonsense on that one?

Pure elegance, Aranya teased.

The dragonet made sure the Princess’ left ear knew it was in mortal danger of being chewed off the side of her head. That was before she, too, had become a disembodied presence within Aranya’s soul.

She breathed deep of the night’s fragrance. Her throat felt so taut, her heart heavy and engorged with the foreboding which accompanied her thought from earlier that day: Everything I touch turns to dust. Had she meant that? Was it true? Had Fra’anior turned a deaf ear canal to her pleas, or did she no longer enjoy his favour?

The Great Onyx remained silent. So too, the stars and all about her.

What now? Even the wisps and mites of the Island-World shunned the marred star, one who must suffer to be the butt of Thoralian’s every joke. Even her saviour in his torture chambers, Jia-Llonya, had taken off with her ex-boyfriend – he too had been broken by this conflict, shattered and imperfectly healed, and it was all her fault.

With a low cry of anguish, she fell to her knees. O you ridiculous phantasm, why will you not answer me?

Star … oh, Star …

Chapter 8: Race to the Fires

Arrested in the act of shifting to relieve the pressure on the knurled lesions of her kneecaps, Aranya came within an inch of falling flat on her face. Only at the last second did her brain remember to fling out her arms. Skinned elbows. Perfect.

Sprawled on hands and knees, she cried, Uh –

Necromancer attack … help, she heard, in burry and distant tones. Dreaming? Was the female creature dreaming?

Where are you? Are the Thoralians attacking you?

Strange images stirred in her mind. A misshapen, monstrous creature hammering its way into an underground fortress not dissimilar to Marshal Huari’s home, which had also suffered Thoralian’s depredations. A bald-headed, granite block of a man with a fearfully intense gaze issuing commands to clusters of soldiers and Dragons. He wore enough armour to supply a Dragonship’s cladding, never mind an ordinary man. Spurts of Dragon battle. Drakes. Refugees teeming. A dark, damaged portal stuffed with debris. She saw all in flashes.

Whimpering, suffering, the terrors of memory like a fierce whirlpool sucking hungrily at her mind …

Aranya wrenched herself free with an effort. Where? I will come, but where are you?

She saw a scene of draconic life seething and spitting like a turbulent caldera about to erupt; again that dizzying sense of connection struck her, laced through with inchoate, paralysing fears.

Easy there, petal. Shh. Only, tell me where. I am ready.

Concepts spat into her mind far faster than before, a chaotic flood of overwhelming need. A blur of faces. Fears of Thoralian. Dark passages. A fantastical ruby-decorated hall. Kissing the fierce soldier, feeling his hands twined in her hair! Aranya coloured at the tenor of their passion. Oh! A predatory, prowling presence sniffing about the portals of a terrified mind. Darkness and dungeon-stench, the foetid odour of agony Aranya knew far, far too well. She clenched her fists painfully tight. Someone had tortured this poor girl! That faraway mind was spinning, pulsating, fragmenting at its edges, yet somehow the core was a cool, pulsing place of blue which flowed like liquid, yet was flame. Brilliant flame, like the magnesium flares she had sometimes seen Beran use to light a fortress for night-time attack. Eviscerating fear washed through her, causing the Immadian to break out in a cold sweat.

Darling … petal, calm yourself. Just tell me –

AFRAID! My powers … don’t come. You CAN’T HAVE ME!

Aranya moaned, pressing her fingertips to her temples. Was the Shifter insane, or simply crippled by fear? Either way, she herself feared to keep the connection, because what was brewing inside her – that creature – that Chaos Beast? She froze. No. It could not be. She had no idea what a Chaos Beast even was, but the words stuck in her mind with a particular clarity she had come to realise might very well represent her intuition, what Leandrial termed the Balance of the Harmonies.

Indeed, her Dragonsoul whispered cool healing within; becoming her bulwark against the rising tide of madness, calling to Zuziana, Ri’arion and Leandrial in the same breath.

Without knowing how she had come to fall, the Princess of Immadia found herself lying face-up beneath the stars, panting as though she had sprinted a mile. The power! The shocking ambit of fires at once so tempestuous and beautiful, her inmost being ached to know them with a need as ardent as it was perilous. She must go. The fates sang, or … lost for words to describe the sad-ecstatic-imperative clutching at her throat, Aranya could only groan and rasp for breath, her panicked gaze sweeping the starry expanse for inspiration.

Why could that faraway presence not simply articulate her location?

What do you see, petal? Tell me.

Islands! A fortress! Seething fire! Terror! A little girl wailing in the darkness for a father who never came. The fires, overwhelming – snap! Lash out! The creature’s essence seemed to fibrillate through an impossible series of Shapeshifter transformations, as if she were trapped between two opposing poles, the incredible velocity of variation setting up a harmonic note that pierced the listener through, inveigling her mind to a place of fires lethal to her kind … Aranya clutched at the notion that Yistarill must study this phenomenon, as she struggled to cling to her sanity.

The untameable power of this creature! Was this a trap?

Boots! screeched the fires.

Aranya tore free from the connection before it consumed her like a ravenous maw.

Licking her parched lips, she whispered, “Boots? Boots? By the mountains of Immadia, girl, you are – well!”

Aye, we’ve no idea who or what she is, do we? Dragonsoul said soberly.

No. She patted herself down. Everything still present. Mostly. Oh mercy, Dragonsoul, I’m so twisted up inside. What if this is a scheme of the Thoralians’ devising? What if – but she’s so … so …

Frightened, said her Dragoness. Like you, when the fires first struggled to break free – I’m sorry about that, Humansoul. It’s like a birthing. Withholding would have killed us both. I had to be free.

Free? Of what – my tyranny?

The Amethyst mentally gritted her fangs and spat half of a draconic execration. Oh, crack my fangs, that was a ghastly choice of words to describe what, for me, was like coming home to my own soul. I am nothing without you, dearest second-soul. Dead. Unburning. Non-existent. We are one. I am you and you are me. Yet even a child must be free of the womb, that’s how I meant it. Forgive me?

Aranya hugged that gleaming inner presence until even her Dragoness had to laugh. Understood?

Her other-voice purred, Aye. Clear as white fires.

What do we do now?

Gnarrr. We go sketch that place for Huari and Gang. Maybe that man-Dragon. Quite the beast, wasn’t he? Bigger than Gangurtharr or I miss my mark – surely, amongst those images must be a clue as to where our quarry is hiding. Then, we hunt her down. Today!

Aranya grinned fiercely. Sometimes, she just loved being a Dragoness.

* * * *

Ri’arion, Huari, Brityx and Gangurtharr gathered around a table to watch Aranya sketching rapidly, using a charcoal stick on new scrolleaf. Leandrial and Yiisuriel watched curiously through the mental network via Huari.

Everyone shook their heads as her friend’s deft fingers sketched out a toad-like monster with hammers for paws. “No. Not real. Nothing exists like that – not even in Wyldaroon.”

Aranya scowled at the leaf. “Alright. Here comes the fortress I saw.”

Two minutes later, Gang said, “Could be any of ten thousand around Wyldaroon. Nice rendering, though.”

“Nice? How’s about I ‘nice’ you for mincemeat?” suggested Huari.

“Fine, she’s a gifted artist. Happy?”

Gangurtharr’s smirk only broadened as his mate stroked his arm and said archly, “You’ll want to keep making me this happy, Dragon. Trust me.”

Uncharacteristically, Ri’arion quipped, “Better stop flirting, Marshal, before Gang’s armpits start smoking.”

Over the chuckles rising around the table, the Gladiator added testily, “It’s probably a Mercenary House, by the looks of it, and that vegetation Aranya’s just added does smack of the Fringe. I’d guess she’s pointing us at that place you mentioned before – who was that Marshal, again?”

“Chanbar. The Mistral Fires,” Huari put in. “Problem is, I don’t know their actual home location. Few do. It’s a point of pride with these Mercenary Houses to conceal themselves off the obvious Isle, so to speak, and to pop up from nowhere to do their dastardly work. The Fringe is thousands of leagues and millions of Islands. Perfect concealment for their ilk.”

“She did mention the Necromancer,” Zip noted.

“Aye, and we’ve no idea where this Azhukazi the Iolite Blue is,” Gang added, “but as far as reputations go, the words you are looking for are big, bad and brutal.”

“We’ve dealt with those three B’s before,” Ri’arion said evenly. “Sketch that warrior you mentioned, Aranya. The man-boulder in armour.”

The moment she outlined the breadth of the man’s shoulders, Huari and Gang chorused, “Azingloriax.”

“As in what?” asked Zip.

In her lecturing-the-youngster tone, Huari said, “Azingloriax. They’re a warrior tribe from Herimor, actually, famed for the size of their infantry soldiers – they’re the biggest and best, trained for the warrior life from birth. They come furnished with metal-infused skeletal structures, harder than normal skins, and the strength of a small Dragon. I’d guess the average Azingloriax warrior could heft armour in excess of fifty stone. That’s roughly seventy sackweight in your Northern measure.”

Ri’arion whistled. “Wow. I’d hate to calculate the cost of feeding one of those.”

“Compared to a Dragoness?” sniffed Zuziana. “I’m ever so expensive. Royalty, my dear husband. We come with a price.”

“I’m a monk. Haven’t a brass dral to my name.”

“We can find ways for you to pay,” she continued mischievously, instantly turning Ri’arion’s bald pate into a passable rendition of smoking, purple prekki-fruit.

Carry on before Zuziana truly embarrasses him, Aranya, Leandrial suggested.

Setting down her chalk, the Immadian Princess laughed awkwardly. “I’m being stupid. Look at this.”

A second later, the steely gaze of the Azingloriax warrior pinned them all as Aranya projected her memory into the mental network. She adjusted the perspective, bringing the near four-foot breadth of his shoulders into focus, before panning backward to show everyone the extraordinary bulk of his plate metal armour. It had to be several inches thick, all over, but the joints appeared to be masterfully fashioned, and the size of the battle axe he wore at his belt beggared belief. Zip wondered aloud if that weapon alone weighed as much as her Human form. The image shifted, the harsh eyes softening as if they had alighted upon a most diverting vision – the watcher, she realised.

Zip giggled, “He’s got it bad.”

“What’s bad, love?” asked Ri’arion.

“That’s the face of a hopelessly besotted man, or I’m a purple dragonet with pink spots.”

The older Grey-Green Dragoness, Brityx, prodded Huari in the back with her sheathed left fore-talon. “Remember those eyes? Can’t for the fires in me recall his name, however.”

The tiny Shapeshifter wrinkled her nose, and then threw back her long navy blue hair with a surprisingly deep laugh. “It’s Sub-Commander Asturbar! Oh, it could be no other – he was promoted to Commander later, I believe. Asturbar’s a good man, besides being a very fine soldier.”

Gnarrr! Gang protested enviously.

Huari slipped both of her tiny hands around his massive right bicep, leaned against him, and cooed, “You are mine, mine and mine forever, Dragon. Do we understand each other?”

This time, the massive Shapeshifter managed only the tiniest of squeaks.

“Good,” Huari drawled. “Mind you, Gang, I think we might just have found you the wrestling partner you’ve been searching for – until we wrestle that Shadow Dragon back into our fold, that is. So, I see that in your image, Asturbar is wearing the badge of a Marshal of the Mistral Fires. The plot grows fangs and talons. What became of Marshal Chanbar, we might reasonably ask?”

“What does Azhukazi want out there?”

“Whatever it is – those Jewels for example – we can safely assume we’re in a race with the Thoralians to secure their power.”

“It’s a guess, but it’s looking like a safe one. My father would call that a strategy that scribes its own destiny.” Aranya paused. “Alright, you can all just stop shaking your heads, you rascals!” Yiisuriel, what say you regarding this discussion?

I am not hasty, unlike you little ones, she rumbled contentedly, but I say, ‘What? Are you still here?’ The Land Dragon guffawed massively at her own joke. Go seize the Balance, Star Dragoness. We slower-moving creatures will bring up the rear, and you can always converse with us via longwave communication. Given the probable distance as we discussed, homing in on the approximate region-origin-locative data, I suggest running ahead first with the noble Leandrial, then striking out with a small raiding party. These tiny fortresses are best penetrated by subterfuge, especially if you are dealing with House Wards.

Slower only in that you bear entire nations upon your back, noble Yiisuriel, Zip said stoutly.

I do indeed, little one.

Not exactly the paragon of modesty, was she? Zip grinned at Ri’arion, who shook his head slightly but winked to indicate that he understood her amusement.

Then, they broke up from the brief, intense conference with a flurry of eager chatter. Brityx declined to accompany them, saying that she had responsibilities to the younglings in her care. Gang pinched Huari’s behind when he thought himself unobserved, and Ri’arion chatted animatedly with Leandrial, working out speeds, vectors, and the amount of supporting equipment she and her Runners could carry in a pinch. Leandrial was set upon travelling light. Dragonwings strong enough to argue properly with two to five thousand Drakes at a time were no mean feat to transport, she noted, advocating a second wave to set out from the walking Land Dragons one to two hours after her departure. That would give the reassurance of quick backup within a few hours of arrival. Easier to conceal one Runner and a small crew than an entire expeditionary force.

Twenty minutes later Huari, Gang and Aranya unfurled their wings and dived off Yiisuriel’s peak, with Ri’arion riding the Amethyst Dragoness bareback. The proverbial journey of a thousand leagues lay before them, but it seemed to a Dragoness, all that was needful was to spread one’s wings upon a zephyr and fly away across moons-lit Cloudlands to realms beyond any fantasy.

Zuziana’s arms ached. Not that she had anything to ache, but they did.

Where was her Dragoness – oh, this was her Dragoness! How could Aranya have claimed to meet her inner presence? Was that a Star Dragoness privilege? Zip felt she was either one or the other.

And I love us, her Dragoness put in quietly. Sometimes I wonder where we found … well, where I came from.

The Amethyst said, There’s a view – widely considered blasphemy across Herimor and probably all across the North too – that all Humans bear fires within their souls. I cannot claim to understand the philosophical ramifications. These Southern Dragonkind talk about the ‘fire-gift’ of Hualiama Dragonfriend as if she merely breathed upon people or Dragons to arouse the Shapeshifter life within them. Clever trick, eh?

Being so vastly different from scattered teardrops turning people into Shapeshifters?

Silence.

Sorry about the sarcasm, but your brain does have the occasional attack of prekki-mushiness, petal.

Laughing, the Amethyst trimmed her wings and sped after Gang and Huari, pursuing the couple down toward a shimmering carpet of silver-chased Cloudlands billows.

At length she said, Are you saying I compare myself to others too much?

No, but you do tread in the paws of legends, which do have a way of being incredibly hard to live up to, given as we’ve no idea what portion of them might be true. Take this fire-gift business. Perhaps Hualiama was just a girl like you, overwhelmed by power and responsibility, so she just danced her way past all the worship and obeisances and general silliness that seems to accompany high position in these parts. Put another way, comparing yourself to Fra’anior, only the greatest Dragon who ever lived, is a bit like trying to fly over the Blue Moon.

Nothing like a best friend to reorient her in a way that Aranya recognised provided the perspective she may have mislaid.

She said, Ha. Maybe I will just fly to the Moons to prove you wrong.

Zuziana rolled her eyes. Honestly! Why do have you take everything as a challenge?

Why does everything have to be a jest with you?

Why does every dawn chase away the dark?

Why … The Amethyst Dragoness shook her skull spikes in amusement. Why are we arguing like this? It isn’t even a real argument.

Ah, the brass dral finally drops.

Pestiferous Remoy!

* * * *

Extra report.

Ardan raised his muzzle as the unexpected command disturbed what had been developing into a fine nap. Only his nostrils showed above the waterline of a bubbling hot-spring he had been enjoying, trying to work out a few of the kinks resulting from a dreary campaign before he would be forced to take to the air once more in an hour’s time. These Drakes needed a constant fiery eye kept upon them or they tended to lose interest – useless bone-gnawers!

Smugly, Prime said: I have heard from the Red Imperator, the mighty Dramagon himself. Let the triplicate know our labours are commendable. Our deeds weigh heavily in the mighty Scales of Eternity!

To his shock, the triplicate’s mental link rang with growls and bugles of triumph! The Shadow Dragon shook his head. What did this mean? Sloughing free of the heated, slightly bitter-tasting water, he prepared to listen to the rest of their customary exchange.

What he received was the mental equivalent of a right cross to the jaw from Prime. SHADOW! WHERE IS THE STAR?

Why, inside the great one’s peak, he returned at last, staggered by the unexpected attack.

Is she? Our spies reported she departed an hour ago. FIND HER!

I … still sense her presence, Masters. She rests in her chambers. The oath magic does not lie –

FOOL! DISCERN THE TRUTH!

Galvanised by humiliation and fury, Ardan smote the waters with a clap of his wings as he sprang a hundred feet into the air, all thoughts of bath time forgotten. That woman was a sneak! How dare she embarrass him like this? He would feast upon her bleeding liver!

Long did he search, only to learn that the Amethyst had vanished like the thinnest of clouds against a white-blue, blazing hot Western Isles sky. The oath-trace remained in place right there in the location they had pinpointed as her chambers, but so far failed to penetrate with any of their agents, thralls or assassins – but that trace pulsated his doom. The Thoralians knew she had absconded. A spy had chanced to see her flashing by as he returned from a scouting trip; the Dragoness had been headed East for reasons he did not understand.

Nonsensical!

High aloft, scanning the region with his every sense at the highest alert in an attempt to discover the magical aurora the Thoralians averred followed the flight of every Dragon, Ardan at last searched his intuition, and pieced together what he knew of her movements and character. The mission East must be a feint. The spy had seen wrong or been misled. So too, his cunning draconic brain noted, the unmoving trace showed no sign her restless life. Aranya would have woken, if only slightly, several times by now had she been napping. He would have known. That meant the oath-trace was also a cunning ruse.

Aranya was plotting, adapting, teasing advantage out of nothingness. Admiration warred with vitriolic malice in his breast. The shackles in his mind attempted to correct the restless nature of his musings, but he needed space to reason more widely than his usual straightforward logic. She was subtle. Wily. His lips peeled back from his bared fangs. A woman!

Ghastly pains racked his skull as the Dragon obdurately set himself to think her way. What would she be doing right now? Busting a talon to fool him, no doubt.

Thought seemed nigh impossible, but his experience with the oath magic and the Lavanias collar had hardened him. At length, the Dragon’s lidded gaze turned to the West. Why did she not want him to think she had headed in another direction? The exact opposite course seemed too obvious a choice; South, there was nothing but wastelands before the mountains. North? Perhaps. Rapidly, the Dragon plotted his search pattern to cover a wide sweep from almost directly North to five points South of due West, along the border of the area called the Doldrums. Aranya would not venture there. No point.

His grin reasserted itself, and this time, it was a study in cold, vengeful craving. He would track down that elusive girl and her chosen minions. It was only a matter of time, for there was more than one way to swing a scimitar, wasn’t there?

If he knew that chattering mob, they would be talking almost non-stop to home base. At some point, he would intercept their communication trail. Then, they would fall beneath his mighty paw.

He thundered, I AM SHA’ALDIOR!

* * * *

Leandrial ran along the bottom, following the seething, roaring torrent of an under-Cloudlands airstream run amok. It seemed inconceivable to Aranya that they should be running fifty to sixty percent faster than a Dragon could fly for sustained periods of time, unless they enjoyed the benefit of a Dragons’ Highway, but the current had picked up to a pell-mell twenty-three leagues per hour, Leandrial had calculated, putting her skills and great strength to the test. Aranya worried about their newly healed companion. Leandrial would hear nothing of it. Not only was the turbulence enough to rattle her teeth and jolt her passengers about unless they braced themselves constantly, but the sheer volume of flying debris made it a dangerous enterprise. Thick scale armour protected her from the worst of the battering.

“This is the result of the First Egg’s passage!” Leandrial shouted above the current’s constant roaring. “Somehow its innate magic stirs everything up, little ones – to the point where our Runners have observed outright inversion of layers. It’s carnage!”

Her brevity exposed her tiredness. After twelve hours and approximately two hundred and sixty leagues of ‘spiteful thuddery’ as Zip called it, Leandrial curved out of the current and found a relatively sheltered dip in which to rest. Aranya tried to trace their quarry, but failed, and they spoke at some length with Yiisuriel primarily to communicate intelligence about the path ahead. The Air Breathers could take some advantage from beneficial currents as well, but they would have to proceed with caution. To accelerate a mountain to flying speeds was no trivial undertaking – their momentum once underway took an inordinate amount of stopping, bluntly put.

“Are you alright, Leandrial?” Aranya asked.

The Land Dragoness knew better by now than to take umbrage at her concern. “Unfortunately, the current shows signs of easing up. I would have needed to take it slower for this second leg anyways.”

“It’s still brutal out there,” Ri’arion observed.

“If the air current eases we can shape you some sails, like we did when we crossed the Rift,” Aranya enthused. “I’ve some engineering ideas gleaned from Hualiama’s writings, you know, when she invented the meriatite furnace engine. She was an expert on many aspects of Dragonship construction and engineering, and even designed far more efficient sails than had been in use before.”

“Whereas we specialise in overthrowing tyrants,” Zip added seamlessly after her friend had spoken.

“And in fooling gullible Gladiators,” Huari needled.

Gang just grinned at his mate without rancour. “Didn’t see you worshipping her starry rump to start with either, Marshal Huaricithe. She sold you the wrong Island and then some. May I take this opportunity to remind you, Scrap, that you are also Huari’s bond-Dragon under Wyldaroon law until the Marshal formally releases you. So you had better just do as you’re ruddy well told for a change!”

Aranya snorted, “Ha! Well, I –”

“My, I am getting so forgetful in my decrepitude,” Huari cut in, with blatant falsity. “You, o Immadia, will just have to ask nicely for your freedom.”

Aranya made a pretend gagging noise. “Mercy, o mighty Marshal Huaricithe. Have mercy.”

Gang complained, “What about me? When will you – ggrrr – release me?”

“You haven’t actually asked, either.” The two Dragons eyeballed each other, the temperature inside Leandrial’s largest cheek pocket suddenly soaring past boiling point. Then, the Navy Blue Shapeshifter dipped her neat muzzle, and murmured, “Would you like to be released from me, Gangurtharr?”

What draconic nuance lurked beneath that simple question!

“NO!” he roared, then caught himself by dint of belling out his fabulous belly-laugh, which was so powerful it set everyone within a respectable radius juddering right along with the palpitations of his ample abdomen. “Respectfully, Marshal, my answer would be both aye and nay, and comes laden with so many conditions I fear we may need to discuss the issue at some length before we could come to a suitable arrangement.”

And that was flirtation at ten thousand degrees centigrade. Huaricithe may have been forgiven for discovering her answering grin turned decidedly goofy at that point.

“Oh, go find a private chamber, you two!” hooted Zip.

Rather more decorously but no less humorously, Aranya put in, “Would that be before or after you and Ri’arion, petal? Or are we taking turns –”

“May I remind everyone of whose mouth you travel in?” Leandrial growled.

“Aye, she isn’t some floating brothel.” Zip, as usual, managed to snag the conversational tone and leap straight into the gutter with it.

Aranya mused, “I’m sure you and I at least spell the word ‘morals’ the same way, Zippy Girl.”

“Bah. You’ll be shocked, therefore, to learn then that Ri’arion and I are definitely leaning toward monogamy, my friend,” said Zip, as Gang commented how peculiar it was to see Aranya holding entire conversations with herself. “My mothers will be heartbroken at how I’m planning to flout family tradition.”

“No, it’s just that Aranya wants to wash her mouth out after you speak, Zip,” Gang suggested snidely.

With that conversational low blow, every person and Dragon in the close quarters of Leandrial’s cheek pocket began to look very uncomfortable.

Unexpectedly, Sapphire said, Gang not play nice. Where Ardan, Ari?

Lying alongside Gang and against the muscular band holding their pocket shut, Aranya could not turn far, but she crooked her muzzle to gaze seriously at her companions. That’s the key question, isn’t it? Thank you, Sapphire. Leandrial, I should fly aloft, and –

Expose our position? said the Land Dragoness. Try from here. Ri’arion and I can amplify your capability.

“Sorry, Zip,” Aranya added. “I guess that’s the line between banter and bickering.”

“I’m … sorry, too,” said Gangurtharr, appearing surprised as an undraconic apology managed to stumble off his lips. “Is this what it means to think like a Human? This idea has strange tastes. Strange strength.”

Zip said, “Accepted and forgiven, noble Gang.”

Slipping her muzzle over his outthrust forearm, Huari snuggled her muzzle beneath his hoary chin. “Don’t you dare snort like that. You are a noble Dragon, Gang. Come. We must consider how we might counter the Thoralians when we next encounter them, with both Shadow power and the First Egg at their talon-tips. How can we prevail?”

Aranya considered the pair, and shuffled a little uncomfortably as in the way of Dragons, Gangurtharr, being the biggest male, slipped a protective-warming wing over her back. Remoyan bathing habits evidently had nothing on draconic society.

Now Ri’arion sat cross-legged between the paws of the three Dragons. “Come. We must find your Shadow, and renew the false oath-trace where Yiisuriel is. I fear it will not hold him long. Shut your eyes, Aranya. Now, focus on my voice.”

Aranya followed the prescribed exercise, calming and opening her mind.

After a moment, as she cast afar with ingeniously subtle intent concealed within a phasic shield, a reflexion of the Shadow Dragon entered her awareness. Consider him. Examine the detail … and a frown creased the Amethyst Dragoness’ forehead. Something struck her as incongruous about that image. Why did she scent subterfuge; a peculiarly Fra’aniorian hint about that mindset?

Because it was not real.

Suddenly, the image blurred. Rushed at her; the utterly unexpected. Faster than a blink it swallowed her whole. Aranya became a mote floating through an inconceivably vast cosmos within which she was but a speck struggling to stay afloat, to live, to shine amidst a piceous darkness that was no void. It was alive with malice. She was lost and alone, exposed, threatened … she reeled, fighting an overwhelming sense of panic. Had the Thoralians ensnared her mind? Ardan? The anarchic presence she had sensed and followed, was that –

MINE SHAO’LÛKAYN SHALL BE ROUSED, BROTHER-MINE, AND THEY SHALL CLEAVE THE SKY-SHIELD ASUNDER!

An immense vocal-psychic thundering almost smote her senseless. All was fires, a fathomless pit of soul-blistering agony such as she had never imagined, a compounding of expression upon so many different levels of being and of such communicative power, its import plunged her instantly into a merciless maelstrom of awareness overload. The voice was evil upon evil, the embodiment of ageless orange spite, vermilion wickedness and scarlet cruelty expressed upon a scale that found no computation in her capacity of expression. Infinity held the power to shatter a mortal mind.

More quietly, but with satisfaction seething like a caldera of bubbling Dragon acid, the voice continued, Wilt thou make no reply, o Fra’anior, abandoner of thy kind? How does exile suit thee, watching as my aeons-old vengeance grinds to its inevitable victory, brother?

Dramagon!

Somehow, the mote was party to an exchange between the monumental shell brothers, and now the true scope of her vulnerability crashed in upon Aranya’s consciousness. Where was she? Was she even within the universe she knew?

Then, the crimson being shifted ominously. Oh, do observe, mine shell brother – it’s a stardrop. Doth thy precious Istariela yet live?

Discovered! In the ensuing stillness, Aranya’s heart knew only terror. Then, the monstrous amplitude of Dramagon’s wrath lashed forth, thundering, BE SNUFFED OUT!

But the spear of Onyx was faster, flashing far faster than any self-respecting lightning bolt around the problem of ordinary space-time laws to spirit her away before the urzul-infused Command could complete its terrible work. Dramagon’s Word annihilated nothingness, and returned to him with a backlash that Aranya knew she could never have survived. Dramagon thundered his fury!

But in her realm, seven great throats lamented, O, Istariela my lost love, where art thou?

Chapter 9: Of Ancient Grudges

THE SHADOW KNEW he had detected something, out there in the West, but far farther than he imagined the Star could have travelled in such a short space of time. His intuition was right! How had she departed? When?

Urgently, he cried, Extra report. I have found the Star!

Prime overrode him effortlessly. Mighty Dramagon has answered our prayers, brothers! Gather! All imperatives falls before this new command. We three must fly to the House of the Mistral Fires and there wrest from Azhukazi the power of Necromancy, that the bones of Dramagon’s mighty servants might be returned to him, made whole by the unleashed power of the First Egg –

What servants? Tertiary cut in trenchantly.

They are called the Shao’lûkayn. Ardan shivered as his scales reacted to the connotations of that foul word. Dramagon, the Awesome Power of the Ages, grants us this charge. Fra’anior’s foul hold over this Island-World of ours can only be broken by his servants working within the Onyx’s protections.

Numistar broke through.

The Shadow did not know which of the brothers had spoken, but they supplied knowledge of a shield or power arching over the Island-World, protecting it from ancient forces lurking without. They knew that the two-headed Ancient Dragon, Dramagon, sought to return from his enforced exile to protect the world from their depredations. Fra’anior was a coward and a traitor for abandoning the Dragonkind; Dramagon would never do the same. His fires burned true.

Ardan said, Of course, the shield must allow the passage of inanimate physical objects.

Three minds fixed upon him. What did you say, Shadow?

Give the Onyx credit for basic intelligence, Masters, he sneered. Should a planet not breathe; should not all within grow stale and Imbalanced if all ingress and egress were cut off? The protections are phasic and highly nuanced in nature, developed for purposes limited mortal creatures such as ourselves cannot possibly imagine –

Silence! roared Secondary.

No, allow the Shadow to enlighten us, Tertiary snapped, cuffing his shell brother sharply with a psychic buffet.

Ardan said, I postulate that Numistar travelled in the form of a comet because only inanimate rock could safely cross the void between the stars, and upon arrival, she did reanimate herself using a power similar to that which Azhukazi must exert when reanimating his own bones. That is what we seek, is it not? They are one and the same capacity.

The third Thoralian sneered, Well, Shadow, a useful insight at last. You are not as much the gormless worm as you appear.

Prime noted, These thoughts are hardly his own. He has been reading the Dragonfriend’s lore. Where is the Star?

Already far ahead, Masters.

Carefully, Ardan summoned the Thoralians’ mental map and placed the Mistral Fires upon it, and then noted Aranya’s location in relation to the individual members of the triplicate, his own position sixty-three leagues North of her route, and Yiisuriel bringing the enemy forces steadily along behind at a speed of four to five leagues per hour – moving fast, for Air Breathers. Four dark minds considered the conundrum. None of the Dragons wasted time nor breath questioning how Aranya could possibly have divined where the quarry was. Star Dragons had their ways.

Prime said, We must beat them to Azhukazi, or confront them within that fortress. The so-called Jewels Azhukazi seeks are as nothing compared to the power he wields. Against such a formidable foe we will require our fullest strength, even if the Star is weakened as you have shared with us, Shadow. Summon the Drake packs! Accelerate the Egg’s travel to the North. Spare no lives! And Shadow – you will be responsible for flying us there in time. Shadow power has many uses, does it not? This you have learned from us.

Ardan inclined his muzzle. Aye, Masters.

But it would cost him. It would cost him dearly.

* * * *

“Still no sign of Aranya?” Leandrial rumbled.

From within the curl of her amethyst paw, Ri’arion raised an eyebrow. Not sleeping. Meditating. Zuziana should have known the difference, but he did have a freaky way of sitting utterly still for hours at a time. Aside from the expressive eyebrow, the only way she could tell he was still alive was due to the slight play of the pulse in his neck. Even his diaphragm appeared to be taking a nap – ah, meditating.

Fifteen further hours of travel. No change. No news. No actual target!

At least she had managed to nod off a few times. Leandrial’s storytelling usually had that effect, and no amount of inhabiting another body seemed to affect her need for additional sleep these days.

She fixed a fiery eye upon her beloved. “No. Poor Yistarill is tearing her hair out – uh, her scales off, I should say – over the possibility that a Shapeshifter’s souls can waft off on an existential holiday to climes unknown, or whatever my frustrating, magical, impossible girlfriend is up to today. I can tell you she still isn’t here. That’s all I know. And we’re still alive, which makes for reasonably good news.”

Ri’arion caressed the knuckles of Aranya’s left paw. “Progress check?”

Leandrial responded at once, “Yiisuriel and I have re-modulated the longwave frequencies and protocols but suspect the enemy have become aware of or are tracking this mode of communication. The disposition of the Drake packs has changed radically in the last hour. Also, you need to see this.”

The Land Dragoness presented them a mental map of the region. To the South, the extensive Doldrums region was an unmapped blank dotted with a paltry few stylised oases believed to exist there, and backed onto a jagged mountain range beyond which, again only according to a Wyldaroon draconic legend, lay the unreachable realm from which Chaos Beasts arose. The great mountain range curved like an immense hook about the south-western fringe of the Doldrums and up toward the more inhabited parts of Wyldaroon, passing the mysterious land of the forest-dwelling Dragonkind called Asjujian Emoflits, which dwelled upon a rare rooted Island called Mount Morgu-Zayê. Their purported sphere of influence under which their dracofloral ‘root network’ grew, encircled Morgu-Zayê to a distance of one hundred leagues. No-one believed the Thoralians would dare to attack the notoriously feisty Asjujians with their devastating aroma magic. Some of their scents were said to be so powerful, they could turn a healthy Dragon into a gibbering wreck. Permanently.

Huaricithe had recited the legend that beyond the Western Mountains lay a wasteland to which Fra’anior had banished an ally of Dramagon’s, the Ancient Dragoness Iosaxxioa – an Iolite Blue Dragon, just like Azhukazi. The coincidence of Dragon colour and type was far too obvious to ignore, even if Iosaxxioa was supposed to have perished over a thousand years before.

The upper two thirds of Wyldaroon merged gradually into the inhabited reaches of hundreds of thousands of floating Islands arranged in Clusters according to complex migratory patterns that had to cause blinding migraines in any budding cartographer. The most-recognised regions were the Inner Kahilates, home to many small Island-nations that indulged in internecine political shenanigans – as if cultivating, betraying, destroying and reinventing alliances in the pursuit of greater glory was the pastime of choice – and above and East of these Kahilates again, the Pits of Wyldaroon and insular, aloof Yazê-a-Kûz. Their route struck toward the lawless Fringe. Bandit country, sniffed Huari. No place for decent Dragons of true fires.

“Bah,” Zuziana sniffed right back. “I’d much rather have my friend return than listen to your bellyaching.”

“Bah, I’d rather sit on your head.”

“Try me,” Zip suggested.

“I’m bored and ready for a scrap with those Thoralians,” said Gang, yawning lazily. “Battle plans one more time, anyone? We start by finding this Asturbar fellow and allying ourselves with his forces, roust out this ultra-dangerous creature Aranya seems so enthused about, slap Azhukazi down, and stop the triplicate. Any questions?”

“Skipped the part where we smack some sense back into Ardan,” said Zip. “I’m also sick and tired of borrowing someone else’s body. Could I have mine back, noble Fra’anior?” She paused as everyone glared at her. Maybe a touch too sarcastic? “Most respectfully, o mighty Onyx?”

This time, she meant it.

After a moment Huari rose in order to stretch her Dragoness-form restlessly. Then she stepped over, seized Zuziana’s hostess by the skull spikes, and bellowed, ARANYA! GET BACK HERE!

To everyone’s surprise, Zip squealed, “I felt her!”

Ri’arion cried, “She’s back?”

The Dragoness prodded her belly as everyone looked on anxiously. Eventually, Zuziana muttered, “Erm … no. That was the babies.” A second later, she sat bolt upright and screeched, “I felt my babies! First time!”

“The b-babies?” he spluttered. “How?”

“Aye! I don’t know how.” Clutching her husband in her paws, Zuziana did a silly dance that ended up in her tripping over Huari’s forepaw. She collapsed in a heap, giggling, “It’s amazing. Now, if we could just invite Aranya to share our joy …”

* * * *

“Thus, I hoped,” Fra’anior explained, closely watching the girl seated cross-legged upon one of his seven muzzles. “I hoped against hope, as mine Pygmies used to say, even knowing it could never be mine beloved. Istariela will never be restored to mine paw – I GRIEVE!”

Softly, Aranya said, “Let thine inmost fires not be dampened, mine great shell-sire.”

“Why not? What reason for hope might these downcast hearts yet find – save this mite who, seated upon mine scales, regards me without awe or fear?”

“Oh, there’s awe aplenty over here,” Aranya laughed, before gulping nervously. “But, no fear. Not any longer. I wish to express, o Fra’anior, that our hope may be rooted in this future congregation of Star Dragonesses to which you alluded. Much labour lies ahead and perhaps many years, but here, in my heart of hearts, I know. I just know she’s still alive. Lost, but alive.”

Her hand fluttered to her throat, feeling the hot heaviness there. The grief that reflected his in some small measure. Izariela. Istariela. Both lost. Could a family of Star Dragonesses be regarded as complete without either?

The great flaming lakes of his watching eyes whirled through many mellifluent colours in keeping with his emotions – the apricots of warm kin-regard, the greens of love-covetousness, and the darker tones of grief, to name but a few. Then, a rosy white appeared, radiant as the dawn, swirling through the other colours as he continued to regard her with such a seething enormity of love, she grew faint and overwhelmed. His paw rose to the side of his muzzle, and in a moment, she realised what he meant by the gesture. A breeze redolent of all the glorious, ever-aromatic complexities of draconic magic ruffled her long hair as she rose and walked over to the edge, to where she could reach up and touch the mighty pad of his paw that hung like a mountain over her world. A caress.

She said, “If the strength be given me, I shall discover her fate.”

Fra’anior replied, “I thank thee most fierily. Now, Dramagon moveth in power. Hearken to mine counsel. I may grant thee the exact location of Azhukazi, since mine shell brother hath conveyed the same to his minions, meaning to accelerate the plans he purposes through the Thoralian triplicate. Furthermore, being treacherous to the core, Dramagon did these many aeons since conceal his minions, these dreadful Shao’lûkayn – a word in urzul which means ‘demeaners of darkness’ – right beneath mine muzzle. They do indeed possess the power to penetrate a secret I had wished to share with thee, but had not yet dared for fear that the knowledge might be stolen from thee and turned to dread purposes. Yet now, it seems the stakes are higher than ever before. Dramagon seeks to undo my signature work from within; indeed, I adjudge it more than possible should his plans proceed unopposed.”

“I … I don’t entirely understand, o Fra’anior,” Aranya admitted.

“Precious one, the fires of our draconic life are attractive to other powers in this Universe – especially fires such as thine, the ingenuous brilliance of pure starlight. Creatures such as the Nurguz, whom the Pygmy Dragoness battled, number amongst these. That very creature, but one in number, did ravage the Island-World North of the Rift of its Dragonkind, consuming them with a bestial, otherworldly hunger. Such powers, unfortunately, abound in the greater Universe – thus I fear, without solid proof but mine own understanding of what unknowable destiny might have driven our First Eggs hence, that we Dragonkind are beleaguered and beset by mighty enemies.”

“I therefore devised a shield to hide all draconic life from their rapacious gazes until such a time as our parents – mine shell-ancestors – should seek us out and offer aid, yet in all the aeons of mine life, having searched far and wide and deep, no such help have I found. Perhaps they wiped out our ancestors. It seems perverse, even traitorous, to many Dragonkind that we must perforce hunker down upon our planet within the protective walls of the Rim-Wall Mountains, and hide like base worms from that which we fear. Our only survival strategy entails unbearable dishonour. Indeed, it is this very strategy that those of Dramagon’s ilk do from its inception despise. I have sympathy for their views. Even I baulked as I shut our brightness away from the predator, from the cold maw that ravens the night.”

“Yet you acted when others did not.”

“Aye, and was therefore hated by some, and triggered off the first war between the Ancient Dragons that resulted in great anguish and too many deaths. Now it seems that in isolating myself and my surviving brethren from mine world, I must leave the doing to those smaller but no less capable than I. Thou, Aranya.”

She bowed her head, shivering.

“Unbelief shadows thine heart’s pure fires, but I believe in thee. I believe!”

“Oh …”

“I understand how hard it must seem,” he said, breathing over her again with several of his other muzzles, causing her multi-coloured locks to twine about her body. She shivered despite the warmth. “Taste of mine fires and summon thy courage, o Aranya of Immadia, daughter of starlight – for she shall rise again!”

The portents rife in his declaration struck her speechless once more. She wanted to cry, ‘But who? Who shall rise again – me, my mother, the Pygmy Dragoness, or Istariela?’ Yet she realised he meant it metaphorically.

Suddenly, it seemed a paw shook her heart, and a faraway wind whispered, Aranya. Get back here. Huaricithe?

She said, “I must depart.”

“Anon,” said he. “Listen for the fires of mine deep Onyx hearts pulsating within thee. Memorise these coordinates, little one. Then I shall send thee back. It seems mine shields are easily passable by creatures of quintessential starlight.”

“Grandfather?” she said impulsively, using the Human term.

“Aye?”

“Do you know this language?” Deep, unending breath. /Stardrop./

He stared at her. “No. The utterance is unmistakably draconic in its component linguistic structures, but – I sense by the translucence of your fires, you did not make it up? What does the word mean?”

“Literally it means ‘star drop,’ but I can’t for a moment begin to decode all the nuance indicators,” she replied. “I speak it – sing it – crudely indeed. I don’t even know if I imagined or heard this utterance, but just as Dramagon called me a droplet, so the other night, I thought I heard that word come from afar. Perhaps … perhaps from the stars above. What do you think?”

Never had his fires seemed more inscrutable. Aranya searched his eyes, having to twist her neck in imitation of an owl to measure their breadth, and then glanced at several of his other heads nearer and farther from her position, without discovering the tenor of his thoughts. Then, Fra’anior said, “Istariela made up a poem which I thought you’d enjoy.”

He spoke this offering as though it were a great secret. Aranya nodded in acceptance.

The Onyx whispered:

What is a droplet of starlight?

Fire unfathomable,

Liquescent esotericism of life.

As Zip would have put it, that was an epic jaw-dangler. All Aranya could do was gasp her thankfulness, and memorise Istariela’s words as one of the inexplicably magical treasures of her life. Did the Ancient Dragon see what turmoil and wonder he had just sparked in her breast; the unslakeable yearning to understand the maternal side of her heritage?

Fra’anior said, “By which, I seek to communicate that this utterance is unquestionably worth pursuing. Agreed?”

Hope. Was that a guarded note of hope in his voice?

She began to bow to Fra’anior, but found herself receding at the speed of thought. Soon, she was just a bright mote flashing through the aether.

* * * *

Aranya rattled back into her own body with a sensation as though she had bounced rapidly off a dozen surfaces, framing a homely space, and expanded her soul to fill it. She had barely begun to heave a sigh of relief and check everything was in order, when a Zuziana-shaped thunderbolt socked her in the midriff and she fell backward onto her rump – painlessly.

Oh. Was she in her soul space?

A moment later, however, she heard Ri’arion say brusquely, “Alright, Gang, give her some air. She’s bound to be a little woozy after journeying to wherever she’s been.”

“Woozy Zuzi? Great nickname,” purred Gang, setting Aranya upon her feet. Having expected four paws, she promptly fell over again. Huari butted paws and heads with Gang as they both tried to rescue her blushes simultaneously. “Ouch!”

Gnarr! Huari responded, clacking her fangs against his knee.

Definitely sounded like home.

Aranya grabbed Gang’s lower lip with her left hand and Huari’s nose with her right, and held them. The Dragons huffed and snorted comically. Aranya purred, “Are the little fledglings done playing?” Before they could do more than contemplate howling or bellowing at her impertinence, she added, “I’ve been speaking with Fra’anior – and Dramagon, for that matter. Listen. I have coordinates for the Mistral Fires, and the pure whisper on the Thoralians’ plan.”

“Pure whisper?” Ri’arion clarified. “As in, the details?”

“It must be an Immadian saying,” said Aranya, and proceeded to relate her experience, leaving out the more personal details of what she and Fra’anior had shared.

Sobering. Understanding the broad sweep of Dramagon’s designs for her Island-World had done little to allay Aranya’s concerns; despite being far removed from the situation, the Ancient Dragon’s malevolence appeared to be functioning all too well. As was Fra’anior’s side of the equation, she supposed. Both played out their ages-old conflict through agents, following rules no-one fully understood. Were they no better than pawns of the Ancient Dragons? Were her choices even a product of freewill, or had much been foreordained by her birth into a heritage so mysterious even the Great Onyx had not plumbed its secrets?

She might have chosen not to rescue Zip, or avoided a conflict with Garthion. She could have drawn a line beneath their efforts North of the Rift, and chosen to consolidate together with King Beran rather than choosing the immense risk of pursuing the one Thoralian she had known then. Instead, she realised with mild astonishment, she had always tried to choose the better, nobler path – just as she had promised her father upon Izariela’s Tower the day before the Sylakians had invaded and taken her away into exile. Then, they had joked about crisping a few Sylakian beards. How poignant that jest seemed now!

Packing away the introspective Aranya, she turned her thoughts to the upcoming conflict. How might they switch paws on the Thoralians this time? At length, she turned to Leandrial with a proposal she had been considering for a few days.

Noble Leandrial, I’ve a few ideas. Will you help me field-test them?

Always, little one, the Land Dragoness said brightly. After all, I am sailing down this air current on Star Dragoness power. What more could I ask for?

Deliberately, she said, The chance to crisp Thoralian’s bones?

Might fate thus be tempted?

Leandrial’s bellowing laughter shook the air about them for many a mile.

* * * *

Skirting an almighty Impossible Deep which separated the Doldrums from Wyldaroon proper, Leandrial charged and coasted, ran and wrangled, floated and flew some four hundred and ninety leagues over the course of the next thirty hours. Her grey-tone vision showed Zuziana and her companions blasted plant layers and debris-choked canyons leading down into the impenetrable darkness of that Impossible Deep, which she estimated must measure over seven leagues in depth.

After running smoothly over a patch of basalt columns which were so regular that they looked to have been built by Human hands, the great Dragoness eventually found her way out onto a relatively flat, rocky plain, and here the current petered out almost to nothingness.

I shall tarry a moment here, little ones, she panted. I’ll bring our second wave in behind you just as soon as I can. They are currently four hours adrift our pace. Quick wings, now, as you high-dwellers are wont to say. Did I not demonstrate the truth of running – that for us deep-dwellers, it is more like your flying?

You pushed mightily to bring us this far, noble Leandrial, Zuziana said quietly.

You flew as the winds unleashed, Ri’arion added firmly.

Gang smashed his right paw against his chest. Honour to the prodigious Land Dragoness!

Aranya smiled wanly. In Human culture that accolade would have earned one a strange look at best, but amongst the Dragonkind, such words fit like a king’s best mantle.

Then Gang and Huaricithe, carrying Ri’arion and Zip-Aranya upon their backs respectively, launched themselves off Leandrial’s tongue, swooped out between the slabbed ranks of her tooth ridges, and set themselves to the climb. Ascending from a depth of three and a half leagues put considerable strain on a Dragon’s physiology, at once managing the enormous pressures and the associated decompression as they gained altitude, and the far greater effort of ‘swimming’ through viscid air. They left Leandrial nosing about in search of edibles upon the edge of that fathomless canyon, and struck out Northwest, with a goodly two hundred and fifteen leagues still to cover.

The plant layers were better defined here, somewhat removed from the Egg’s northward path, and so the Lesser Dragons had the experience of zigzagging through soupy layers of turquoise air as they flew a path through lily pad burgundy leaves over a mile in diameter that overlapped in successive layers, leading to a frustrating flying experience. They found clearer air but an adverse flow two miles above in a region frequented by the smaller classes of Borers. Aggressive shielding kept the predators at bay. Soon, it was as if they could slough waters off their wings, for the pressure differentials eased into territory that made the going progressively easier. This allowed Gangurtharr, who flew slightly ahead with Huari in wing position upon his right flank, to accelerate smoothly through the bioluminescent, floating plant layers toward the ceiling of grey above. Soon, they plopped into its gloom with a sense of imminent return to the world of wide-open skies. Freedom. Freshness. A congruent stretching of the wings and expansion of the lungs as each wing stroke broadened a touch more.

Fly well, my friends, Leandrial said from below.

We fly for the Onyx, said Zip. Come primed for battle, my friend. My scales say this will be a sharp conflict indeed.

I shan’t tarry, little ones.

Breaking free of the Cloudlands, the pair of Shapeshifters raced upward into a new world of dark granite Islands from which ropes of tan, spiny vegetation dangled toward the lower clouds as though seeking sustenance from that deathly realm. The skies above were bright, but ahead, the characteristic aged-green patina of the First Egg’s passage occluded the horizon, shooting its fires upward in great columns that sparked lightning and boiled with black smoke from their tops, as though – perhaps this was true – those fires burned untold tonnes of plant matter beneath the Cloudlands and ejected the ash and smoke in vast tornadoes that snaked about the storm front. Dark bands of cloud striated every horizon with ominous tenacity, and although they could not see that far, both Gang and Huari claimed to sense the marauding Drake packs.

Aranya said, Sapphire, what are you doing in there?

Make Ari strong, peeped the dragonet.

What do you mean? asked Huari. Are you healing her?

Diffidently, the reply came, Little stronger each day. My Ari be ready to take back her Shadow. Naughty Ardan forget Ari.

The other Dragoness chuckled bleakly. Naughty indeed, little one. Let’s fly, my Gangurtharr. They are already far closer to the prize than we had hoped for.

Will we beat Azhukazi hence? Zip asked.

Huaricithe said, We’ve no way of knowing – what we do know, is that our top priority is to penetrate that fortress and locate this Marshal Asturbar as quickly as possible. It looks as if the Drake packs have already swept through here. That means two things: refugees and lockdown. If we fly in as refugees, there are protocols to follow so that we do not immediately get shot down. Their House Wards will be primed so we would need to walk in and remain in our Human forms in order to gain entry, unless they have already been Spiked – that is, destroyed by magical means.

We forgot clothing for you ladies. Ri’arion snapped his fingers angrily. I –

I don’t care, said Huari.

Nor I, said Gang, but I take no responsibility if their women-kind faint at the advent of my nudity, which is the very epitome of magnificence.

I see! giggled Zip. Ri’arion –

I am not undressing for anyone! Uh, except, that is … his wife’s giggling clearly flustered the ex-monk. He spluttered, I give up! Aranya?

I am a Shapeshifter Dragoness. I could use an opacity shield, but I fear I must conserve every fraction of energy I have for the fight. The Thoralians are offshore. She pointed back to their right flank. They are several hours behind us but coming fast. I think, from the flickering I sense, that they are somehow using Ardan’s Shadow power to accelerate their progress beyond normal speeds, leaping five to six leagues at a time. He is in considerable pain.

She said the last sadly, prompting Gang to snarl, He is the enemy until proven otherwise, Star Dragoness!

I know. We must fly faster.

Deploying shaped aerodynamic shields, the pair of Shapeshifters winged rapidly into the gathering gloom, even though the day was but young. It would not grow dark, they saw, for the Egg’s fires irradiated the entire horizon an eerie green colour, flickering white where the lightning flashed. They raced past jagged, tangled Clusters of Islands, trying to keep low where there was cover to fool any possible scrutiny by the Thoralians, but they need not have bothered for at least half of their flight. Then, they came up behind the marauding Drake packs and the game was up.

At fifteen to twenty-two feet in wingspan, the Drakes were fast, manoeuvrable fliers, besides being aggressively territorial. These first few they spotted were loners or injured and so easily avoided, but they quickly began to see a pattern in the deployment of the bustling packs – they were systematically searching the Islands and destroying any Human or Dragon denizens they could find, swarming into cracks and caves, checking every possible bolt-hole. Could they be searching for the Jewels?

Even the fast-flying Lesser Dragons now came under increasingly heavy attack. As pack hunters, the Drakes were acutely alert to the behaviour of their peers across a wide area. Aggression or battle was a signal to band together against the common enemy. Their flight path became more and more crowded the further they proceeded, and their progress slowed accordingly, until Gang gave in and unleashed a few exasperated fireballs.

Zip called, “Hold on. We need a diversion.”

“What sort of diversion?” growled Huari, swerving to avoid a Drake pack descending into their flying space. Crimson wings wuthered furiously as the Drakes struggled to match their high-speed manoeuvring.

“Something like what we pulled on those Land Dragons –”

“I wasn’t there, remember?” said Aranya.

“No, but I was,” said Ri’arion. “Zip was brilliant. She had them chasing phantasms across half of Herimor.”

“Here, the Thoralians will spy the disturbance,” Gang pointed out.

“Short-lived phantasms?” suggested Zip.

“I’ll manage this,” said Ri’arion, rubbing his hands briskly as if the act of conjuration required additional warmth.

Five seconds later, a passable imitation of an Azure Dragoness appeared two hundred feet off their port flank. With a brazen waggle of her tail, she darted away across the Islands. A hundred panting Drakes immediately gave chase.

Zip regarded her husband coolly. “Really?”

“What?”

“That business with my hindquarters?”

He shrugged. “I aim for realism.” She growled at him. Oops. Dragoness! “Frightfully shapely hindquarters, might I add. I miss that sassy wriggle.”

Gang snorted, “In other words, no-one can see any sane creature chasing his backside, right?”

Wiggle or none, the Azure proved an irresistible target for Drakes, and Ri’arion, perhaps encouraged by Zuziana’s reaction, pushed himself to ever-improving efforts to confound their attackers. She disappeared into foliage, ‘ambushed’ groups of Drakes, and slipped away like the phantasm she was, leaving the beasts rending each other in their impassioned fury. He started sending her out ahead, drawing the Drakes into snarls attacking nothingness while they ghosted by, heavily shielded now to try to prevent detection.

Passing through the wild region in a further five hours of non-stop struggle that brought the hour to noon and the advancing gloom to an early twilight, the companions paused at a dense Cluster, perhaps fifty Islands strong, to take water and hunt briefly. Gang and Huari were most happy with the succulent rodent meat, but Zip found Aranya’s sensibilities taking over and had to shut her eyes and bolt her portion whole. Call her a Dragoness? Gangurtharr teased her about enjoying the feeling of live kill scrabbling haplessly at the insides of his throat on the way down.

Then it was on and on through the tangle of dark, mostly dry and dusty Islands arranged in great wedge-shaped flotillas, sooty black on the sides and topped with suns-kissed tan and golden vegetation, homing in on the coordinates by which Fra’anior had identified the Mistral Fires.

Within, Zip heard Aranya speaking rapidly to her Dragoness. Calculating. Searching for the elusive creature she had identified out here. Groaning softly, They’re killing Ardan to make time. Where are they now – oh, holy Fra’anior! Go! Huari, Gang, go!

What? snapped Huari.

Rapid-fire, Aranya said, I’ve detected a large Dragonwing approaching from the North – Azhukazi is my guess – and then the Thoralians are racing ahead of a sizeable battlefront arriving from the East. They’ve swept up tens of thousands of Drakes in that storm, Huari. Coming so fast! Ardan’s in agony …

Gang said, Scrap, we simply can’t get there in time. We’re at least an hour out and –

SHIFT!

Chapter 10: The Mistral Fires

ARdan BLINKED AS Aranya winked out of the ambit of his senses. Disappeared. He searched. Searched again, and on the periphery of his awareness, discovered a gleaming white trace, the psychic-echo-image of her Star Dragoness soul. The Dragon grunted, What?

What do you mean, what? snapped Prime. Don’t tell me you’ve lost the Star Dragoness yet again? Where is she? Everything was proceeding according to –

She just jumped seventy leagues. The Shadow Dragon inadvertently dribbled fire from his lower lip as his brain tried to connect the Isles of truth. Whatever the schedule had been, it had just leaped off the proverbial Island with a pert flick of its tail, and absconded. Now, they’re halfway to the target, and –

Take us there! Now!

Wait, said Secondary. The timing is exquisite. We give Azhukazi time to run into the Star Dragoness inside that fortress. Aranya will fight the Necromancer as she must, for her morals will allow nothing else. They will damage and weaken each other. At the opportune moment, we pluck the spoils from their dying talons.

The Marshal? said Tertiary.

EXCELLENT PLAN! boomed Prime. He’s nothing, nor is that prize he wants – the Jewels of Instashi. All that matters is the power of Necromancy. Let that pathetic rabble duel with Azhukazi.

Agreed, intoned the triplicate.

The long, muscular forms of the Thoralians turned as one to regard the Shadow Dragon. He shivered at the malicious amusement communicated by the deep, earthy orange tones of their eyes, as they tightened the adamantine bonds upon his mind.

Earned yourself a reprieve, Shadow? sneered Prime. Ready yourself for battle. Yours will be the responsibility of tearing the Star Dragoness’ hearts from her chest, and consuming them as the fires gutter in her still-living fire eyes.

No …

SUBMIT, SHADOW!

The last embers of resistance guttered within his great hearts. Aye, Masters. All shall proceed as you wish.

Of course it will, growled the Prime. We are the greatest power of this epoch. Organise the Drakes for our assault. Prepare to consume Azhukazi’s powers, my brothers!

Backed by the whirring wings of thousands of crimson Drakes, the Thoralians forged eagerly into the gloom of the Egg storm, the first true usage they had found for the Egg’s powers. It had been difficult in the extreme to harness those fey energies, but via the judicious application of urzul, which they had learned of from Infurion during their last crossing of the Rift but finally stolen by successfully parasitizing a S’gulzzi in the Pit of Despair, the Thoralians knew that they now enjoyed viable access to the greatest font of magical power in the Island-World. Even the Star Dragoness must succumb.

Satisfactory.

Still, they must never become complacent. Dramagon was a famously harsh taskmaster who set only the highest standards in his scientific endeavour, and had a documented habit of executing underlings who displeased him in even the slightest degree by inviting them to participate in his most hazardous experiments. Few survived; those that did were often unrecognisable from the persons or creatures they had been before. Cognizant of the Shadow Dragon’s listening mind, the Thoralians drew him closer into the fold as they set to calculating the possible measures and countermeasures they could take against the enemy. Thanks to Ardan’s input, they now had first paw knowledge about the Immadian Princess’ every capability and power, how she thought and the influences that would inevitably drive her behaviour. After a moment, they hit upon a novel idea. A feint within a feint. This, the Star Dragoness would never anticipate.

The Thoralians chuckled softly, in perfect concert. Victory was assured.

* * * *

Aranya had assumed the worst, but even so, the scale of destruction they passed on that last mad dash toward the Mistral Fires’ fortress was grievous. Crash landed, burnt-out Dragonships. Flayed, half-eaten carcasses of Dragons. Scattered, charred lumps which had once been Human or dragonet, or other creatures she could not identify from the remains. Oily black smoke billowed vigorously into the skies, proclaiming that the Mercenary House had come under heavy, sustained bombardment. Many refugees had tried to flee here. A great number had not survived the journey, harried and ultimately destroyed by the merciless Drakes – the same packs that now swirled across their route, searching fruitlessly for an enemy who kept evaporating into thin air.

Still, the press of Drakes was so thick that no direct flight was possible.

Heavily shielded to hide their presence from the Dragonwing that Huari had confirmed was Azhukazi’s forces, the companions arrowed toward a floating Island of considerable proportions, its stippled base heavily infested with decades of ragion growth. A small landing stage which usually lay outside of the House Wards had been scorched. Debris littered a huge, barren field outside of the underground fortress, which its main entryway overlooked. She understood these fosse-crossed fields were the main theatre for the staged infantry battles that Wyldaroon custom demanded – that point had long since passed here, the battlefield turned over to the corpses of soldiers, Dragons and civilians. Curiously, she saw no wrecked Dragonships, but then she noticed that a creative defender had stuffed a gaping V-shaped hole above their main doorway with an amazing miscellany of remains, and chained or welded it all together in a messy heap over two hundred feet tall, effectively denying entrance to any Dragonkind or Drakes. Would they have left a Human-sized entryway beside or beneath it?

As the scene resolved before her weakened eyesight, Aranya also noted that the rectangular hill fronting that blasted field was actually the upper battlements of the underground fortress. Azhukazi’s Dragonwing appeared to be focussing their attack at the top of the fortress, where by the crashing sounds that now reached her hearing, Azhukazi’s creature must be attempting to hammer its way through the top of the Mistral Fires’ House. Each repetitive, booming report drowned out the clamour of hundreds of attacking Lesser Dragons led by Shapeshifters, their colours standing in stark contrast to the mass of Grey-Greens – the battle challenges, the heavy detonations of magma-laced fireballs and the sharper hiss of lightning strikes – while the defenders appeared to be putting up a spirited account of their own.

That was why a frontal raid by a nude teenage Princess made perfect Isles sense. Her grin felt frayed at the edges. Less than amusing.

Beran would have lauded this resistance. They were excellently organised and disciplined. Counterattacks of bolts, shrapnel and even explosive devices speared into the sky in concerted volleys, making it difficult for targeted Dragons to avoid mass damage. Even as she watched, five heavily wounded Grey-Greens bellowed their way to crash landings above the House.

Pointing with her left fore-talon, Huari turned her muzzle to snap toward her Rider, There’s a gap in the debris – what’s the inane smile for, Aranya?

Nothing. Just, it’s just not the first time I’ve assaulted the enemy in the nude. My Dragoness thinks I’m being ridiculous, but – oh! This is going to sound like some ghastly exercise in vanity …

Your scars? her relative guessed, correctly. I’m sorry, Aranya. I understand – any decent person would.

People are dying and I’m thinking this? I hate myself! Sighing just once, she mentally buried that raw scream and all the shame. Mercy. I’m ready.

With you, petal. Strength to your paw, Zip said softly.

Gangurtharr and Huari charged toward the blockaded entryway, shielded up to the ear canals. The bombardment had been so heavy here that rock had run like water; still, Aranya thought she detected the paw-work of a Brown to fuse this mess together. A dark, jagged passageway stood ahead of them as the pair of Shapeshifters landed as close to the entryway as Dragons of their size could manage. They cast their magical cloaking aside. A chorus of swearing from the defenders greeted their appearance – ruse successful, in that case. Aranya heard a familiar creaking of catapult cords and winches as engineers rushed to orient their weapons.

Huaricithe made a definite gyrating gesture with her wingtips – the ally-subordination signal – while Gang boomed, “We’re allies! Do not fire!”

Springing to the ground, Aranya staggered as her knees threatened to give way. The two Dragons Shifted with a loud whap-whomp! of displaced air. A sharp stench of molten rock, Dragon sulphur and burning timbers seared her nostrils as Aranya took her first breath of the air issuing from the Mistral Fires fortress. Ignoring several cries to stay put, the foursome dashed into the narrow passageway and began picking their way through the debris. Gang was particularly vocal, swearing at everything in sight as he bruised first his forehead, then barked his shins, and stubbed a toe for good measure. They scrabbled over the carcass of a Dragonship and under twisted stanchions. Huari gave her Dragon instructions in how to contort his massive frame in the right places.

Entry was meant to be possible, not easy.

“Watch for holes in the debris,” Ri’arion said. “They’ll be primed as targets for –”

“Stop!” roared a military voice, the type that could make a recruit’s eyes water across a training ground. “There’s a dozen crossbow bolts trained on your sorry hides, Shapeshifters! Declare your names and – stop! Halt right there or we’ll shoot!”

His accent was so unfamiliar as to be almost unintelligible through the constant clamour of battle, but the threatening tone was unmistakable.

“Asturbar! Where’s Marshal Asturbar?” Huari called.

Ri’arion whispered, “They can’t hit us until we reach that gap. Gang! Quietly, man.”

“Halt, Dragons!”

“We need Asturbar!” Huari, a Marshal herself, was used to having her demands met. Impatience lent her tone ragged edges. “Show us to your Marshal, and be quick about it, man. The Thoralians are coming.”

“You – will – halt! Suffering murgalizards, who put out the lights?”

Ri’arion produced a surprisingly unadorned bow, for a Fra’aniorian. “Step lively, my friends, as they stare at the darkness of their own eyelids.”

Zip blew ethereal kisses at her man.

The distracted warrior hurriedly deflected two speculative crossbow bolt shots with blurred movements of his forearms as they ran past the bemused squads of soldiers and catapult engineers who attempted to block the long entry tunnel – of course, Gangurtharr stumbled over someone’s boot and had to resort to fisticuffs to knock his way free. He howled as a six-foot bolt creased the skin of his left thigh, skittering away off the stone tunnel ahead, and roared, “Don’t you fire bolts at my behind, boy. I’ll make you eat them!”

Now there came a great kafuffle in the well-lit hall ahead of them, which the entryway tunnel opened upon, and Huari cautioned them to expect a warm welcome.

A man shouted, “Hold! Hold fire!”

“Sah, do you mean that?” The complainant sounded most aggrieved.

“I said, hold fire!”

Huari showed an impressive turn of speed as they outdistanced the pursuit of what Aranya belatedly realised had been several ranks of heavily armoured infantry soldiers, whom Ri’arion had just bamboozled into a state of intense annoyance. In a moment they burst out into a cavernous entry space and almost into the collective arms and paws of a welcoming committee – half a dozen belligerent Dragons and a coterie of angry, heavily armoured soldiers surrounded the incredible slab of a man she had seen in her vision.

“Marshal Huaricithe!” spluttered the giant.

“Commander Asturbar,” purred the Shapeshifter Dragoness, apparently not put out in the slightest to appear like a small child in the lee of this giant’s immensity. He stood an inch or two shorter than Aranya herself, but with shoulders at least three times wider and endowed with all-round bulk to match that mighty skeletal structure, his was truly a physique built on a Dragonesque scale. Huari said, “At last, a sensible head in these parts. With respect.”

Nudity? No issue for her relative. She just glared at everyone as though the first glance that crept below her collarbones would trigger instant evisceration.

It was effective.

There was one of those moments when everyone gazed at everyone else with more than a hint of mistrust. The Marshal’s piercing grey eyes measured Aranya from top to toe in a way that made her feel ashamed and angry, and she tore her eyes off him – the shaven-headed soldier appeared pasty of complexion, as though he were ill – to glance over his escort. Half a dozen powerful Lesser Dragons, an older Brown, and … her. A younger Dragoness of remarkable colouration with scales imbued with a sheen of silvery mauve iridescence, neat of skull ruff and compact of build. She was a fledgling too, just a few feet longer than Aranya’s Amethyst manifestation. The other Dragoness inclined her muzzle to return her regard with shy curiosity. So impeccable did she appear, standing resplendent in her unearthly draconic beauty, that a blindness of helpless rage pierced the Immadian through and through. Never had she imagined she might loathe someone at first sight. Immaculate proportions. Perfect hide. No scarring. Had she ever so much as smelled a battle?

Undeniably, without need for a single syllable to be spoken, Aranya knew that she was the one they had sought through storm and calm, across the better part of two and a half thousand leagues.

Dragoness resplendent!

Dizzied at the emotions storming the portals of mind and heart, the Immadian had to lock her knees to arrest their trembling. Why did she feel this Dragoness was special? Significant, in some indefinable way? What was this visceral yearning that warred with caution; was it the unearthly powers implied by her ultra-rare colouration, or the fearfully alien cast of her mind? Could her chaotic, unruly magic influence a Star Dragoness in undesirable ways? All she knew was a seething morass of animus …

Aranya, Zip warned privately.

I’m so wretched. Sorry, but I can’t even look at her – she’s flawless! And I’m so unworthy; she’s done nothing to deserve this. I’m a pitiful, benighted, wreck of a Dragoness –

As friend to friend, petal, and with all respect – shut your fangs. Right now!

Aranya jerked inwardly, seething. Stupid straight-talking Remoyan! Didn’t she know when sympathy was needed? Her version of speaking the truth was like dropping an Island casually upon her friend’s head. Aranya knew she was right, but it still stung. Badly. Roaring rajals!

How desperately she hoped no-one else had detected her reaction, most of all this Dragoness, the object of their long search.

Meantime, Gang strode forward, growling, “Asturbar, eh? Huh! They make man-Dragons in my size now, I see! I’m Gangurtharr! Shapeshifter!”

The men clasped forearms and, like male Dragons posturing, took each other’s measure with uncompromising mien, immovable grips and a slight sliding of the eyes to check each other’s dimensions. With a pang of amusement, she judged that Gang felt slighted by the heroic breadth of the Marshal’s shoulders, while Asturbar manfully tried to disguise whatever was ailing him and appear as strong as any Dragon.

Asturbar growled, “Gangurtharr of the Pits, eh? You’ve quite the reputation, noble Dragon.”

“Well-earned, too!” boomed Gangurtharr, stretching with the unmistakable and very draconic intent of impressing every female in the hall with his spectacular proportions. Apparently Asturbar took a certain exception to this tactic – perhaps because the fires of both Shapeshifter Dragonesses behind him had just quickened?

“He’s such a show-off. Learned that in the Pits too,” Huaricithe snapped, rapping Gang in the ribs with an elbow that expressed considerable displeasure courtesy of its very sharp point. She added crisply, “Marshal, the Thoralians are on our collective tails. Very quickly, may I introduce –”

“The Star Dragoness?” he returned. “Yes, we know. She tried to kill my Iridiana.”

Gasps!

Iridiana? Delightful name …

Oddly, the blunt accusation calmed the Immadian Princess. She knew diplomacy. Touching both Ri’arion and Gang to restrain any overheated responses, she replied, “We are allies even if you don’t realise it yet, Asturbar.”

“Marshal Asturbar, and we are no allies until you apol –”

To her further shock, it was the normally unflappable Ri’arion who erupted, shouting, “How dare you? Look upon this woman, and see what she has given for our Island-World, you craven cur! What have you dared? What have you done?”

Aranya feared the Azingloriax warrior was about to attack the monk. Suddenly, danger seemed imminent and they had barely begun to speak. The young Dragoness Iridiana exclaimed that it was she who had dreamed of the Star Dragoness, and invited her to visit. Even her accent was the definition of mellifluous. Aranya’s eyes remained fixed upon the big man, however, gritting his teeth audibly as he lurched toward Ri’arion, as if those words injured him in ways she could not understand. Fresh sweat beaded his brow. He swayed, then paused as if searching for something to say, only his stomach interjected a protracted growl-groan as if it fought to burst out of the casing of his armour. He doubled over. The artist in her absently noted that he wore the biggest boots she had ever seen. His feet had to be thrice the width of hers, and half as long again!

“Is he alright?” Aranya blurted out, discomfited.

“Unwell,” the Brown Dragoness snapped, but extended a paw as if she expected him to fall.

“May I touch and heal him?” The Princess winced. When had she learned to ask permission for what she knew must be done? Only, she sensed something odd about this Azingloriax warrior, aside from his mighty presence. Something that gave her pause.

Iridiana interjected softly, “He’s a proud man. Wait, please.”

This exchange seemed to tantalise a nerve in the huge Marshal, for he straightened with considerable effort, puffing, “Not so proud as … to take back … hot words. Your Storm magic was uncontrolled, was it not?” Ah, he knew about her Storm! She must have hurt this Iridiana – she questioned Asturbar with her eyes. Apologising without words. Raising an open hand in apparent acceptance, he said more reasonably, “I am Asturbar, and this is Iridiana, the Iridium Shapeshifter Dragoness.”

Despite that the Marshal’s gruff vowels were nearly as pithily foreshortened as the hairs of his shaven pate, Aranya had no difficulty with the man’s accent, whereas the girl – she could have sounded Immadian, except that her tonal modulations exhibited an inveigling yet completely alien pattern of melody and stress. Judging by her companions’ expressions, Aranya wondered if they thought exactly the same of her!

“Iridium? That colour is unheard-of,” Huaricithe whispered meantime. “Where do you hail from, fledgling?”

The young Dragoness bowed graciously, wings outspread. “I –”

“Yazê-a-Kûz, by the accent?” Gangurtharr interrupted.

Iridiana flinched. “Yes, but –”

“Aye, it seems they’ve been concealing their Shapeshifters,” Huari noted evenly. Herimor politics! Aranya did not understand the sudden renewal of tension, or why this statement smacked so overtly of accusation, but she was not about to allow a promising conversation to head back down the proverbial fumarole. Too much was at stake.

Time to assert herself. Bowing in the formal Immadian manner, she said, “May I acquaint you with Ri’arion of Fra’anior, a mighty warrior-monk, who is married to an Azure Shapeshifter named Zuziana, lately of the Kingdom of Remoy, who in turn – it’s a long tale. I carry her here, within my soul. She’s my best friend.” She rubbed her right eye as it prickled sharply, an echo of grief. “Gangurtharr the Gladiator and Marshal Huaricithe, you appear to know. For my part, I am the Princess Aranya of Immadia, daughter of Izariela, daughter of Istariela the White Dragoness, the fabled beloved of Fra’anior. I am an Amethyst Shapeshifter, and the Star Dragoness.”

They seemed suitably impressed by her lineage. That, or she would be slain in a welter of righteous indignation at any second. If only she did not have to play the worship-of-Stars card. If only she enjoyed wholeness of presence, she would not have to field their shocked stares as if her mutilated body were a pin board that received dart after dart which cried, ‘Ghastly! Abhorrent! O fate most ruinous!’

The Fra’aniorian monks said that which did not slay a soul, only strengthened.

Such faith must be mighty indeed. Until one met the creator Dragon himself, whom many worshipped as a deity, and knew him for kin …

Asturbar in turn introduced his circle of close advisors and leaders – Iridiana, Yuaki the Brown Shapeshifter, ex-Marshal Chanbar, and Commanders Gashukan and Bantukor, the chunky soldier charged with protecting the entryway. Another Azingloriax warrior. Aranya appreciated the wry quirk of Asturbar’s lips at this point. Less so his Dragoness girlfriend, who behind that ostensibly naïve exterior, was watching Aranya like a windroc eyeing a tasty rock hyrax. Again, she must turn the conversation.

“I am sorry about the effects of my storm. Terribly sorry, for aye, it was indeed uncontrolled and harmful, Marshal Asturbar. Iridiana. I have … too much magic.” The Princess smiled at no-one in particular, and then dipped her gaze, knowing they must be appalled by her twisted lips. What emerged next was entirely unexpected, product of her anguish. “I must tell you that the Thoralians have captured and enslaved my beloved Shadow Dragon, and when he arrives, all of your protections shall be as nought. No mere walls can withstand the might of the Shadow. Therefore, we must ally rapidly. The enemy is nigh.”

Asturbar said, “How soon?”

“Five minutes, no more,” Aranya said brusquely. “We bypassed the Thoralians with a touch of – well, call it magical cheating – in order to heed this call. Iridiana, you said –” her voice leaped to a startled squeak as the warm granite beneath her bare feet leaped palpably “– what was that?”

“That was a ceiling coming down,” said Asturbar.

So calm. This Commander seemed in complete control of his leadership team. At last, Aranya allowed her gaze to touch the young Shapeshifter Dragoness’ eyes, and it was with a terrible spasm in her chest that she recognised exactly why she appeared so wide-eyed and ingenuous. Her eyes were almost bereft of natural flame – how had she not noticed before? Dazed. Envious. Too preoccupied with the looming clash of powers when her attention should be focussed right here, in the now, upon this poor, painfully near-sighted Dragoness … at last, she tasted the goodness of the unequivocally beneficent fate which had brought her to this place and to this moment. Her fires flared so brilliantly in response, she felt as if a lava fireball sat ready in her throat.

Just take one small, right step. Each might be followed by another. Then the next.

Across from her, Yuaki the Brown clarified, “O peerless Star Dragoness, that would be Azhukazi the Iolite Blue, also called the Necromancer.”

Her words fell upon ears deaf to their import. Stepping past the startled Marshal toward his girlfriend, she raised her hand and whispered, with an intimation of sevenfold dignity about her delivery, O noble Iridiana, might I perchance touch thine fire eyes?

Not a question. This was white fires command. The Dragoness responded instinctively, lowering her muzzle in acquiescence as if she sensed the wellsprings of healing power already surging like founts of molten gold through Aranya’s veins, igniting her being, forcing her to draw a nigh-unending, steadying breath as she fought to master her emotions – o Fra’anior, heal this thy child! Almost before the flat of her hand touched Iridiana’s petite muzzle with its gleaming tracery of metallic silver-blue scales, like the vanishingly rare trace element for which she was named, Aranya realised, the white fires leaped forth. Fervent. Savagely potent. Fearfully tender.

The Dragoness’ magical pathways ignited to the truth of pure Star-Fire. She wheezed and stumbled to one knee. Then, her muzzle tilted and pressed forward to look past Aranya – not without a startled inhale – to Asturbar, her beloved, and the swirling of fires in her eyes gathered pace and clarity by the millisecond, as though clouds swept aside before the advent of the suns’ glory. Aranya watched the healing fires at work from less than ten inches distance; the Dragoness’ debility arrested; the runic threads of magic sinking profoundly deep, reshaping brokenness as wholeness …

The man whispered, “Nyahi?”

“Oh! Oh, Boots, I …” The Iridium Dragoness’ slim throat worked painfully. She squealed, “I can see!”

Aranya chuckled in delighted realisation. They had pet names for each other! Nyahi and Boots! What was a Nyahi, however?

“I can see everything!”

Then, a wild kaleidoscope of magic exploded within Iridiana, a paean of pure joy, and a sparkling mauve comet of – well, some chaotic expression of draconic magic unlike anything Aranya had ever imagined – shot up toward the ceiling and fizzed around the great hall, spinning at dizzying speed around the mage-light chandeliers and carolling her happiness with a tinkling of laughter that shook one watcher to her core. She sounded as if she were a star laughing, but that magic – it was Chaos.

The artistry of insanity.

Iridiana was a Chaos Beast? She could not believe it. Asturbar, as Zip had pinned him with her usual accuracy, looked absolutely captivated by the phenomenon. Gang too seemed entranced, Ri’arion cleared his throat with a curmudgeonly rasp, and Huari observed the display with a smile of unabashed wonder, highlighting the dainty-strong beauty of her relative’s features. Zip had that quality. The eyes that glinted, the definite planes of the cheekbones; the chin that only seemed to grow pointier the more mischief it fomented.

Asturbar whispered, “That’s what she does when she’s happiest.”

Aranya’s heart clenched so hard, she had to rub her breastbone vigorously. Did he suspect? Was the peril as immediate as she feared, or what exactly were the churned-up feelings tearing about inside her breast just like that creature up there, effervescent until they exploded …

Ardan came!

The reach-snap of her alarm brought the light show to an instantaneous halt. The young Shifter reacted like a frightened dragonet, fizzing through five or six inchoate forms before – holy Fra’anior! Had she just turned into a diamond bracelet on Asturbar’s arm? Fantastical, pretty, and what camouflage! Was she afraid? Dissembling? Either way, the issue of the peril she might or might not represent had to be set aside.

She extended her arm toward the Marshal. “Allies?”

His huge, hot hand engulfed her forearm. She was no petite girl, but each of his fingers was thicker than her wrist. “Honoured to face this enemy with you, o Star Dragoness.”

* * * *

Ardan Shadow-swept the Thoralians directly into the great hall, following a flowering of battle magic which had convinced them that the fray was already well advanced. Prime had decided to intervene immediately; now, ice-cold fury pounded through the triplicate as they realised that yet again, the Star Dragoness had outwitted them. Lured them into her trap. She was masterful, a worthy enemy.

So much the greater pleasure when she fell. All that was within the Thoralians hungered to wreak vengeance upon that irrepressible chit of a girl who dared to defy their rightful dominion!

The Shapeshifters ranged on the worn granite floor below snapped immediately into their Dragon forms. Amethyst. Navy Blue. Burgundy Grey, or whatever colour Gang was becoming. Dragons at the ready! At the same time Ri’arion drew his huge, two-handed sword, but the dangerous Nameless Man shifted only to assume a watchful, balanced pose.

The huge man in their midst, who could only be Commander Asturbar, snapped, “Bantukor. Defensive positions at the entrance. Turn half of the catapults toward the Hall. And get those idiots off the landings!”

“Sah!”

“Where’s Azhukazi?” the Thoralians snarled.

Everyone was rightly confused about that question. Spreading his wings, Ardan drifted down after the Thoralians. Given their overwhelming power, this battle could only end one way – but where was the prize, the power they sought? Was Azhukazi cunning enough to deceive them all, and was this trace they had followed some Herimor glamour magic of an ilk unfamiliar enough even to hoodwink the Marshals Thoralian?

This must be the Amethyst’s paw work.

Training her unbearably poignant gaze upon him, Aranya breathed, Ardan, thou my soul’s Shadow, wilt thou not turn from this course?

A spark conveying the quintessential character of her radiance momentarily blindsided his thoughts from within, but the dark bonds immediately reasserted their hegemony over his psyche. Enemy. She was the enemy, hateful to the core. How dare she stand against the restoration of honour to all Dragonkind?

Only one of Fra’anior’s kin could measure a dinky forty-plus feet, a third of the size of most of these Grey-Greens, and weigh in at barely a quarter of his tonnage, yet appear to dwarf her companions by the sheer immediacy of her draconic presence – the fabled soul aura of the Dragonkind, akin in some senses to the Human notion of charisma. The Amethyst was slimmer than most, too, and the scarring of her hide failed to detract from her physical attractiveness – she was neat-pawed, and her musculature compact and clearly delineated in the manner of a master athlete or warrior’s defined physique, with a modest, regular ruff of skull spikes and that unique, gemstone colouration to her amethyst scales that more than gladdened every draconic eye. The effect was mesmerising.

If only one could see beyond the scars …

The three Thoralians rasped as one, Ardan is mine to command.

Was he? The Shadow considered the bond he had once forged with the Dragoness, a bond picked out in his memory as soul deep. Chains of the mind could never bind his soul. They could taint a Dragon’s truest fires, however, and turn his deeds to dark paths. Held helpless thrall to the Thoralians’ will, the Shadow Dragon followed the triplicate of hulking Yellow-Whites down to the cavern’s floor. Already, their scales were rimed with steaming ice, their signature power. Only the acid-etched dullness of Ardan’s fires betrayed the inner rebellion that stubbornly contested their mental dominance – the knowledge that this choice was not his. A Dragon should choose his own flight path, and not be subjugated by another.

His thoughts twisted.

Only in the freedom granted by her death would he become whole, freed from dark fires doubt. The Star must perish! Enemy!

As the foursome landed, Gangurtharr bared his fangs and said unpleasantly, “Back for another whipping, you yellow smears of slug slime? You fled with your poor little tails tucked between your legs last time, as I recall.”

The Thoralians snarled as one, “You are insignificant, flabby-belly. BE SILENT!”

Their roar was a psychic uppercut. Battle on! It was calculated to place the enemy on the back paw; to instil the fear of death in his craven soul. The blot of his oath connected magic flared painfully as Aranya responded, somehow pliant and responsive to her companions’ need. She deflected rather than opposed outright, and that was what saved her. As it was, the Gladiator Dragon staggered, and the Azingloriax Marshal flinched. Ardan’s eyes flicked to the bulky soldier. What was that strangeness about him? His psyche and his person seemed somehow concealed even from a Shadow Dragon’s powers of insight, and that bracelet he wore upon his arm was stranger still.

He carries a weapon or artefact with unknown magical qualities, he dutifully informed the triplicate. No data as yet. Observing.

Continue, said Secondary. Ah, the advent of Azhukazi is at paw. Prime.

Swaggering toward the petite Amethyst Dragoness, the better to menace her from his lofty height, the Prime Thoralian snarled, “Indeed, you are all insignificant blemishes on my path to the ultimate destiny – a destiny you of pathetic minds and stunted ambition cannot possibly imagine! But my prize is about to drop into my paws. Don’t you dare interfere, Aranya – you or your coterie of tiny paw lickers – or I will channel the First Egg’s power to pinch out the wick of every life upon this pathetic Island!”

His shell brothers prowled upon either flank, watching the Star for the slightest move, but she seemed uncannily cool. Ardan stood slightly off to one side, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

GRAABBOOM!

With a sound like an Island’s cliff collapsing, the ceiling crumpled and the Iolite Blue punched through in a spray of rock fragments, his power at once palpable and fey. How had he concealed the very fire life within his bones and veins, making himself undetectable to the Thoralians’ every artifice?

The great Necromancer’s battle roar rattled the cavern’s very stones. AZHUKAZI!!

As one beast, the Thoralians charged into battle.

Chapter 11: Necromancer

GRANITE Shards SPRAYED across the chamber as Azhukazi, a mighty bruiser with scales the colour of smoky sapphires, his distinct iolite gemstone colour, plunged toward the group of Dragons. No creature was waiting for permission this time. Iridiana seared into battle with the artless impetuosity of inexperience, making Aranya, closely linked with Zuziana so that they could apply two minds rather than one to the complexity of what they were attempting to achieve, bite her tongue in annoyance. Amateur. The Iridium clacked her fangs against a Thoralian’s ice-cold hide before discovering just how impenetrable the Amethyst knew it to be; she concentrated on the inner battle of keeping Ardan at bay by deploying a cunning multiphasic shield which was triggered each time by his appearance-disappearance routine – the concept essentially relied upon a ‘filled-in’ shield that did not bound a volume of space so much as permeate all of the available space, reacting whenever and wherever he re-embodied by flashing scorching white fires in his face.

The Shadow seemed to find this approach suitably exasperating. For long seconds he did not land a single successful attack. Iridiana clobbered him in the jaw with a straight punch that he shrugged off, clearly mistaking her for Aranya as he roared, Immadian traitor! Gang somehow managed to wriggle around her gyrating body mid-air to slam his open-pawed, raking talons across a Thoralian’s unprotected underparts, but the Yellow-White Shapeshifter ignored a blow that would have disembowelled any other Dragon. Those brilliant Iridium scales flared and winked back the fireballs and lightning strikes of an all-claws-in Dragon brawl as Huari weighed in with a few meaty strikes of her own, and Azhukazi was not even in the picture as yet!

Right. Iridiana finally managed to chip a few of Thoralian’s fangs with a strike that had Aranya nodding in approval, even as she wondered how that manoeuvre had been physically possible, since her blow appeared to pass right through Thoralian’s upraised defensive paw to bruise his lip. Decent going for a mite. The Thoralians responded by propelling her and Gang across the chamber with a scything wall of ice, pummelling them mercilessly until Aranya whisked a shield around them and yanked the pair out of harm’s way.

The fledgling returned to Asturbar’s side with her tail drooping and mouth agape, panting heavily. Iridiana had that slightly glazed look about the eyes, shock mixed with the overwhelming feedback of Dragon battle reactions and a Dragonship-load of fresh awe for her foe. Aranya clenched her right forepaw. Aye, she knew exactly how that first taste of real Dragon battle felt!

Iridiana’s whisper was low, but nonetheless carried to the Princess’ hearing, “Wow. Tough crew.”

Tough? She had no idea! Crudely, Aranya jammed the Thoralians’ efforts to draw power from the First Egg, hissing to herself as a backlash of pain set her spine afire. Her eye membranes blinked. Odd. Had she felt a draw from somewhere without the Island? Sneakily, carefully, she compartmentalised her mind and set a small tendril of magic to work. Were the Thoralians being devious? She started by answering her own question with ‘aye’ and worked from there.

“You alright?” Boots asked.

Iridiana voiced a burbling laugh. “I’m tougher.”

Ugh. It would not do for her to start liking the feisty-shy Dragoness, would it? Aranya grinned at her sizzling reaction to words which might as well have been her own, and then scrambled to throw up all shields as the linked Thoralians tried to blast-freeze everything within the hall with a coruscating whirlwind of ice, this one infused with explosive dark fires kernels and arcane, mind-jolting powers. How the volcanic hells did he even begin to achieve that effect? Her posture was necessarily defensive. The underlying strategy was to force the Thoralians to over-expend their power while denying them the opportunity to draw more from the First Egg. That font could not be illimitable, could it?

Before, she had always been the first to attack and had led from that position. Now, she must allow her companions to draw the Thoralians’ fire. It was harder than she had anticipated. How could they succeed without her leading the charge?

Fiercely, Zuziana hissed within her, You should mix it up, Immadia!

Mix what up?

Danger – move!

The Amethyst Dragoness jolted into action as the Thoralians, rising into the air, set about firing chunks of ice about the chamber – chunks the size of houses. The rare Iolite Blue displayed his own prowess by dodging, deflecting or shattering the strikes on his bleeding, ice-encrusted knuckles as he descended, apparently unmoved by the flurry. Breathtaking arrogance creased his features and blazed in his eyes as he considered the Thoralians with a calm demeanour, learning. Plotting. Several times he gestured as though attempting to deploy his unique powers, but the Thoralians fended off the attacks, as slippery and unruly as ever. Meantime, her companions were forced more and more onto the back foot or paw. Ardan still could not find a way to make a clean strike. His muzzle smoked both with charred Dragonflesh and his broiling temper. Eventually, he gave up on Shadowing and embodied fully, stalking Gangurtharr about the tan-walled hall, which suddenly seemed half the size now that it was stuffed to the rafters with wrathful Dragons. She noted that Asturbar’s troops had assumed pre-planned defensive positions out of harm’s way. They had already pinned one Thoralian through the tongue with a crossbow bolt, while Azhukazi wore a brace of bolts in his left flank that he ignored.

We must attack too – be wily, or he’ll sniff out a purely defensive strategy and counter it, the Remoyan clarified. I’ll keep a fiery eyeball on that disturbance you sensed.

How to tackle these beasts differently, though, Remoy …

Fight like Sapphire, chirped a smaller voice.

Fight like a dragonet? She had heard worse ideas, some of them spilled from her own mouth. You’re a shrewd one, Sapphire!

The dragonet’s soul presence primped and smirked up a minor whirlwind in there.

She could use that.

Rising, Aranya launched into the path of several of the Thoralians’ tumbling ice blocks, jinking and feinting multiple times with dragonet-worthy deftness to throw off their aim, before she sensed Ardan coming. Without looking she kicked him brutally in the jaw – slug! She channelled Sapphire’s knowledge to somersault away between chunks of flying debris, causing one of the steaming Thoralians to inadvertently spear another in the belly with a twenty-foot ice shard. BRAAOORRR!! the pair thundered at each other. Meantime, Aranya whisked Ri’arion out of harm’s way with a neat wingtip’s edge swerve-and-pilfer manoeuvre. Perfect. She cartwheeled down the side of a tumbling ice boulder, clamped her talons to its underside, and used the rotational momentum to slingshot free.

Ha! Watching this, Sapphire?

Swishy! screeched the dragonet. Swirly-fun!

Her answering laughter emerged low and hungry.

I’ll take the Necromancer! cried the monk.

She launched him up toward Azhukazi as the triplicate rose higher, rotating slowly in their characteristic circular configuration as they fed off and supplemented each other’s power.

Whatever was the matter with Asturbar? He looked as if something were eating him from the inside out. Given half a chance, Aranya would have loved to offer aid, but she had bigger issues to deal with, not worrying about the way that – unholy smoking volcanoes! A fourth Thoralian? Aye, by triangulating the location of his attempted power-drains with Leandrial’s help and that of the Land Dragoness’ spread-out kin, she had clearly identified the location of an additional Thoralian four miles North of the fortress.

As guileful as ever.

One of these within the hall must be an imposter, or the most incredible illusion she had ever encountered.

Barely had the thought formed, when a breathless word from Zip alerted her. Twirl! Air-bounce! She twisted fractionally above an ice shard flurry from two Thoralians on one flank and Ardan’s fireball incoming from the other, a perfectly orchestrated attack, and could not avoid all. Ardan’s shot enveloped her in a roaring, roiling mass of dark-crimson flame that clung to her head and upper torso, while she had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt in pain as the Thoralians’ ice attack stitched holes all along his flank. Nasty. There was a disruptive quality to this Sapphire-led choreography.

Ari clumsy-fun, giggled the dragonet. Learn good?

Great. Vote of confidence, friend.

As the fires cleared from her eyes, she saw a light mauve blur extend across the chamber at an impossible speed, suddenly resolving into the Marshal’s battle-axe somehow having grown two hundred feet long and thirty broad. In a blink, the Asturbar-Iridiana meld scythed their unearthly weapon into one of the Thoralians with such immensity of purpose and power, she thought for a moment Fra’anior’s own paw had reached inside the hall to smite the foe.

KRAKABOOM!!

The weapon dissolved in shuddering, undulating disarray at the mighty backlash their overstretched attack provoked, while the Thoralian expired in a puff of sallow smoke. The decoy!

What misfortune.

Asturbar fell from a height of two hundred feet with Gang in hot pursuit; Aranya’s neck twizzled to see Azhukazi’s blurred talons snatching the dazed Iridium Dragoness out of the air. Healing Iridiana … she touched – ouch! The Dragoness’ mind was like touching a churning fireball comprised of razor sharp blades.

Nothing amateur about that knockout blow!

The Iolite Blue snarled, Got you. Marshal! I’ll have the Jewels – what the –

The Chaos Beast went mad. All within the Necromancer’s cupped paws become a blur of different Dragon forms before the creature slithered free, hewed a chunk out of his tongue and promptly vanished down one of his nostrils with a wild contortion of impossibility, only to reappear out of the other accompanied by a shower of golden Dragon blood. Clearly, her dragonet impressions were far superior to Aranya’s, but then she was doing ten things at once – shielding Gang from a lurking Shadow Dragon, slapping a Thoralian with a psychic blast, denying the third member of their ghastly trio access to the Egg, and snarling up Azhukazi’s paws so that he missed four successive strikes and Iridiana was able to essay a decent attempt at beheading him. Had her talons been four times longer, she would have succeeded. Gold spurted from three deep incisions beneath his throat, but the Dragon’s natural healing magic forced the muscles to close over a spurting major artery.

Gang flashed into an assault! Spinning upon her axis to monitor his movement, Aranya delicately applied a touch of kinetic force to bolster Gangurtharr as he flipped with incredible grace for such a marvellously chunky Gladiator Dragon – he had Asturbar upon his back in Rider position now, in a way that neither she nor Iridiana could have managed – as his full bulk body-slammed one Thoralian into another, and drove them both so hard into the hall’s floor, they produced ring-shaped blasts of grey dust and cracks splintered around their bodies.

GRABOOM!! The Island shuddered at the impact. The Azure Dragoness’ laughter bellowed within her as one of the Yellow-White Shapeshifters gasped like a speared trout, jaw agape as he tried desperately to suck air into his collapsed lungs. He was hurt. Badly.

“Guess what the flabby belly’s for?” Gang roared.

The stricken Thoralian clearly had no idea where his opponent even was, for the Gladiator kicked a ten-foot trench into his flank, his talons plucking the other Dragon’s ribcage like a ghastly xylophone, while Huari swept overhead, bundling the second shell brother away from her mate with a flurry of ferocious strikes and fireballs so white-hot, they sizzled through the enemy Dragon’s armour and cremated his flesh. Thoralian’s bellowing hit a shrill peak of pain as she bundled him away. Huaricithe did not give him an inch. She stuck closer than his own scales as the Dragon rolled over and writhed, for a second appearing as if he were a hound exposing his belly for a scratch. Despite her diminutive size, the Navy Blue Shapeshifter knew a thing or two about dealing out damage, and she was in an implacable mood.

Asturbar against Ardan! A pinpoint strike of the battle-axe into a wing nerve-bundle sent the Shadow slewing away, momentarily disabled.

The Navy Blue cried, Aranya!

Now, Huari! They joined together, pounding Ardan with successive rapid-fire psychic strikes in the hope of breaking him free of the Thoralians’ hold upon his mind. He slipped away like dark, vengeful smoke to where they could no longer reach him.

The Amethyst had just spun around Asturbar’s back, protecting him from a fireball that had ‘death courtesy of Thoralian’ written upon it, and was searching for the as-yet unknown quantity of Azhukazi amidst the smoke and mayhem, when an agonised scream arrested her movement. A scream that whipped her straight back to Thoralian’s torture chambers in Sylakia, where she, Jia-Llonya and Yolathion had once been unwilling guests of honour.

Azhukazi held a tall girl of silvery-blue skin tone aloft, somehow arresting and excruciating her limbs with his terrible power, so that the bones twisted visibly with each wrenching motion despite his paws not moving an inch. From her viewpoint, she saw the girl from behind her left flank, so that even though she threw back her ebon locks as she shrieked a second time, Aranya could not see her face. Iridiana! Her lustrous dark hair undulated about her spare frame as the Necromancer’s great strength and magic held her helpless; beyond the rictus formed by those overstretched Human limbs, she saw Asturbar’s face turn as pallid as Immadian ice.

“IRIDIANA!” Asturbar roared.

Crimson trickled from the corner of his mouth.

“You have something of mine, Marshal,” grated the Iolite Blue.

“Wait. Don’t hurt her.” The Amethyst sidled behind a frozen Huaricithe, her every sense preternaturally alert as she watched the giant soldier seated upon Gangurtharr’s back. She sensed his goodness. His pain. What was he hiding? “I’ll get you the Jewels. Just stop the torture. Please.”

Azhukazi growled, “Be quick, or I will force every bone out through her skin, and turn this abominable little Chaos Beast into a puddle of liquid on your floor.”

* * * *

Charming, said Prime Thoralian, sharing his malicious amusement with the triplicate through their private telepathic link. I’m starting to enjoy that worm’s antics. I hope his hearts taste good.

Tertiary put in, So, this is a Chaos Beast? Pathetic. Nought to fear nor power to desire here, brothers.

Laughter gurgled in Ardan’s throat, but he was not about to allow the scarred Amethyst and her new ally out of his sight. They were too shrewd by far. The Iridium Dragoness had begun to display her outlandish powers, but this Necromancer was a hoary beast long in the fang and mighty in battle, confident in the unique abilities he wielded. To see bones come alive like that – a ghastly acidic taste squeezed into his craw as the Dragon considered the pain the girl must be subjected to. She was lean and lanky like Aranya, but that freakish blue skin lent her an alien cast.

“I’m waiting,” Azhukazi murmured, infinitely threatening.

Asturbar said, “Uh … Star Dragoness?”

“Don’t tell me – this treasure isn’t inside your stomach, perchance?” The Amethyst flicked a talon out of its sheath. Snick. Ardan did not understand her jest, unless she was trying to communicate something, or was buying time for another gambit she had planned …

’Ware her trickery, Masters.

Monitoring, they chorused, but their tone dismissed his concern.

Asturbar said to Azhukazi, “Yes, the Jewels are inside my stomach. That’s how I stole them. I would have the Star Dragoness perform a quick … ah, surgical extraction. Just don’t hurt Iridiana.”

Oh ho-HOO-HOO! sniggered the Thoralians, as the man’s pained tone struck a comical note.

“Go ahead,” Azhukazi sneered at Aranya. “Start at the neck and peel him slowly. It’s that, or this abomination’s death.”

A pregnant man? Whatever next? sneered Tertiary. Even Gangurtharr and Huaricithe appeared amused - fleetingly. The triplicate measured their stances. Mind the Navy Blue behind you, brother.

Aye, said Secondary. Observe, brothers. I sense fate’s paw will soon be upon us, once the Amethyst midwives this fool. Clearly, he swallowed the Jewels of Instashi in order to hide them from Azhukazi.

He’s the real threat, said Prime, calculating rapidly in his mind. Barely have we avoided his basal, glamour-faceted, ultra narrow focus rune magic constructs – what a matchless power! He bends the very fabric of reality, a death-grip of magic upon living substance … but how?

The truth is deeper, Masters. I see it as if Shadow reaches through flesh to control her verimost fire essence, Ardan supplied, using the Dragonish word similar to the Human concept of marrow to describe the fundamental fire pathways of the draconic being, which had mystified scholars and philosophers for centuries. What precise interaction between flesh, fire and magic caused a life’s fires to arise and persist within a physical body was a great mystery; greater still, the metaphysical conundrum of how fire essence shaped or described the draconic soul, and how its absence inevitably denoted death. Only Shapeshifters seemed to transcend this barrier, living both as ostensibly fireless Humans and as fiery Dragonkind.

The Thoralians turned this information over within their minds, before integrating it into their precious heritage data. Prime said, Yes. The techniques differ but the endpoint effect is the same, a manipulation of life essence itself. Final decision, my brothers?

Kill, the triplicate intoned. Eat.

The Amethyst prowled across the space separating her from Asturbar. A mere fledgling. How could she yet hold the triplicate at bay? It was inconceivable – ah! Her allies are aiding the exterior jamming, Masters, said Ardan. Somehow Aranya has constructed a feedback loop with the Land Dragoness called Leandrial. See to that, and her protections will fail.

Good thinking again, Shadow, Prime approved. Azhukazi’s attention is divided and Aranya’s shield is vulnerable to a neutralising Harmonic attack. Initiate the takedown, brothers. Shadow, stand ready. Countdown in three … two …

Lightly, Aranya said, “Remove the breastplate, soldier, or I will be forced to peel your hide.”

Ardan’s eyes burned upon her, before he shifted his regard to the other girl. Pretty little scrap. She would look good screaming in his paw.

With the perfection of timing made possible by the Thoralians’ deep mental bond, they attacked as a quartet. Shield down – Shadow – attack! All was accomplished within a pawful of milliseconds. Ardan left the Iolite Blue with a bruised jaw and the indignity of holding no prize whatsoever in his rapacious grasp. Bone-wrenching power hardly mattered when he applied it to nothingness, did it? Yet there was a fragment of awareness that seemed to persist, to suck away from her bones like quicksand reluctantly giving up its victim. Deep in his Shadow space, Ardan regarded the phenomenon with keen attention. Did that mean Azhukazi invested something of his own soul into that link? Only oath magic operated at this level as far as he was aware.

Intriguing. He folded the insight in the inmost part of his being, where even the Thoralians could not easily reach. A Dragon must have leverage. He must guard his secrets well.

Without, the world seemed as insubstantial as veils and shadows cast by veils, a landscape of fires and draconic light dominated in size by the dense, vermilion-fire fortresses of the Thoralians’ minds with their strong covalent-like bonds reaching like dark, fibrous hawsers between them, and the glorious radiance of Aranya, tiny in comparison, yet all the complexity, beauty and brilliance of Star-life indwelled her impossibly compact draconic form.

Ha! She stalked him! How?

Azhukazi was offended and sore to boot. He let every Dragon know of the theft with a volley of thunderous bellows. Ardan Shadowed twice, keeping Iridiana with him – she seemed too shocked to accomplish any of her trickery – but he was too distracted by the unaccustomed privilege of being hunted by a vengeful Star Dragoness to care much, anyhow. Aranya flickered around the chamber after him, seeming to anticipate his moves even if he sneaked through what he had come to term his Shadow space.

Could the oath magic thus betray his location? Embodying unexpectedly, he attacked her savagely through the bond, driving Aranya backward with a pained headshake. Ha. So the psychic wasp sting technique he had gleaned from the Thoralians – whang! Boots slammed against his muzzle. Suddenly, he wore a battle-axe in his eye socket that he had not even seen, and Asturbar’s blow rocked him to the bone – both literally and figuratively. This man-beast was strong!

Roaring, Give me back Iridiana! the Marshal tried but failed to wrench the axe blade free.

Make me, you fool!

Agony! Aranya stitched the Thoralians’ bodies and wings with a sustained volley of her blue-hot fireballs, laced with the whiteness of Star Fire, making the mental network almost disintegrate beneath the successive waves of agony they provoked.

Ardan panted, She’s been holding back!

The Thoralians thundered, BROTHERS – NOW!!

His prize transformed! Ardan’s fist clenched instinctively as a dragonet he initially mistook for Sapphire tried to sneak between his talons; both the Marshal and his girlfriend cried out, but their pathetic mewling was drowned out as the triplicate finally broke through, marshalling the full power of the First Egg and turning it to their cause. The Thoralians surged up and fought back, crushing the Star Dragoness and her minions with the uttermost savagery.

Aranya was reduced to a quivering lump upon the stone floor; incredibly, still endowed with strength enough to save her companions’ lives from being extinguished. Mentally, physically, magically, they were clamped down as with shackles fit to bind Ancient Dragons.

Dramagon’s lore, running rampant!

Now, let us seize victory. Azhukazi the Iolite Blue. Come to us, the Thoralians demanded, unleashing the deluge of their hugely augmented mental powers upon the trapped Dragon.

Before Azhukazi could draw breath, they crushed him like a gnat.

* * * *

Aranya lay immobile, paralysed by the awful power wielded by the Thoralians as they finally broke through her shielding and subterfuge, and turned the battle. It was as if the Yellow-White Shapeshifter stood upon her neck with all of his weight, crushing her windpipe, while her every muscle trembled in hapless enervation. Could this be a Word of Command, or its equivalent expressed in the urzul-terms of Dramagon’s lore?

She felt an utter failure to rise to the mantle of Star Dragoness or Fra’anior’s kin. Even this effort had turned to dust – how had she not foreseen this eventuality? Sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness? But to her surprise, she was neither cowed nor broken.

She was furious.

Nearby, the ghastly sounds of a Thoralian feast began. The leathery peeling, sucking sound of Dragon hide preceded the remaining pair ripping into Azhukazi’s chest to expose his still-beating hearts. Muscle and tendon parted as their extraordinarily elongated talons scissored through his flesh. They made this astonishing feat seem facile, like a Dragon settling upon his favourite snack. She sensed the reflected pleasure of the Thoralian still located outside the Mistral Fires’ fortress, but he would not join in. He guarded against the anticipated arrival of her allies. They would be too late to this battle.

Engage brain. Concoct an escape. What could she still do?

Yes. YEEESSSS … hissed the Thoralians, bending their muzzles to their macabre orgy. Cannibals! Was this act linked to the way they parasitized power? How had the Iolite Blue been overcome so easily? Was their dominance all down to the Egg, and was she next?

Nak would have muttered about smelling a rat – or worse, his own mouldy socks.

That old Dragon Rider was a master of the unpredictable, however. He would have goggled at Iridiana with such flagrant … she paused. Of course!

Aranya breathed, Iridiana, are you there? Mercy, my petal, can you move?

Asturbar, came the whisper. Boots, you must safeguard the Star … The Dragoness’ concern was for her, whom she barely knew! Tears pricked her eyes. This poor girl and her mighty soldier – what had they done to deserve to run into the demented, power-hungry Thoralians in the first flower of their love?

She lay with her right paw outstretched, frozen in the act of reaching out to the Marshal to rescue him from a heavy fall, there at the last, as she had attacked with unbridled power. Black patches on the pair of Thoralians’ hides still smoked from the searing power she had unleashed. Not enough. Barely a foot separated her from Asturbar. While her ear canals were transfixed by the exhibition of cannibalisation, Aranya’s concentration focussed upon the Azingloriax warrior. Scheming. Analysing the odds. There were possibilities as yet left untapped, here. He hid the Jewels in his stomach. Was that how he had stolen them from Chanbar, or perhaps even from this Necromancer?

Ari touch big Boots, Sapphire ordered.

Uh …

Treasure, she declared self-importantly. Treasure got wings on. Flip-flap fun!

Had she been able, she would have dangled her jaw. As it was, Human Aranya, Zip and the Azure Dragoness gasped simultaneously at the import of her words. Could this man have hatched dragonets within his substantial stomach? She spluttered, He’s … really …

Preggie! Like Zippy-Zappy! Full of lovely-lovely babies, like my Zippy.

Oh, darling petal, I could just kiss you, Zip cooed.

Asturbar’s expression at this mental interchange wobbled between astounded, bemused and insulted. He must think her schizophrenic at best; perhaps if her mind had been spitting rainbow-coloured fireballs, he would have been less disturbed.

The soldier growled, Suffering murgalizards, what’s a Zippy-thing?

With a clear mental image of screwing up her tiny muzzle in disgust, the dragonet said, No smoochy Zip. Nice-nice Marshally – Ari hurry!

Asturbar clearly chewed back on a few flavoursome soldierly words and reached for his Dragoness instead. He’ll turn to me next, came the muted, despairing thread of Iridiana’s presence. Strength, Boots. Protect … birth him …

Help the Marshal give birth? She could do that, if only she could touch the man. Summoning her utmost power, Aranya began to scrape her paws across the warm stone floor toward him. Thoralian’s hold was immense, but lacked the absolutely unbreakable structures of a Word of Command. Her paw scraped and shuddered to a halt. Enervated.

An answering quiver from the soldier. Aye, come on, you big lump! Zip carolled. Do it!

Asturbar’s thick fingers resembled muscular caterpillars as they combat-crawled across the stone in response to her tiny, abortive attempt. Aranya smiled at him. Well done, soldier.

He seemed very capable in Dragonish, enough that he enjoyed telepathic communication with his Dragoness. Their bond also spilled into the emotional and cognitive realms, it appeared, for the soldier jerked painfully the instant Iridiana snapped into action in Ardan’s paw, trying to create a diversion to deflect attention from their slight movement toward connection. She sped into that crazed multi-transformation capability she possessed, her rattletrap quasi-draconic assault of lightning-spitting violet eels first unnerving the Shadow Dragon into trying to escape through Shadow space, and then in the instant he reappeared, she smashed him perhaps fifty times in succession in the jaw with what Aranya could only describe as silvery fountain of exploding Dragon paws, before burning his throat and spearing his chest with a spiny … thing. Ardan thundered his fury!

Kill! His talons sieved a pawful of dust. Rend! His jaws closed upon a pyre of flame that sprouted fangs and sliced his lips and tongue in a dozen places as she wriggled free of his bite. Grapple! She fizzed free with a giggle and a reflexive swipe at his snout.

The fingers twitched like a dying fish. Closer.

Azhukazi lay in a convulsing heap before the Thoralians’ paws. Gobbets of fire mixed with golden Dragon blood spurted out of his mouth and gaping chest with every laboured heave of his final death rattles. The incongruity of split Dragon sight speared her sorely. With her left fire eye, she saw the Thoralians sigh with deep satiation as they finished leering over their victim. Now they glanced up with unmistakable scorn to regard the frustrated Shadow Dragon’s antics. To her right flank, Asturbar’s obstinate finger-march continued. Five inches. Four. She forced her quivering paw over a smidgen. Just a touch … more …

The Thoralians sneered, Very well. Shadow, stop playing with the fledgling. Bring me this treasure the Iolite Blue valued so dearly.

Ardan said, I can’t –

You are weak, Shadow. There. She is held.

The Shadow bawled out a horrific laugh as he tried to smash Iridiana between his forepaws. The power he released was a thunderclap of darkness, a terrible detonation exacerbated by his towering anger. Aranya and Asturbar cried out in concert; her reflexive mental counterstrike forced him to partially miss his first attempt, making him look like a juggler comically fumbling a lively lilac baton, but the triplicate’s power swelled and the second blow struck the pretty fledgling far harder, driving her with a bone-jarring impact against the unyielding blockade of Ardan’s chest. She slumped into a strand of indigo-coloured flowers, pouring out between the Shadow Dragon’s talons as he struck a mighty pose that declared the destruction of his enemy. He disdained even to look upon the Iridium Dragoness, but Aranya detected a flicker of life in her uncanny body. Unconscious, but alive.

Flowers? A dracofloral form? This girl was either the greatest master of physical Shapeshifting she had ever encountered, or her fey power was rooted in the forbidden madness of Chaos. Either way, she was not about to allow the Thoralians free rein with her new ally.

Later, she must consult Fra’anior about the conundrum Iridiana represented.

Ardan! Fire eyes ablaze with a majestic, seething fury such as only the Dragonkind could summon, the Shadow Dragon rent the stones with his smoking onyx talons as he returned her gaze. Aranya shuddered at the malice she beheld in his demeanour.

Hurry up! Thoralian hissed. Fetch the Jewels out of his stomach, you fool!

Ardan’s grin was a study in the enigma of draconic ferocity.

Not while I live, she snarled.

The Shadow Dragon roared, AS YOU WISH, STAR DRAGONESS!

She knew his purpose with prescient clarity. She saw the vindictive clouds of Thoralian cognitive-magical calculation that poisoned his mind. Vengeance. Solace. Release! The soul power which he held and rightly feared, now rose to prominence as he curled and sprang like a dark, blurred bolt of lightning across the chamber at her. Yet in the touch of the Marshal’s fingers, she found herself connected to a most unforeseen sensation, the six-fold fires of draconic life embracing this man’s soul. Little ones. Tiny flame hearts possessed of a pearlescent purity she had only ever encountered in a few fragmented scintillas of time, when it seemed that she touched or tasted a hint of the most intimate, searing mysteries of white fires truth.

O precious infinitude of draconic life!

Aranya enveloped the egglings in a flash of brooding, maternal protectiveness, staggered by the wealth of emotion triggered within her breast by this instant of bonding. They imbued the matrix of her existence with intertwined, ethereal threads of nascent eternity.

The Shadow’s impact struck her mortal soul – that was the only word she had to describe the ghastly, distressing sensation – such a crushing blow, it should by rights have torn her verimost essence clean out of whatever hold or link of flesh or mind sustained it. The impact shook her to the core. Distinctly, she felt a frisson of flame ricochet from her paw into Asturbar’s hand, but her battered mind was preoccupied with an image of Ardan, stymied and traumatised, tumbling over her prone form as though he had tripped over an immovable obstacle during a flat-out sprint.

The Thoralians voiced an echoing bugle of disbelief. They must have known the import of that power, savouring the sweet moment when the Shadow must perforce murder his beloved – yet, she lived, and was conscious of the absence of one soul, bereft of its home … Sapphire? No! She could not bear another loss! Sapphire! O darling, where –

Here, giggled Asturbar’s stomach.

Aranya screamed!

Chapter 12: Underestimation Woes

SMOKING of SCALES, bellowing and smarting in ways and places for which he had no words, the Shadow Dragon shakily picked up a paw here and a wing there and tried to work out if everything was still connected as it ought to be. Every magical pathway of his being reverberated as if he were a gong struck by an amethyst paw, yet above all this, the sight of Aranya staring Moons-eyed at the Marshal roused his fires in the ugliest possible way. That was … the longer he stared, the more pyretic the darkest expression of draconic hubris-jealousy trembled every magical pathway of his being, burning like the exquisite application of a neurotoxin. Mine. MINE!

He cracked open his jaw, only to have it clacked shut for him. An unknowable force dragged him backward around the chamber. His talons gouged trenches in the granite, generating notes of shrill, stabbing protest. Next, a maelstrom of Dragoness-flavoured insanity fizzed past his eyes in a ludicrous, frothing blend of mauve, windswept bubbles and the flapping, tangled wings, limbs and tails of Fra’anior alone knew how many Thoralians, Gangs, bleeding corpses and blue-hued Shapeshifters. He himself was slung about by his tail as though he were a dishrag of insignificant heft, completely at the mercy of this bamboozling phenomenon, which trout-slapped his head against a wall here and casually demolished a catapult there. Any engineer possessed of half a brain must long since have fled to safety. Ardan’s aggrieved bellows emerged from lips mashed against the stone floor as he was dragged three hundred feet backward at such high speed that sparks skittered off his scales, and then his sensitive underparts smashed into a staircase. End of staircase. Reason eclipsed in blinding pain.

The Shadow collapsed in a pile of debris, stunned, trying to work out what had just hit him.

All he could think was that he had occasionally considered Aranya to be illogical or downright contrarian, but she was always, ultimately, focussed upon her goals. This was epic madness on a different scale.

Then, his debris-obstructed view of an Island-World’s reality blasted to pieces took another turn for the worse as an avalanche of Dragonflesh arrived in the chamber. Untold tonnes landed in a corpulent, quivering heap not ten feet from his nose and started splintering a solid granite floor with bone hammers the size of Dragonships.

He blenched. Azhukazi’s creation!

Ardan had never been gladder to be tucked out of harm’s way. Now, what was Aranya – she had her talons buried in the Marshal’s belly!

His neck twizzled again as a brain-frazzling stench assaulted his nostrils. The two Thoralians, one limping heavily from his earlier pasting by the Gladiator Dragon, reversed course ahead of a thumping monster of a woodpile – a perfect mountain of pretty, mauve-coloured wood that appeared to have the consistency of draconic scales and out-bulked Genholme, he estimated – and the fully-grown Dragons were shaking their muzzles and mewling like distressed newborns as the wood Dragon sprayed them with a kaleidoscopic scent barrage. That gorgeous iridium sheen. It had to be Iridiana, but how by all that was holy was she producing pseudo-draconic forms that boasted such incredible accuracy, presence and power? Her pugnacious stench hit him full force now. Immediately it seemed to him that the stink set about quarrying sizzling acid holes inside his sensitive nostrils, stinging with such raw aggression that Ardan leaped to his paws, clawing at his own muzzle in a welter of torture that out-screamed even his throbbing, bruised male parts. Flaming talons! Eye-watering pain! Ugh, he wanted to vomit …

His reflexive battle challenge emerged as a shocked squeak, however, when he saw what had just happened to Asturbar. Ri’arion sat behind him, supporting the big man as Aranya delicately extracted something living from a deep incision across his abdomen.

A dragonet!

Man birth? Never mind the end of sanity! Ardan feared the world was about to crash down around his ear canals.

* * * *

Stuck somewhere inside Asturbar’s stomach, Sapphire was being her usual sassy, rambunctious self. Aranya shook her muzzle. Playing midwife to dragonets plus her tiny dragonet friend amidst a battle with the Thoralians? She had thought Ardan singing her free of a Word of Command was zany. This beggared belief.

“Pucker up, big boy,” her inner Zuziana provoked Asturbar, drawing a double-take from the beleaguered soldier. With talons buried within his belly, snipping his guts apart, the man had reason for his confusion. “It’ll only hurt for a second. Aranya’s very, very good at –”

Time to see the world, Sapphire burbled enthusiastically, evidently more than prepared to play shell mother to these tiny, blood-streaked white dragonets. Come, my lovely brood. Let’s clear this cesspit of nastiness –

Insolent pest! snorted Asturbar.

That’s me, Sapphire chirped back. Your bowels are no warren, soldier. They’re foetid and uncomfortable.

My pleasure to return life to you, Sapphire, he replied.

Oh … spluttered the sapphire dragonet.

Rightly, that tempered the mite’s cheek. Aranya was nonetheless shocked. Had he so clearly understood the miraculous transfer, identifying Sapphire’s origin as within her being? Astute! As for Sapphire, she had apparently re-embodied full of every grain of her former vim and vivaciousness, because the dragonet was calming the clawing hatchlings now and helping them escape through the incision. Blue paws even passed them out! Now, there was a sight.

The dragonets were white at first glance, blood-streaked from their journey out of Asturbar’s stomach, but she noticed their scales evinced a delicate translucency that hinted at the subtle chrysoprase colours she had once or twice observed when exploring one of Immadia’s permanent glaciers. What would their powers be, she wondered? As the fourth evacuee emerged, the tiny dragonets gathered together into a tight-knit group as though seeking the warmth and security of a warren, and began to lick and groom each other. The fourth was a couple of inches larger than the others, an achingly slender mite barely one foot across the wingtips, but he already displayed the awareness and capability that the Dragonkind enjoyed from the instant they broke the shell.

Sapphire squeezed out now! Aranya could not speak for the infernos of love igniting her being.

Embodied!

The Marshal blurted out, “Oh, she’s so cute!”

The shameless queen of dragonet-ish drama instantly began her familiar preening routine, addressing the Marshal with a coquettish whirl of her fire eyes. I’m starting to like you too, man-mommy … oh, Aranyi! I missed you!

You’re alive, my darling! wheezed the Star. Oh mercy, thought you were gone forever … and now such hope ignites my Dragoness’ hearts …

WILL YOU KINDLY HELP US? Gangurtharr thundered.

Oh! She had been responding automatically to this unfolding drama, but Dragoness Aranya now realised that her Human and both Zuzianas had meantime been taking care of matters battle-oriented. The conflict was heading into the abyss at pace, Beran would have said. As the triplicate drew untold power from the Egg, her Humansoul continued to interfere, blockading and shielding to the best of her waning ability, but the Thoralians’ strength grew apace even as she grew weaker. It was impossible to replenish one’s resources as rapidly as these successive battles demanded – even the Thoralians knew this, and were forced to support each other, constantly bellowing orders at the Shadow Dragon as if he had no mind of his own. She thought she saw darkness moving beyond the toad-beast’s immense paws. In a moment they would have another problem of the nature of Ardan, for she knew she could block him no longer. The filled-in shield had been fragmented in the fray, and now Azhukazi’s creature impeded its implementation still further.

How would the Dragonfriend have solved this problem?

Dance? Be quick! Yet she could not tear herself away from the drama unfolding around Asturbar, not for all her vaunted prowess at dividing her attention between many tasks at once. High sentiment held her in the present, and in that moment of unalloyed focus upon her friend’s renewed life, she discovered the beauty of a miracle unfolding before her entranced eyes. Its beauty soaked into her soul, slaking her cry for purpose, for restoration, for healing.

Her Humansoul carolled, Sapphire reincarnate!

One soul, one Shapeshifter, two living entities. How was that phenomenon even possible? How Aranya yearned for greater insight into these precious mysteries.

The Amethyst Dragoness gasped, Sapphire, you embodied! And Zuzi –

Still inside, girlfriend, her friend responded with the sensation of a paw-slap of encouragement. Time to go finish that job we started back in Sylakia.

Aye.

Dig deep. Her first dance step was to taste and know the adamantine purpose which had brought her this far. As she found her paws, Aranya focussed passionately upon the powers which seemed to have come last to her, but represented the most quintessential fires of her soul. Injured, battered, frustrated, marred – a Star must still shine. That was her ultimate purpose; one she had been wont to abnegate because her self-belief had been so sorely tested, Aranya realised now. She was trying to accomplish everything in her own strength, by rational endeavour, when the dance should be as simple as child’s play and as profound as the mysteries of star life.

She might not possess the resources, but she knew one who did.

One who, despite her fey and unconventional nature, might just be persuaded to annoy the Thoralians to death. Literally, her Dragoness laughed, even while her Humansoul clucked her tongue in faux annoyance at the dreadful pun.

Iridiana.

Fear! Bewilderment-pain-fury!

Iridiana, I need you. Please listen …

Aranya reached for the Shapeshifter, trying not to recoil at that spiny thornbush of a mind with its immense, ever-shifting natural protections. Heavens raining fireballs, the girl was a mental savant! She must not grapple with her in anger or vexation. No arrogant Princess moments here. Aranya soothed, cajoled and offered.

Come, wing sister, fire sister. Taste of my strength. I will help you.

Don’t touch me! I am so afraid – the Dragoness broke off, hyperventilating for a few short seconds as the Thoralians stalked Gang, and then she sprang to the Gladiator’s aid. Rapid-fire transformations attacked the Yellow-White Shapeshifters in eye-blurring succession. He beat her away with a monstrous broadside of ice that attempted to shovel her aside by main force, accompanied by psychic blows that shattered upon – Aranya blinked – a boulder? Had she just thought that solution into Iridiana?

What could that girl not do?

Iridiana wailed, Get away from me, o Star! You must – you cannot risk –

Never. You are my ally, my friend, a treasure beyond price.

I will infect you with Chaos!

The Iridium Shapeshifter flitted through three disparate dragonet forms as the Thoralians swatted at her, around her, through her – one brother struck the other a swingeing blow in his frustration. Huaricithe and Gangurtharr piled in with vicious snarls, trying to double-team the injured Thoralian, but strength suffused the pair as the third finally opened the floodgates of the Egg’s capacity. Huari, Gang together with Ri’arion, and Iridiana had all teamed up now, but they were coming under an increasingly heavy bombardment of mental strikes, magical attacks and physical fisticuffs. Metallic-seeming ice rimed the Thoralians’ paws in sheaths four feet thick, lending their blows a prodigious weight.

She supported the stricken Asturbar with one paw, having to halt any thought of healing now to concentrate on her companions. Any second now, this battle would come to a head. The Yellow-White pair grew stronger and more dangerous-looking by the second, arrogantly stalking her friends around the mighty hammering beast as Aranya shielded, averted and confused the Thoralians. Her efforts were an insect’s fluttering against a thunderstorm. The Thoralians sloughed it all off or bulled through. Their third member pounded her and Zuziana incessantly now, trying to break through by sheer, bloody-minded force – perhaps as they had overcome Azhukazi, she imagined. Melding with Ri’arion, she endured.

Softly, Aranya conversed with Iridiana, saying, I am the purity of Starlight. You are less fearsome than you seem, noble Dragoness. You feel scared and isolated. I understand that fear. Look into my memories –

NO! Madness-fire-rage-pain screamed into her mind.

Aranya absorbed the whiplash of the girl’s emotions, and returned a warm flood of wing-sister-love. How clearly she remembered this terror of the unknown flame burning within; the fear that it would explode, injuring those she loved – as she had once burned Yolathion. No. It doesn’t need to be so.

Why?

We will find a way. You have Boots; you have me and all these noble Dragons besides. Wake up! Hope is here, driving away fear. You are more than you imagine. Girl, Dragoness, Shapeshifter … she heaved a breath that clawed her throat, struggling to express what burned within her soul.

No. Aranya …

Moreover, you are MINE!!

The sevenfold, possessive cry of an Ancient Dragon’s ardour for his creation stunned Aranya even as it stunned Iridiana. MINE! Cherished possession. Beloved child. Beautiful daughter of the fury of his most elemental fires!

Ambushed by this incredible vision, Iridiana swerved into her Iridium Dragoness form and took a dreadful blow from Thoralian’s right fist directly in the base of her neck, just above the second heart. As if she had taken the brunt of that blow herself, Aranya cried out as Iridiana juddered and collapsed – they were so similar, young women and Dragonesses under attack by the same enemy, she felt an unaccountably intense sense of protectiveness toward one she barely knew. She was Aranya, in that instant. An extension of her own fire life. That was why she had cried out, MINE! Surely, for this was how Fra’anior fire-loved her, with a fierce, tender and abiding affection.

Clutching the young Dragoness by the neck, Thoralian waved her in Aranya’s direction. STOP! roared the Yellow-White. I have what I want – a new, greater power even than those wretched Jewels could ever have granted me. Shadow! We’re leaving, Aranya of Immadia, and you will not stop us.

I won’t? hissed the Shapeshifter Princess.

If he tried to cannibalise Iridiana, or harm her any farther, Aranya would visit such a vengeance upon that triplicate! She had to intervene. Yet she could not do this alone, Humansoul whispered within. Her paw fell upon Asturbar.

Pour your greatest strength and love into Nyahi, Marshal!

I … yes. I shall, he gasped.

The other shell brother paused to worry at a gaping belly wound before sneering, Want to watch a little Dragoness die?

The other chimed in, No you won’t, because you will be too busy saving all of these poor people I will hurl into the Cloudlands! Your choice, Aranya. Chase me, and they all die.

He intended to cast down the Mistral Fires and watch them all perish. A terrible choice – one she would not make, for she vowed she would change the fates first. Thoralian held Iridiana high, but even as her neck curved over his paw, as if lolling there, Aranya caught the slight gleam of her eye. Aye, the Dragoness was ready. One final gambit …

She cried, Iridiana, hearken! You have to trust me and let that beast out. Let her out, and let her take the vengeance you would deny yourself, upon the Thoralians. If you truly are a Chaos Beast, she is your greatest power and your greatest gift – this I swear to you.

No, I am wicked! Evil to the core!

I am the Star Dragoness. By all the authority vested in me as the great shell daughter of Fra’anior, I declare that you are mistaken.

I-I c-c-cannot …

Cast aside your fears and become who you are … the Amethyst paused. Humansoul?

Human Aranya said raptly, Know Asturbar’s love for thee, Iridiana! This man loves all that you are. Personally, I think he’s a touch Moons-crazed himself – the Iridium Dragoness almost chuckled aloud at this – but he tells me he has seen your worst, and still loves you. That’s enough. Let it be enough for this day, Iridiana. Let it be!

In her mind’s eye, the slim face of that Dragoness dipped to regard her beloved, even though her physical manifestation gave no sign of the terrible, attritional war raging within. Asturbar’s mien was that of serene ferocity. Pure. Potent. Intensely noble. Iridiana could not bear to gaze long upon such love, though Aranya sensed she wished to with all of her hearts. She warred against her greatest fears; against the terror she must have suppressed since the very first time these uncontrollable manifestations came upon her. Fragments of memory streaked past her awareness like stars plunging into a void. A man killed. A lurking Dragon-Shifter … a Chameleon? A dungeon cell. Exile and torture and isolation, and then the overwhelming blossoming of love for this man she called Boots. The monstrous chains that still bound her soul.

Aranya offered a key.

A symbol of freedom? Trembling of paw, Iridiana reached out to seize the gift, crooning, Thou, my Asturbar, the beloved face of mine strength. Thou, o Aranya.

Thou, the myriad facets of mine love, he returned. Arise in strength!

What a way to express his devotion to her multifaceted being! The Amethyst celebrated within. Now, Iridiana. Unleash the Chaos Beast.

With a cry that was a knell of despair laced with notes of jubilation, the Dragoness transformed.

* * * *

Ardan had just sneaked up behind Gangurtharr and sunk his fangs into the Gladiator’s tail when an eruption of wild, capricious magic arrested them both. Gang’s snarl stopped in his throat. Ardan could not even bring himself to chew.

Where Iridiana had been, resplendent white fires flared within Thoralian’s paw. He thought for a second that she and Aranya had switched places. Was this not the untrammelled brilliance of her signature Star Fire? But the light modulated from that aching purity of starlight to assume a distinctly metallic, mauve quality that he recognised from the Iridium Dragoness’ scales. Fused together? He had not even begun to shift to the Thoralian’s aid when an incredibly rapid transformation snapped into being, catching them all unawares. A misty, transparent beast coiled about the stalwart Yellow-White Shapeshifter, its prodigious iridium coils shimmering with an unknowable, infinitely changeable power, whilst dozens of draconic heads sprouted from its length, far faster than the eye could follow. Twisting, shimmering, seething with the force of her fury, every last one of the ethereal maws struck simultaneously, unleashing their unbearably dazzling flares across the Dragon’s scales and passing through his flesh to inflame the innermost parts of his being. The effect was instantaneous. Thoralian ignited as if he had, unheeding, plunged into the heart of a star.

Mercy!

One devastating attack wrought his ruin.

For a second, the Shadow saw Thoralian’s skeleton outlined in an incandescent conflagration; his injured shell brother stumbled backward with a choked, incredulous splutter of horror. Then all was grey dust, puffing away as the Shapeshifter’s remains collapsed into a pile of ash.

Cremated.

What power could immolate the bones of a creature of fire and magic?

Returned to her Dragoness form, Iridiana’s eye fires guttered. Her tongue fluttered as she struggled for air. Then, she slumped as though all volition had been snatched from her muscles.

The watching Dragons were trapped like flies in amber. Gaping at ashes. Disbelieving.

After an unendurable hiatus, the chamber erupted into chaos. Gang bellowed his fury at Ardan, the Marshal dashed toward the fallen Dragoness with his intestines spilling over his belt, and Aranya hunted the surviving Thoralian with a lethal glint in her eye Ardan recognised all too well.

That same glint had broken the back of the Sylakian Empire, and seen its favourite Shapeshifter son Garthion spitted upon a flagpole.

Brother, o my brother! roared Secondary, shivering with the psychic backlash of their shell brother’s expeditious death.

Tertiary warbled, Thou art fallen! O Prime, how thy glorious flame hath flown …

The sundering of a bond so aged and profound was no trivial injury. The surviving Thoralian stumbled away in full retreat now, and it was Ardan who had to steady his Masters. While Asturbar fussed over his fallen Iridium Dragoness – may she perish for her deeds – he lent a shoulder to the limp-pawed, trembling Dragon and feinted several times to keep Aranya at bay. How could he tear from himself the power to slip away now? That would mean abandoning –

Stay, Shadow, the Thoralians hissed. Help me!

Aye, Masters.

As his attention flickered to the fallen Iridiana, it seemed for a fraction of a second that he saw Aranya present in her place. They were both growing fledglings, and possessed a slender, balletic grace of form that delighted the draconic eye. The Iridium had metallic silvery scales to Aranya’s most prepossessing amethyst, but otherwise, the resemblance was striking. He must be more dazed than he had thought, but the impression refused to fade.

As the gigantic Marshal sobbed over the fallen Dragoness, imploring her to live, his instinctive jealousy triggered with a violent jolt – it should be him touching Aranya and comforting her, not that man! Fractional inattention. Clearly cognizant of his momentary weakness, Aranya slammed a great bolt of chain lightning into his left flank which sparked over to Thoralian, flipping him off his paws with a devastatingly precise combination of electric and kinetic powers. Separating the two male Dragons with a driving smash of her right shoulder into his lower flank, the Amethyst Dragoness rebounded to pursue her quarry. Meantime, Ardan found himself the unwelcome recipient of Gang and Huari’s attention to the tune of a monstrous buffet across the ear canals and a complimentary lightning strike that somehow paralysed his left hind leg and left it dragging behind him, as he retreated with an ignominious flap-flopping motion of his wings. He had to regroup. Gather his strength. Breathe!

Power! I need more power, shell brother, snarled Secondary.

Give it to me, Ardan demanded. I will spirit us away.

What … the monk! He could not tell which Thoralian had spoken, but he saw the monk summoning a cloud of seething, glittering onyx potentials to himself. The magic wreathed his limbs like coiling snakes, potent and mesmerising.

What now?

“In the name of Fra’anior the Onyx, I forbid you to leave for the eternal fires, Iridiana,” Ri’arion declared in his singsong accent. Golden blood seeped from the stricken Dragoness’ tongue. Ardan grimaced. The backlash had not only damaged the Thoralians. Such a surfeit of malign power imbued their flesh, an act of destruction must surely unleash some consequence. Hopefully, lethal consequence for that freak of a Chaos Beast!

The monk cried, “With me now, Asturbar. Your Dragoness needs you – good. You must bind her very soul. Iridiana, I bid you rouse all that is Dragon within you! Gird up your courage, mighty one, for I declare with the authority once given me as the Nameless Man that –” You are a daughter of Fra’anior! You shall stand against evil, and prevail, and no paw or power even unto death shalt overmaster thine purposes!

Ardan shuddered as if those words were spears cast into his third heart!

Viscous, bloody droplets of sweat splattered off the monk’s brow as he flung himself bodily upon the pair, howling, THOU WERT SHAPED FOR GREATER THINGS AS YET UNSEEN!

The thunder of Fra’anior’s promise!

This once-warrior of the Western Isles knew that voice, and knew too his own disobedience to one whose service he had accepted. The psychic shackles hissed and spat as his mind writhed, rebelling against the Thoralians’ demands, but the bonds were still imbedded far too strongly. He could not resist. Magic flooded his being as Tertiary prepared him for the act of Shadowing away another Dragon, singing strangely through his veins. What must a glut of such fey Egg magic do to a Dragon? Was the constant exposure not dangerous?

Aranya roared, “Give me the Egg, Thoralian!”

“No! You cannot have it!” shrieked the Yellow-White, launching himself awkwardly into the air. “I will destroy you all before I let you have it. Shadow! Take me hence – what? What’s the matter …”

The Shadow Dragon writhed in shock. Those wretched white mosquitoes! Led by Aranya’s perennial favourite Sapphire, the septet of dragonets had sprung an unanticipated trap, surrounding him with a gleaming, pearlescent shield that appeared no more substantial than a bubble upon a lava lake, yet although he triggered his power multiple times until he flickered like a guttering candle, he could not pass into his Shadow space! They formed a neat three-dimensional heptagon about him, and he could not touch them, for their shield was some arcane transposition of the very power he enjoyed to travel through what the scientists presumed was a parallel plane of draconic existence.

Chrysolitic Dragons. The thought popped clearly into his mind. The Dragonfriend’s lore spoke of such, did it not, of Dragonkind of the farthest North that claimed a power akin to his?

GRRAAA-GNARRR!! he thundered, shaking only himself.

Always, Ardan had relied upon his unique capability as both the ultimate weapon and the ultimate last resort. Other Dragons could not touch him when he Shadowed. He could lurk, ambush and spin away untouched. But with the Thoralians’ unrelenting demands exerted upon his psyche, he had been unable to battle as he wished – also, he felt enfeebled by the events of the last weeks. This surge of power he now enjoyed was nonetheless like pouring water into a leaking vessel.

Gangurtharr rasped, “Having a spot of trouble there, Shadow?”

“Feral fools!” roared Secondary, finding his wingbeat at last. “Have the beast, then. I have absorbed all I needed of his knowledge into my mind anyway. I’ve no further use for filth like him, nor for your whimsical nonsense, o child of Chaos!”

He dismissed them with a derisive paw gesture. “Follow me to the Rift if you dare. I promise I shall wipe out your entire pathetic bloodline one creature at a time, if needs be. Our battle is far from done, Aranya – for I shall rise again, yea, upon my word as a Dragon! All that you have accomplished is to create space in my triplicate for the newest member of my clan, the Ancient Dragon who tarries inside the First Egg, awaiting that glorious day I shall absorb him into mental harmony with my souls! Fear that day, little Star Dragoness. Fear it, and tremble!”

Aye, such a day should mark the summit of his ambitions.

Lashing out with claw and fist, fire and fury, the Shadow Dragon staked his claim upon the last stand he wished to make. He would never lie down. Never say die! He was a warrior born, dishonoured but proud. Aranya would not see his muzzle dip, not to her nor to these Thoralians.

He was Dragonkind!

* * * *

Zip swatted her friend’s mind. Oi! Trouble-icious! Planning to just let Thoralian wing away?

Watch.

Uh, right. Are we a tired Dragoness-petal? She spoke fondly, but felt an all-too-fleeting spurt of annoyance briefly stoke Aranya’s fires. Aye, her friend was finished – finished for this day, anyways. Acid disappointment stuck in her craw. She should give her a –

Zip screeched an unintelligible note, recoiling as a thunderbolt whistled down from the gloomy clouds above, passed through the broad hole in the hall’s roof, and speared into the bent back of Azhukazi’s beast. GRAAABOOM! Grey flesh and bone erupted from a shocking wound, splattering about the chamber and decorating Gangurtharr’s nose with a gobbet of flesh that made him look comically surprised. Like the other Dragons, he stepped backward charily as the beast vented a great groan and paused its hammering. Gang’s retreat turned into a scramble as the creature began to swell like a Dragonship balloon inflating in seconds rather than long hours.

“Freaking feral windrocs!” howled her monk. Zip wished she could actually frown, or better still, sink her fingernails into those tasty biceps of his and shake some sense into the man. Since when did he become rattled during battle?

“Aranya, what shall we do?” roared Gang.

Huaricithe had the right idea. Clobbering Gangurtharr in the jowls with her tail as she darted past, she cried, “Run, you worthless lump of Dragonflesh! Run!”

Eyes not her own rapidly assessed the situation’s dangers. The swelling, splitting seams of Dragonhide were being renewed from beneath. Its shoulders already pressed up against the walls of the Marshal’s great hall. The hulking flesh pressed aside two remaining oil lamp fittings, pouring flaming oil down its body. The creature did not appear to notice. The fierce fires flaming in its eyes betrayed the fact that far too much of the Necromancer’s power raged in its flesh, joints and bones, forcing growth at a fantastic rate.

Her hostess’ head swung toward the trapped Shadow Dragon. Longing. Hoping. “Ardan!”

The Shadow Dragon glared at her with soul-stopping loathing. “Do your worst, o feckless minion of the Onyx.”

Mercy … Zip felt Aranya shove that pleading mental voice away, thinking, ‘Mercy? She would hold him to his oath, thrall of the Thoralians or none!’

Aranya snapped, Gang! Pick up the Iridium and be careful with her! Sapphire, bring the Shadow and whatever you do, don’t break your shield formation. “Marshal Asturbar, get on your feet! Now!” She had forgotten he spoke Dragonish; the giant warrior waved off a paw’s offer of aid. Leandrial, time of arrival? Any chance of attacking the Thoralians out there? “Marshal, what happens to these Islands if they split?”

“I … don’t know. Never seen one split.”

“What happens?” she snarled, making the seasoned soldier balk at her tone. Iridiana, stay with us. Zuziana, monitor her closely. Asturbar, snap to it!

The Marshal looked as if he expected the Amethyst to explode into some Chaotic manifestation any second.

Poor man. He was just not used to Aranya’s ‘take charge of the Universe’ mode.

Chapter 13: Tipsy Unto Death

As they dashed further into the fortress, Aranya began to appreciate just how many people were hidden away down here. It was a mini-nation of thousands – support staff, warriors and refugees, she assumed, but they would take a dint of saving if the Thoralians even intended to grant them a sniff of a chance. She doubted that. His choice of style would involve total revenge; annihilation by Drake packs was the obvious assumption.

LEANDRIAL!

Sheesh, deafen a girl, Zip complained. Let me talk to her. You focus on Mister Big Boots over there, keep his guts inside his body, and try to get him to believe I’m actually a real person, alright?

Right, Zip. He’ll learn.

Aranya was certain her friend did not enjoy the ramifications of that statement.

Asturbar panted, “Enough damage, they’ll flip. Maybe stabilise. Maybe, if we’re lucky. More likely the momentum will start the pieces rolling slowly end-over-end. Dump us in the Cloudlands. Get Yuaki –”

“On it.” Yuaki. Evacuation report.

Four hundred fifty two away, seventy-one in transit.

When she repeated the information for Asturbar, he swore unhappily. Still, he was on his feet after incomplete surgery. The man had to have the constitution of a Dragon. She explained rapidly that they had allies incoming. She simply did not know how close they might be as yet.

“With us!” he summoned his men. “Evacuate!”

The fortress was neatly designed within, many different levels of solid stonework forming warm habitable spaces joined by well thought-out stairways and broad corridors. It had the ambiance and odours of very long occupation, and was lit by near-smokeless oil lamps set in sconces or depending from brass lavers hung on chains from the ceiling. No foetid warren, this. Compared to Sylakia’s infamous Tower, it felt positively homely. Still, to move thousands was no trivial task. They quickly ran into knots of people straggling on the stairways; Gang took to bellowing behind them, which did rather hurry up the process but threatened to trigger panic, too.

Aranya thought the Marshal must be worrying about Iridiana, but he abruptly blurted out in stress-broken Dragonish, Incoming Dragons can play catch? When – timing? People need to brace against the rolling, or walk the walls in chambers that don’t have large furniture. Can you alert everyone?

You’d have people jump?

Those who can.

Checking. Aye, time of arrival … seven minutes. How long does it take to fall – she ran the physics through her head with the familiarity of one who had once been strapped to a boulder by her boyfriend and forced to learn about terminal velocity the hard way – well under thirty seconds per mile, I make it, after they reach maximal velocity –

They’re dead.

No, said the Star Dragoness. We’ll turn every one of our Dragons into gliding freight vessels. This time, she had Asturbar gaping properly. Heavens, he had a huge mouth. Swallowing dragonet eggs was clearly not a feat beyond this man. Buy enough seconds, we save these people. Every life counts!

The Marshal’s oversized boots pounded along. He glanced at her body as if deeply puzzled by something. Not her scars. What …

With a firm headshake, he said, Issue the orders, Dragoness!

She did. As they clattered down through the fortress, Aranya applied herself to what – with all due modesty, Zip snickered inside – she was best at. Multitasking. Prioritising. Sifting through and evaluating strategies whilst coordinating the actions of their allies at a brain-rattling velocity.

Good thing I have four brains inside of me, isn’t it, Zipster? she snorted after a moment. Get to work, you lousy no-good Princess of Waywardness!

Ooh, a new title? I like it, Zip laughed. Hit me with your best, o Spangled Potentate most Plenipotentiary.

Princess jokes? Sanity preservation – that was Zip’s talent. Drawing a bated yet grateful breath, Aranya plunged back into her work. Rapid checks by Yuaki the Brown Shapeshifter on the Island’s structure revealed fault lines developing as the growing beast crushed cavern walls and levels, expanding like a wedge inserted into the floating Island’s heart. The route ahead was now heavily crowded, but the agitated people pressed aside for the fast-moving, grimly purposeful Dragons. Where they could, they glided off staircases that entered junction caverns, which were built for defensive purposes, making easy pinch points possible for a defending Commander to blockade with troops or Dragons.

The same points slowed the movement of people, but Asturbar kept turning to encourage them. “Down. We’ll make it. Evacuate calmly,” he kept saying.

Aranya primed Yuaki, who had used her Brown powers to drill a bolt-hole into the base of the Island, passing through rock and ragions to the outside world. She caught the cloying scent of smouldering Dragonflesh on the breeze and wondered if the essential ragion layer beneath the Island was under attack. Wasn’t that taboo in Herimor culture? She filed the requirement to check this detail with her incoming Dragonwings. The Island would likely tip and tumble before that became an issue.

BOOM-BOOM! The creature resumed its assault. Each blow sent a shock thundering through the bedrock, adding to the rising sense of panic around her. She spoke to all the Dragons within the fortress in an open-group telepathic mode, urging composure and directing their efforts to ensure a swift evacuation.

Check the companions. Ardan glowered and fought up a storm against Sapphire and her tiny white coterie, clearly still deeply enthralled by the Thoralians’ command and driven to a near-feral state by the reality of his captivity. Fangs, talons, fireballs, Shadow – nothing seemed to work for him. He was forced to tag along like a sheep wearing a halter. Zip suggested that Ardan appeared to be enjoying his treatment about as much as if an intrepid Dragon dentist had started drilling into the nerves at the roots of his fangs. How would Ardan respond to being enchained once again? Badly. Now to Gang, who had pitched a limp Nyahi over his shoulder and held her solicitously with his left forepaw curved around her haunches, much to Huari’s disgust, while he stumped along three-legged or glided down with exaggerated care. ‘What?’ his glare demanded. Aranya suspected Huari would give him ‘what’ and a few Islands of thrashing besides for his tactless behaviour. She flipped above him as they leapfrogged a jam on the stairs and reached down to check Iridiana’s pulse with an outstretched digit. Still breathing. A curl of healing magic eased the pain-wracked pathways of her body, enhancing her innate draconic healing capability, in a very similar way to the Balance she had learned from Leandrial. Injury or trauma was Imbalance.

Aranya was so struck by the insight, she collided mid-air with Huaricithe, who had a gruff laugh and a steadying paw for her relative. Focus?

She burned! Aye.

The Navy-Blue Shapeshifter deposited Asturbar carefully at the entrance to the lowest storage caverns. Still with us, Marshal?

He nodded tersely, clearly fighting great pain but unwilling or unable to make any allowance in the face of this crisis for his people. Blood seeped out of the seams of his boots. Sweat beaded his brow. Aranya understood. The Dragons below were taking off with fifty or sixty persons apiece, heavily loaded even under normal conditions. Out there, they would be sitting targets for the voracious Drakes. She fed them shielding information and commands in highly compressed packets of information.

At last, her group cleared the crowd and pushed into a broad, low-ceilinged storage chamber right at the base of the Island. Her nose lifted. Outside tangs. Fear. The pungent smoke of burning fabric, flesh and Dragon acid. Just as they paused and Asturbar gathered his breath, the Island lurched. Terribly. People screamed and clutched each other in family groups.

That was it, Aranya said grimly. Marshal –

Huari broke in, “Drake packs incoming. Thoralian has just unleashed his hordes.”

“Any ruddy good news around these parts?” Asturbar snapped.

“I’ll have Leandrial and her kin warm them up,” said Aranya. He just looked confused. Of course, this man would never have seen Land Dragons in action. Can you speak to your –

“SILENCE!” Asturbar roared at the crowd.

Ouch. Not so much the diplomat, then, said Zip. Off to support the gliding Dragons outside, Aranya. Ri’arion?

With you, beloved.

I’ll help you, the Star said to Asturbar. Just speak normally.

This was it. This was the moment he must speak for his people.

“Ah … attention?” said Asturbar. Hundreds of pairs of eyes leaped to him as if he spoke to each individually. They must see his wounds, but more than that, they would read his countenance. His broad face remained reassuring as he said, “Under attack from the Marshals Thoralian, the Island has been split in half.”

A babble of screams and pleas greeted his grim pronouncement.

“Listen. LISTEN!” he thundered. “We beat him off – well, the Dragons did. Our lives depend on what you do in these next few seconds. Help is at hand! I need as many of the women and children as possible to climb aboard these Dragons and fly away. The Island is about to start tipping due to the unbalanced forces exerted by the ragions. We have to get you to safety. Act quickly and calmly. If the Island starts to roll in the air, walk with the movement. It is imperative that you do not panic.”

Better. She read the mood of this sea of dark heads and eyes. They were deeply shocked by the incipient loss of the only home they had ever known. He had to show confidence; to offer hope. Speak of the Star, Asturbar, she put in a touch wearily.

“Please. I have the Star Dragoness with me. Listen to the Dragons! We will do our utmost to help you – to help this entire House – escape this calamity. May Fra’anior’s favour smile upon us this day.”

His entreaty availed nothing.

Drawing deep, he roared, “To the Dragons! Move, people! Men, help your families or walk that way! Help the elderly. You. Get on your feet, man! Show some spirit.”

Aranya’s grin bared her fangs. This Marshal had what it took.

* * * *

More noticeably now, the Island tipped beneath their paws, and within, the people shifted with that unease that often preceded outright panic. They could not take much more, Zip judged, but now she saw small knots of order forming as soldiers, mothers and Dragons took command. Out there, through the fifty-foot diameter hole Yuaki had quarried in the Island’s base, the prospect remained grim and foreboding. Dense wedges of crimson Drakes poured toward the fleeing, overburdened Dragons, their bloodthirsty fervour palpable even from a distance. Above and all around, thunder rumbled like a dyspeptic old Dragon venting his spleen upon a youngling.

It was a day when steely clouds frowned upon the appalling business of war.

Then, her hearts lifted. “Leandrial!”

Asturbar turned his pain-dulled eyes upon them as Aranya explained, “Allies.”

SSSAA-BOOM! SSSAA-BOOM! The familiar voice of the cannonade began as the Land Dragons, three miles beneath their position, breached the Cloudlands like graceful trout angling for insects hovering just above the surface, and fired their mighty light cannons in slanted array. The Drake advance disintegrated in greyish-golden puffs of vaporised Dragonflesh, but thousands more beasts winged in from higher up and farther afield. Asturbar gasped heavily. Zuziana advised adjustments to their gliding configuration and direction. With their allies at paw, the danger of falling into the Cloudlands lessened by the second, but other dangers lurked –

The Marshal collapsed without warning. Aranya snapped out a paw to arrest his fall, but he just groaned, “Iridiana?”

“Alive,” said Gang.

“Her first.”

Gaah. That man was worse – leagues worse – than a certain Immadian she could name.

“He’s way too curmudgeonly to let a pretty young Dragoness die in his paws, anyways,” Zip told him. Asturbar just stared at Aranya as though his own ghost had just spoken. “Aye, soldier. Princess Zuziana of Remoy, best friend of the Star Dragoness, at your service. And, for the record, Gang is awesomeness on –”

He growled, “Well, best friend who is apparently having a free ride in there, can you not just give Her Starriness strength to heal a few folks out here?”

“What?” She and Aranya gasped as one.

Human Aranya chuckled gruffly, “He’s sniffed us out, Zuziana. Why didn’t we think of this before? I’ve been drawing ourselves down to nothingness, but there’s you –”

And Zuzi-me, growled yet another voice!

Do we even have anything to give? Human Zip asked herself. Technically speaking, we don’t actually possess physically existent magical resources.

There’s always your omnipotent capacity for snark, the Amethyst Dragoness cooed, giving herself a paw-pat of approval for the droll observation. Zip rolled her eyes.

We can only try, the Azure responded, smirking at Asturbar.

“That’s her Shapeshifter form,” Aranya explained, flexing her knees to keep upright. Asturbar seemed beyond caring. “Quick wings, everyone! Let’s get these people to safety. Marshal. Hold your stomach together. Ri’arion –”

“Here.”

“Do exactly as I direct.”

Grey-faced now with shock and loss of blood, Asturbar pleaded, “Aranya, please, Iridiana needs you more –”

“Shut it!” Zuziana snapped.

“I suggest you don’t bite your tongue,” said Ri’arion. “Bite your gauntlet instead.”

“Gang! Bring the Iridium Dragoness!” Huari waved the hovering Gladiator Dragon in. Zip suspected he had been hanging back for fear of squashing someone accidentally. “Line her up for Aranya’s ministrations. Yuaki! Faster on the loading!”

“Drakes!” someone screamed, pointing into the hole.

Several grimacing crimson heads peered up into the hole they had discovered. Huari and Yuaki fired at once, and Gang rather dangerously spat a fireball just over the crowd’s heads, placing an inch-perfect shot between his target’s eyes. First of many, Zip knew.

Meantime, she felt a strong drain, as though someone had siphoned her powers and slipped them away down a plughole. That was Aranya making sizzling repairs to Asturbar’s flesh with Ri’arion’s deft hands holding the bits of guts and stomach wall and suchlike in place, whilst her friend laid a paw upon Iridiana’s muzzle and set to work there too. Pure Aranya. Always pouring herself out for others. Always becoming and being more.

Zip loved her so fiercely!

A few long seconds later, as the tipping motion of the Island increased and she heard rock grinding heavily against rock, making people stagger and start to slide downslope, Iridiana’s right eye flickered open.

“Ouch. Morning already?” she moaned.

Good. The more vociferously they complained, the better they must be feeling, was Zip’s motto.

Asturbar yelped, “Nyahi!”

Her belly fires purred sweetly. “Silly Boots.”

Pure mush. Zuziana found herself grinning uncontrollably. Just like herself and Ri’arion, not so? Odd that Aranya had detested this Dragoness on first sight, then … how very peculiar. Never, in all they had been through together, had her best friend behaved in this way. What was different now?

Aranya said, “Right. Enough healing for you two love-parakeets for the time being.” Dragons, start throwing everyone out of the hole.

So they did.

* * * *

Having Dragons toss droves of people out of a hole three miles above the Cloudlands was one way of ensuring mass obedience. Aranya cared more for life than sensibilities, and she felt energised rather than shocked by her own paucity of concern. Jump, or die. Simple – or not so simple, aye? So the sky was murky, full of storm and Drakes, and to most minds, a fall into the Cloudlands represented certain death. Nothing she could say about incoming Land Dragons or Dragonwings winging aloft to catch them would help now. She had family groups tie themselves together and jump. Some people were tossing their belongings into the swinging hole. Children and even adults wailed, but most appeared phlegmatic. Maybe she would have small Runners try to recover some of the chattels, if they could find time, for she also understood the pain of facing the loss of home and identity.

Turning to Asturbar, Aranya found him back upon his squelchy, blood-soaked boots, looking pale but determined. Perhaps that was due in part to an Iridium Dragoness standing possessively at his shoulder, her eyes fiercely a-gleam.

The Amethyst Dragoness’ jutting chin and fiery gaze answered fire for fire, giving no quarter. “Reports from the other half of the Island say the Drakes already penetrated the halls. Hundreds have died, I’m sorry to report. I have Dragons scouring the hallways in search of survivors. You can feel the change in atmospheric pressure already. Iridiana, you look ready to fly?”

The other Dragoness nodded pensively.

“Take it easy, hear me?” You can fight on borrowed reserves, but you’ll pay for it later. Here’s some data from the Dragonfriend’s lore. You’ll take Boots?

The Shapeshifter’s eyes flashed. He’s mine.

Aranya winced, breaking eye contact. The other Dragoness must know her animosity.

And that worthless lump of soot over there is Aranya’s, so you can just wipe that glower off your face, girly Dragon, sniped Zip.

We are not ungrateful, Iridiana returned proudly.

Aye. Neither was she, for together they had achieved the nigh-impossible and destroyed a Thoralian before he could sneak away as he had done many times before. A deed worthy beyond measure.

This Dragoness would make a formidable ally.

Human Aranya whispered, We make a habit of collecting the odd ones, aye, Dragonsoul?

Like the Remoyan? chirped her Dragoness.

Asturbar accepted his torso armour from an aide and clipped it into place with the solicitous air of a man who had recently been examining the world beneath his abdominals, and was grateful to have that wound closed over. Again, Aranya’s inner artist noted the Dragonesque details of his physique. The thickly mounded ropes of abdominal muscles. The lack of body fat that lent his pectorals and deltoids extraordinary definition, as if they had been sculpted from pure Dragon muscle – and the Iridium made a narked growl as she observed Aranya’s assessment. Worse and worse! It was very hard not to stare, for he truly was a giant among men.

Apparently oblivious to her scrutiny, Asturbar hefted his battle-axe and said, “Let’s fly, noble Dragoness!”

The chamber was empty at last. Now, all that remained was to see the people safe.

With a deft nosedive, the Amethyst Shapeshifter dropped through the short tunnel and then flicked her wings wide to catch the breeze, darting out from beneath the bulk of the falling Island. Cliffs and rocks wheeled dizzily past on either flank – she swerved between the two halves, deliberately seeking to enter the split in search of survivors. As the monoliths crashed together, however, she was forced to hover for a moment or face the danger of being crushed. Iridiana was not nearly as experienced a flyer. She wobbled and then steadied in a poor wing position on Aranya’s right flank, scanning her surrounds eagerly. Of course. The Dragoness could see properly for the first time in years; a low warble of delight-horror emerged from her long, slender throat.

Casting aside an odd pang at their similarities, Aranya scanned the battlefield with all senses alert. The two halves of the Mistral Fires’ Island tumbled away slowly, marked by trails of debris, lingering smoke and a few Human bodies dangling among the wreckage. The Drakes were voracious feeders, uncaring of what meat they preferred or even whether or not it happened to be fresh. Blast marks and scores pitted the undersides of the Islands. The millions-strong ragion population, despite their general hardiness, had been decimated by the marauding hunters. These Islands must surely fall.

Below and to the sides, a languid aerial dance developed between Thoralian’s forces and the rising Dragonwings. “Genholme,” she said, pointing for the benefit of Asturbar and Iridiana. She explained the lay of their forces in clipped sentences. How the Metallic Fortress Dragons would use their Bullets to snatch people out of the air and whisk them to the safety of the flying metallic fortresses. The marauding Land Dragons below, who synchronised their efforts with the Dragonwings to burn away the thickest knots of Drakes. The aerial bombardment was dense yet astonishingly precise. Furthermore, she had commanded the Dragonwings to sweep across from the direction of due East toward the Northwest, cutting off the main body of incoming Drakes from the beleaguered transport Dragons. No person had been lost to the Cloudlands as yet, but the losses in the air and inside the Islands were severe, any mistake punished by instant death. The slow-moving Air Breathers were two hundred leagues behind but making their best speed across difficult terrain.

Away to the Northeast, protected by a huge body of Drakes, a patch of Cloudlands boiled upward in immense grey pillars of moisture and debris – the location of the First Egg. The disturbance on the magical level was a phenomenon in its own right. Iridiana acted openly spooked. Aranya tried to reach out again with healing power in order to steady the Dragoness, but her chaotic mind repulsed her overture painfully.

Sorry, Iridiana apologised privately. I told you I’m … unstable. The Egg’s magic sings strangely to me.

Same here. Here are some constructs and mental routines to help –

I’m not yours to cosset – the other Dragoness pulled up with an irate snort. What I am is an ungrateful wretch, assuredly! All instruction welcome, o Star Dragoness.

Aranya’s laugh was a half-strangled gurgle. O lofty Star Dragoness? When I am the one who wishes to be in your paws?

You do? Oh, I … oh Aranya …

That note of realisation in Iridiana’s voice and her accompanying sympathy were unbearable, stoking the crucible of grief that always ignited within her when she considered Thoralian’s bequest to her. Revenge could never satisfy, she realised now. Nor would wishing to pull up the Cloudlands and hide beneath them for all the rest of her years under the suns. She must pursue healing. She must develop a thicker hide!

Mercy … how could she survive this?

Gruffly, Aranya said, Is that how you two fly – in paw, so to speak?

He’s too big for my spine spikes, Iridiana responded with a rueful chuckle.

I did wonder at first if he was some unknown form of Dragon, Aranya admitted. One glance at Asturbar, and the Iridium started steaming audibly all over again. This was not a competition! Below, her Dragon sight spied Ardan being dragonet-handled away by Sapphire and her crew, heading for a Runner who would deliver him on to the tender ministrations of Yiisuriel and her kin.

Zip, never one for a shy word, cut in, Iridiana must like her men ultra-chunky. Me, I prefer the lean and scrummy look.

The Shapeshifter’s every fire blushed up a storm as she glanced away bashfully. Asturbar did seem amused, but he had a repeat of that curious, searching scrutiny of Aranya that made her duck away in turn, and look to the battle. Too many incongruities and mysteries wearied her.

To work!

Follow me, noble Iridiana, she ordered, and screamed up into the gap. Jinking to avoid falling debris, Aranya searched the snapped-off tunnels and broken caverns. Pfft! She smashed a Drake with a precise strike in the head, before pausing to tangle with another. Grappling. Brawling. Twisting her body to break its neck with a slingshot manoeuvre Gang had taught her. She might be small, but she could fight! Iridiana followed more judiciously, apparently able to sustain this Dragoness manifestation for longer periods of time than her other forms, but she would bear watching. Flowers or boulders were not known to fly well.

“Gashukan!” cried Asturbar.

Following the direction of his finger, Aranya saw a man clinging desperately to a warped metal stanchion. How had he escaped being crushed? Her wings clapped together beneath her body with a sharp report, driving her at full acceleration between boulder garbed in grey ragions and someone’s polished jalkwood dresser, its brass mirror winking back an Amethyst flash as she passed by. Drake! Aranya slapped it in the flank with three ultra-hot fireballs in succession, burning right through to the hearts, before air-braking beneath the man as the attacker slewed away, howling its last mortal cry. Head Engineer Gashukan. Her forepaw closed about his waist; the man had a broken leg, she saw, and burn injuries splattered across his left hip and flank besides. Healing. Just a grain. All she could afford, Aranya thought. Anger. Heartache. She dropped away.

“Ten seconds until the Islands hit the Cloudlands,” called Asturbar.

“I’ll sound the alert,” Aranya replied. “The Land Dragons can shield these Island fragments for a few more minutes down there, but we need to extract everyone as quickly as possible. It’s not deep here – only a league and a half or so. Leaping Islands!”

Iridiana flashed past so close that Aranya was forced to veer aside to avoid the swingeing blow of a disembodied talon somehow attached to Asturbar’s axe, and then the pair pounded a Drake which had popped out in ambuscade – as they distracted each other, they managed to lop off a paw and injure its shoulder before the Iridium Dragoness wheeled away.

“You put me off,” Asturbar grumbled, feeling his stomach.

Aye, he’d be feeling his surgery for a few days yet.

Iridiana huffed, “I didn’t bring you along to shave their beards, soldier! Aim a little higher next time, would you?”

Leaning past the bickering pair, Aranya pumped a fireball straight down the Drake’s throat. Finished! She was fatigued and not much in the mood, especially not when they burst out laughing like a pair of embarrassed teenagers.

“I guess that was lesson number one from the Star Dragoness,” Iridiana said.

“Less arguing, more killing,” Asturbar nodded.

And more Marshal-swatting in a minute, Humansoul complained. Petal, Yiisuriel is already demanding our return from the battlefront. Apparently the issue of where to place more refugees has become thorny; there are Dragons arguing over battle honours and they anticipate a major issue with the course ahead. Yiisuriel refuses to turn back, but the terrain is more than challenging –

Honestly? stormed her Dragoness.

Exactly. Ridiculous!

I could think of a few words besides, some of which have been spouting out of that Marshal’s unwashed mouth …

Meantime, Zip took command of her mouth to call over to Iridiana and Asturbar, “Arguing is fun at the right moment. Huh. Pretty-scales, did you notice how similar your Dragoness manifestation is to Aranya’s?”

“Ah … no,” Iridiana objected. “Please don’t compare me to … to a Star –”

“Aww, aren’t we a shy little predator?” Zuziana teased.

Right. Add one Azure Dragoness to her ‘to be swatted’ list. In first place. With a fond smile at Iridiana, who was Dragon-blushing up a firestorm, Aranya snorted, “Zip’s just jealous she isn’t flaming things with us, Iridiana. Help me seat this man, would you?”

“Gashukan,” Asturbar supplied – unnecessarily.

The Amethyst prodded her Human tetchily. Nice as that overgrown blockhead is, I’ve a powerful urge to start frying windroc eggs upon his head! She had the satisfaction of making her second-soul figuratively fall around in helpless mirth.

“Well, he’s a bloodthirsty soldier – I approve!” Zuziana exclaimed meantime.

“Eh?” the Marshal just about managed.

Iridiana chuckled, “Gash-you-can? No mind, Boots. We can go gash a few things open if you like. You’re a bit sore about your House, aren’t you?”

“Our House,” he corrected firmly. “And, yes. Very sore.”

Still, I like him a lot, said Human Aranya.

Don’t let Miss Jealous-Scales over there hear you saying that, her Dragoness advised ominously. Clearly, her fire eye burns upon one man alone.

I can fight my own battles, thank you kindly.

As Nak would say, bah with stinky soldier socks on. You can polish my talons after I wipe an Island’s backside with that fake-bashful, invidious little shape twister and her glory-stealing ways. She wants to be the Star Dragoness, that’s all – and she doesn’t look like me. Not in the slightest. Humansoul pictured Fra’anior raising fourteen brow ridges at once. Fine! Well, Yiisuriel can jolly well stay put for a few hours. The battle’s right here and I’m stuffed to the ear canals with misplaced aggression! I need an outlet.

Her muzzle swung upward. Ah, convenient, both souls whispered at once.

Ignoring Zip, who was making a startling range of imaginary faces at this interchange, she lifted her paw to indicate a mammoth flock of Drakes breaking free from the slate-grey cloud layer above. She growled, “Let’s give that axe arm a little overdue exercise, shall we, Marshal? Follow me!”

“It’s a trap!” squealed Iridiana, her Dragoness form wavering visibly as battle reactions kicked in and overrode logic.

“No … Iridiana!”

Well, that was the last they heard of Asturbar’s wailing as the Iridium Dragoness rocketed into the heights in the form of a seething spectrum of purple-hued fires and a sound as if a great waterfall had suddenly burst over a cliff – indeed, as best Aranya could tell, the crazy Shapeshifter had now transformed into some liquescent form of draconic life that nonetheless left a trail of silvery dust in its fast-departing wake. Essentially, they were left sniffing her exhaust fumes and the other Dragoness was already two miles overhead, screaming into a solo attack against ten thousand Drakes.

Excellent plan – if only it were not quite so ralti-brained suicidal! She shook her muzzle in disbelief.

“Ah, I guess we go save her hide again?” groaned Zuziana.

Aranya said pithily, “Indeed.” Leandrial! Could I call in a light cannon barrage, please? And can you knock some sense into Chaos-girl at the same time?

Rather akin to trying to swat a Dragon of Shadow, wasn’t it?

Chapter 14: Turnabout

AFTER FLYING AGAINST the Drakes for long enough to work out that Asturbar and Iridiana were not about to expire in an anarchic blaze of glory, Her Despotic Highness of Remoy assigned the battle-hungry Dragon Rider pair to an experienced Dragonwing, smacked Aranya about the earhole until she agreed to try to sleep, and departed the battlefield post haste. Several hours to the East, Ri’arion was taking care of the Shadow Dragon, who seemed to be bent upon giving the former Nameless Man the hardest time possible. They already had helpers holding Sapphire and her newborn Chrysolitic dragonets in place to maintain Ardan’s prison.

Losing him again would be beyond the pale.

Very well. Nor should they lose new allies. Reluctantly, Zip requested Leandrial to keep a fiery eye upon Asturbar and Iridiana, to which the leviathan was more than agreeable, and Zip settled down for a pleasant snooze in the cheek pocket of her own transportation back to Yiisuriel.

Zuziana of Remoy. Where is the Amethyst?

This was the massive, aged mental presence of Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, of course, her telepathic communication carrying clearly to Zip’s mind despite the considerable interference still present days after the First Egg’s passage.

Politely, she began, Great one –

If she’s sleeping, wake her up. There is much to do – I have been calling for hours. Is something amiss out there; can she not deal with a few Drakes and these refugees?

Zip knew that, of course, but she also knew that Aranya needed her sleep more than anyone seemed prepared to permit. Three to four hours a night? Far from enough – she understood the imperatives, but only since being intimately part of her best friend’s world had she appreciated just how driven a person Aranya was. Storm indwelled her being. Duty was the tenor of her soul’s steel. Not one to shake out her hair easily, they would say on her own home Island.

Noble Yiisuriel, the aftereffects of battle against the Thoralians –

I know the lore infinitely better than you, little one, Yiisuriel ground out. Even from this great a distance, her acid tone stung. Do not presume to lecture your elders. It is imperative that I converse with Aranya as soon as possible. Strategies must be decided upon. The Council awaits her input on many diverse matters.

Is the Council incapable of –

INCAPABLE? Zuziana winced at the blast.

The Land Dragoness snapped off her communication with a zing that threatened to slap Zip’s head off her shoulders. Ouch.

Still protecting us? Mother-Zip-ishness becomes you, darling friend, said a warm, twofold voice within her.

Aranya and her Dragoness speaking as one! Wow! She had thought Fra’anior owned a monopoly on the massive amplification of sevenfold majesty. Even with just two persons or soul aspects speaking in perfect synchronicity, Aranya’s words conveyed unexpected power.

A double-whammy of love.

A touch sulkily, she responded, Apparently, I am not required. You are.

A wise Dragoness walks the Balance, came the response, misquoting Leandrial’s favourite lore subject so flagrantly that Zip had to chuckle. Anyways, I will give four hours now. After that, we sleep, and then I am ordering you to spend some time with your husband …

Funny how I thought we’d get more sleep this way, the four of us, Zip returned ruefully. Instead, it seems we’re burning every candle at every end at once.

Aye. I’m not convinced souls were meant to cohabit.

It’s a strain, petal, isn’t it?

Aranya did not miss a beat. The word you’re looking for is ‘privilege’, my friend – and the privilege is mine. Now, why don’t you go cuddle your egglings in my soul space whilst I deal with this nonsense?

* * * *

Some nonsense was more important than other nonsense, Aranya had decided by the time four hours had vanished into the distant past. Some nonsense was simply exhausting. Zip was right. She did not understand why she had to be part of so many mental cells for discussion and decision-making when there were ample capable leaders among the Lost Isles Humankind and Dragonkind. This congregation had hummed along harmoniously for centuries before a young upstart from Immadia had winged in. Many were far more qualified and learned in their different specialties than she was, and while she appreciated the opportunity to stretch her mind alongside so many fine intellects … Aranya sighed. Somehow, she suspected that the opportunity to gain a starry seal of approval had come to mean just a little too much to these Lost Isles creatures, even granted that they had lived in self-imposed exile for over six centuries – from Hualiama’s lifetime to her own.

How could she start to wean them off what they worshipped? How dare she presume?

This was the laborious side of rulership that King Beran had never shirked. She should do more. Shoulder more. Be more.

Aranya helped to design protocols for screening against the suspected Chameleon Shapeshifter who might be hiding amidst the Mistral Fires refugees, facilitated the myriad interdependent decisions for rehousing what was essentially a small Island-nation, and then dove into the internecine honour-issues that frequently flared up between these Herimor Dragons. She had to learn, didn’t she? She reviewed the data on recent assassination attempts – most directed at her own person. The Star Dragoness was not universally loved.

Was all this only the fraction of the Island peeking above the Cloudlands in terms of what Fra’anior had meant when he had called upon her to be his bulwark?

She must be daughter-of-Onyx strong.

After work time she slept fitfully, dreaming in fragments of storm and war and torture and forever, fruitlessly, chasing the Thoralians as their mockery reverberated like thunder in the distance, always unattainable. At some level she was aware of Zuziana speaking earnestly with Ri’arion, who warned of the mental damage and degradation due to the period of bondage that he had sensed in Ardan. Thus far the Thoralians’ mental strongholds remained inviolate. The Shadow continued in his inimical stance; worse, the Air Breathers feared he might have been primed as another trap for Aranya, carrying some undetectable but lethal psychic-magical payload.

These denizens of Herimor were never short on ideas when it came to assassination, were they?

Oddly, it was the words of Istariela’s poem playing through her mind that lulled her, at last, into a dreamless sleep:

Fire unfathomable … fire unfathomable …

Waking once Zip took her leave of Ri’arion, Aranya worked again late into the night’s serene heart, poring over the Dragonfriend’s lore. Who had scribed the great tomes, she wondered? The hand did not appear to be her Aunt’s; far less the erudite, even cerebral tone of many of the additional notes. The detail and indexing was exhaustive. This orderliness bespoke a labour of love by a scholarly mind; if she was not doing her a terrible disservice, she felt Hualiama’s innate artistry did feature in many of the passages – perhaps an unknown scholar had compiled her writings into their present form?

Wondering, reminiscing, planning, she drifted into a cloudscape of Dragoness dreams.

* * * *

The Thoralians’ parting action had been to scourge his mind. Now, Ardan slept the sleep of the accursed. Writhing. Burning. Beset by terrors beyond knowing; by inchoate, ravening beasts of destruction that roamed the pathways left vulnerable by the Marshal’s unbreakable talon grip upon his psyche. Every iota of his being burned with cruel mordancy, like a prisoner dunked in a vat of acid and left to suffer until his skin boiled off his body.

His lip curled cruelly. That was the way of the cannibals of Ur-Naphtha. These erstwhile companions of his knew nothing about true barbarity. They saw his dark skin and thought him savage. They traced his tribal scarification patterns and thought of bloody tribal traditions. They beheld the starkness of his warrior soul and imagined man base to the core; a hand that knew no deed of compassion.

He coiled. Enemy!

The Chrysolitic shield surrounding him reverberated like a gong.

Yet he had thrice now been taken prisoner. Enslaved. Shackled to the will of others; degraded in ways beyond any measure of dishonour no warrior had ever imagined could be possible. Those fragments of memory arose from a time before the Dragonwings came, mercilessly razing his Cluster. He alone lived to shrive their souls and release them into eternity, swiftly winging forth with deeds of honour and bravery. He alone wore the ur-makka of his slain people …

Enemy! The dragonets shuddered. The circle of blue-robed enchanters drew closer.

He was Dragonkind; symbol of what he hated.

I BURRRRNN!!

Ardan thrashed in exquisite pain.

Enemy! Enemy! ENEMY!

He subsided, tasting the harmonic vibrancy created by his struggles. Were the mites weakening? One watched him. Sapphire. Favoured companion of her. The Star.

As his thoughts turned toward the one who was his – enemy! – he realised that her radiance grew within his soul, as though the suns-rise painted the contours of his inner being. Although the touch seared with the verimost fires of a star’s unadulterated purity, it was also accompanied by a strangely sinuous melody that breathed restoration into his being despite the spitting, sparking resistance of the Thoralian’s bonds. Piceous blades of spite pierced him sorely, yet she was more. The pain was ghastly yet he yearned … how he yearned!

Ardan focussed upon the melody playing through their oath bond. He did not understand the chiming words, sounding like an exotic dialect of Dragonish, but he imagined a lullaby frolicking daintily about a starlit sky. Struggle as he might, he could not escape.

Enemy! Enemy … enemy … his will to resist faded, yet he struggled on.

After an interminable time, the melody changed and the words seemed to soak into his understanding.

What is a droplet of starlight?

Fire unfathomable …

A mother sang her lullaby over an unborn eggling. A young woman sang over him.

Ardan cracked open his eyes, and saw Aranya.

* * * *

The Princess of Immadia had dressed especially to suit an unaccustomed lightness of heart she sensed this morn. She wore a full-length amethyst gown such as would have graced the breezy byways of Fra’anior or the frosty halls of Immadia’s winter-bound Palace, its unfamiliar, richly brocaded material nonetheless cladding her slender curves with intimate assiduousness – a gift from Dhazziala’s own seamstresses, and its artisanship was rare indeed. No bodice-ripping Shapeshifter transformations, then! She had already destroyed a treasure of the Jeradian people by failing to control herself around Jia-Llonya, Yolathion’s consort.

Perhaps she sought to return to her roots, as Princess of the realm. Perhaps she longed to feel beautiful again; for Ardan to look upon her not with that palpable shadow of pity in his eyes, but desire. Perhaps if she concealed herself enough … yet her heart’s melody remained capriciously joyous for reasons beyond her ken.

One glance at her mate – her Dragon – there in the shadows of his chamber, surrounded by seven Dragon Enchanters each unwearyingly holding a slumbering dragonet in his or her hands, however, disabused her of that notion. His half-lidded eyes gazed upon her with loathing.

Star.

A syllable of untrammelled spite.

Aranya raised her chin. Ardan. Shall we not be reconciled?

Never.

I hear Thoralian speaking, not Sha’aldior.

His reply was to rest a gaze of brooding, predatory patience upon her. Only the rasping breathing of a massive male Dragon filled the chamber, along with his musky, burned-oil scent – which had changed along with his state of mind, Aranya realised. No longer was it the evocative, complex, infinitely changeable scent she had come to associate with draconic magic. His servitude to the Thoralians had been effectuated with terrible entirety. The enemy’s mastery in the mental spaces. And should he escape – the ultimate assassin.

Danger. Desire. This was her beloved, still the cry of her heart after all they had been through.

Hiding her discomfited reaction, though she knew it must communicate to him through their oath bond, Aranya moved around the circle of dragonets, waking them each with a gentle touch and a quiet word.

Leandrial approached, bringing Asturbar and Iridiana.

She shivered.

Knowing her response for a premonition, the Immadian Princess picked up her train and jogged purposefully up a set of stairs to a gantry set above Ardan, where Sapphire rested under the aegis of a leading Dragon Enchantress, Sumkira by name.

The dusky woman bowed courteously. “The night passed without incident.”

“All slept well?”

“All.”

“And the Shadow Dragon’s wounds?”

“The seepage of ichor and blood has slowed, but he will tolerate none of our ministrations,” replied Sumkira. “The dragonets’ shield remains inviolate.”

“Good.” Aranya rubbed her arms, thinking upon the threat of a Chameleon Shapeshifter – their kind had tracked her from the beginning, and come within a rajal’s whisker of serving her up to a similar fate to that of her mother. She snapped her fingers. Dragonets, we must move. “I’ll bring him –”

Enemy!

Mercy! The air shuddered at Ardan’s upward blow, which staggered Aranya on the gantry – despite that she had not been touched, physically. She glared down at the hulking Shadow beneath her, over one hundred feet from muzzle to tail tip, and built like a stone fortress through the beam, all fire-stuffed muscle and sinew. Do not lie to me, o son of Fra’anior!

Another time, she might have laughed at Ardan’s expression. Fangs flashed in a comically agape maw; his throat worked to the tune of a massive, bemused, Harrrum-gnarr!

Aranya smiled sweetly down at him. Thou art the majesty of draconic fires incarnate, thou … I still love you, you colossal slab of onyx, alright?

Enemy …

This time, a yearning whine. Invisible pincers applied a wrenching torque to her heart. He still cared! He remembered! The Princess stifled her delight beneath an imperious mien, but suspected the Dragon was observant enough to catch the amused puff of air that crossed her smile-quirked lips, even beneath her face veil.

Dragons, Enchanters, attend.

The slim young woman exited the chamber through its massive doors trailed by fifteen persons; six white dragonets, one sapphire dragonet, seven Dragon Enchanters and the silent Shadow Dragon. Due to the mysterious power of these Chrysolitic dragonets, his automatic paw tread touched only the shielding magic; they feared that should he set paw to ground, Ardan might be able to siphon himself away through Yiisuriel’s basal rock. Therefore, they whisked him along upon an airbed.

Just occasionally, having power was fun.

Aranya’s gnarled fingers twisted into fists at her sides as she made haste, following the updated report on Leandrial’s progress. Trust that old sludge-dwelling rebel to surprise everyone with an early morning arrival, right on the heels of the stream of refugees who had poured in all night. She appraised the data. No sign of a Chameleon infestation – yet. The protective protocols appeared faultless, but Chameleons were notorious for their shiftiness, if she could excuse the pun, being far better at camouflage even than the legendary Scorpiolute slayers. Yuaki’s report had been incontrovertible. Somewhere amongst thousands dwelled an impostor.

Yiisuriel. What else can we do to pin this Chameleon Shapeshifter down? What vectors have we missed?

Concentrating fiercely upon the thought-speed tête-à-tête with her ally, Aranya was nonetheless aware of her unbound hair yearning unsubtly toward Ardan, as though caressed by a zephyr purposed for them alone. Glance over her shoulder? The Enchanters glanced away in sevenfold concert, embarrassed at being caught staring. The dragonets started giggling, while Ardan’s temperature seemed to leap hundreds of degrees between breaths.

Catching hold of her errant locks, she sternly ordered them to behave.

They did anything but.

So much was churning inside of her as she reached the main hangar level, Aranya thumped her shoulder painfully against a doorframe and then stubbed her right smallest toe for good measure on a battle-axe that lay discarded just beyond. Why was it always the smallest toe that hurt the worst? She limped on quickly, trying to regather her poise and thoughts and unexpectedly poignant sense of foreboding. Thrust work aside. Be battle ready.

Ahead, lines and knots of refugees snaked across the hangar floor as the surviving Mistral Fires waited patiently for processing by the Scholars, who were compiling, examining and comparing the personnel lists in the hope of reuniting families and relatives separated in the chaotic evacuation. She gazed past a pair of sobbing men and a dark-haired woman clutching an infant to her breast with a choked wail of relief. Here was Leandrial’s mighty muzzle wedged in beneath the hangar door, and there, beside her frankly cliff-like lip, the beautiful Iridium Dragoness helped the last few stragglers make the descent to the stone floor.

“… burns,” the Immadian heard. “Found under … how, Makul? How?”

Peripherally, she noticed the husband, most likely, curving his arms about both woman and child … the thin wail of the hurting infant making Aranya’s steps stutter and turn of their own accord, drawing her toward them even as she directed an apologetic smile toward Iridiana. Tiny detour.

The Princess reached out. “Be healed, little one.”

A startled gurgle met her touch, mellowing into a coo that turned at once to baby laughter, as though she had tickled his tummy. That was cool, refreshing water to a thirsting soul.

“What?” spluttered the man, Makul.

The woman whispered, “The Star … t’was the Star …”

Absently, treading the paths of her too-dim foresight, Aranya said over her shoulder, “Bring him to me later. I will treat him further.” Better still, she should make herself useful in the infirmary.

As a young woman, she possessed a light tread and a natural grace that superseded her royal training. As a Shapeshifter, she moved like a hunting Dragoness, her magical and draconic senses augmenting her five Human senses to an almost preternatural degree. Aranya drifted between people like pollen upon a zephyr. Listening. Striving. It must be the Chameleon. He was here somewhere; she knew it. There went the former Marshal Chanbar and his family, a slim teenager in their midst casting an inscrutable glance in Iridiana’s direction. Her? No. Could Chanbar be hiding sinister motives toward the new Marshal, just now riding his girlfriend’s paw down into the congregation of his people? He would bear watching. She tagged a note to Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron. Could the Chameleon be Iridiana herself? Now, there was an intriguing possibility.

Her mind snapped to attention. Those thin white streamers of the wards, visible suddenly in her sixth sense, played like a veil across the Dragoness Iridiana’s face as she pressed forward into the hangar. Aranya’s unique strands were present, but there were other, deeper layers to the powerful wards. Strands hoary with age. Strands woven of draconic languages born aeons before Humankind had walked the surface of the Islands above the Cloudlands, describing magic unfamiliar to her. Why had she never noticed before? Of course, these great Air Breathers had powers and capabilities all of their own. Fascinating. Complex. Rich, nuanced draconic language given shape and form, caressing the faces and bodies of refugees as they passed through into Yiisuriel’s cavernous spaces, touching, lighting, coming alive now to Iridiana’s presence, reacting –

BONG! BONG!

Flashes of white fires magic exploded across Aranya’s vision, dazzling her, but she was intently attuned to the pandemonium exploding both around her and in the mental space as the highest level of alert she had ever experienced turned the mind crimson at all levels. The drop-everything-else protocol, they laughingly but charily called this one. Life or death. Blue-robed Enchanters raced out of hidden alcoves. Grunt Dragons moved to close off the surrounding passageways, whilst the scattered Overminds in every nearby hangar raced to the connecting entrances. Leandrial’s voice sounded particularly aggrieved as she boomed – nasally, for the hangar door had slid downward to entrap her muzzle – for someone to identify the danger. Asturbar crouched immediately; he and Nyahi were surrounded by multiple, ultra-dense layers of magical shielding as if they were the source of the complaint, but she could still hear the soldier cry:

“It must be the Chameleon!”

Yiisuriel thundered, NO, YOU!! THE LITTLE … ABOMINATION!

Chaos reigned within that shield bubble. Aranya’s hand snapped out, breaching a host of deathly protocols before they could harm Iridiana. She demanded, Yiisuriel, what is this?

THAT CREATURE SHALL NOT ENTER!

Trying to wrestle through all these powers closing in upon the hangar, to prevent them from crushing the helpless refugees, she cried to the air, Which creature? Where’s the danger?

She could not fathom the kickback Yiisuriel’s incoherent psychic thrashing produced – as tight-knit as the mental network was, she realised, that very interdependency could be its weakness. The Air Breather seemed maddened beyond reason; not paralysed, but her reaction was more akin to a Human struggling for words as nameless emotions screamed for release, only on a scale multiplied many tens of thousands of times by the innate power of her mind. She was the structure and the boundaries of their mental network, and the repository of the Lost Islands lore. Now, Aranya poured healing and calm into them, momentarily taking command, but the Air Breathers acted as a group to immediately wrest it back – augmenting their control, their hold on the area bounding Asturbar and Iridiana, returned to her man … and the levels of their ire rose far beyond the dangerous, a dark and terrible rage ruling them as they prepared to strike!

Aranya shrieked at a pitch calculated as much to break through the agonising mayhem in her own mind as everyone else’s: Order! Order in the mental space! What are these accusations, Yiisuriel?

Yiisuriel howled, CHAOS! ABOMINATION! DESECRATION OF YORE! KILL IT NOW!

No! This was about Iridiana! Aranya called urgently, She’s an ally! Let me explain – Yiisuriel, no! I forbid –

DIE, THOU FIEND!!

Always, under her greatest duress, Aranya knew her instinct was to protect, to succour those she loved, to draw them to her bosom. Thus it was that she flung herself in a seemingly slow, never-ending dive toward Asturbar and Iridiana, the foci of the Air Breathers’ malcontent – but her soul moved beyond, and her Dragoness with her, marshalling in a fractional instant the combined strength of Ri’arion, Zuziana and Leandrial herself to deny the thunderbolt of pure, intensely complex fractal magic that their own allies unleashed.

It seemed her cheek merely kissed the cool stone, but the full weight of the Island-World crashed against the back of her skull.

Unnnhhh! she spiralled into darkness.

* * * *

A star guttered.

A Star Dragoness, fallen.

Extinguished.

Light glimmered in the Shadow Dragon’s awareness, radiating through the vector he had come to understand represented his oath connection with Aranya. So faint. So enfeebled, it could barely summon so much light as the farthest-travelling mote which leaped from a bonfire’s skyward-dancing heart might essay before a fatal instant snuffed out its febrile beauty.

Her pain was his. Her suffering, his penance. Her expiration, unthinkable.

He reacted mindlessly, reduced in that instant to a level more fundamental even than the primal imperatives of life, to a response of the soul – that part of him which could never be chained – as he cleaved to that spark with every last drop of his strength, and fanned it. Delicately. Desperately. Irrationally, yet with mounting joy as he felt a deft, distinctly otherworldly touch enable his mind to subvert the shackles, and with a contortionist’s miraculous ease, shake itself free.

ARAANYAA!

Her body juddered upon the stone in response to his yearning.

Meantime, Leandrial roared, What have you done? The Star –

I will evict the abomination! Yiisuriel declaimed, her speech rife with murderous overtones. Much have I suffered within the corridors of my upper reaches, and much more below, but this desecration I will never tolerate. Never! I swear this upon my eternal fires. In all my centuries of life, never did I imagine that a whelp of Iosaxxioa should dare to step paw in my halls! Take it away! Away, thou loathsome Chaos Beast! Flee and never return, and let thy miserable life be wracked by the wrath of holy Fra’anior for all eternity!

Iridiana is a fledgling Shapeshifter, Leandrial cried, levering the broken hangar door open with her forepaw.

Ardan gaped from one to the other. That was – it was her who had just touched his mind! Small wonder she had been able to subvert the Thoralians’ plan, for they had never encountered her like, and neither for that matter, had he. He wore bruises aplenty to prove it.

Shapeshifter … but what kind?

Quick as his thoughts were, the battle between Leandrial and Yiisuriel escalated as the Air Breather boomed, More the fool are you for sheltering such –

Who is a fool, Yiisuriel?

YOU ARE, LEANDRIAL!

The other Dragoness hissed, It is you who lacks understanding, great one. Iridiana is a Chaos Shifter, the first of her kind. She is good.

YOU BENIGHTED FOOL, AS YOU ALWAYS HAVE BEEN REGARDING THESE LITTLE ONES! YOUR BARRENNESS BLINDS YOU TO THE TRUE PERIL!

Ardan bit his tongue in horror. That was beyond insult.

On the hangar’s unforgiving stone, Aranya stirred and moaned, but he could not reach her. Sapphire … it’s me. I’m back. Get me out of here. I have to help. The mite hesitated, clearly unwilling to believe him. Ardan would not have believed himself. Gnashing his fangs, he could only gaze upon the debacle – and turn his attention to the Immadian Princess. With his limited means he tried to reinvigorate her, to give of himself through their bond. She must feel his return! She must shine!

Flee, thou ill-starred child of Chaos, Yiisuriel thundered in measured, rolling tones. Flee, and never return. I and the brethren of the Air Breathers have spoken our final word on this matter. And you, Aranya – you must shun this abomination, too, before the dread evil of Chaos destroys us all.

The crazy girl shifter popped into a dragonet form now, hissing, He whom I destroyed is called Thoralian, your archenemy.

Yiisuriel snapped, SILENCE, THOU MITE!

The man-mountain of a Marshal put in, How dare you injure Leandrial, Iridiana and Aranya herself? I –

GET OUT! YOU AND YOUR ACCURSED PIECE OF CHAOS FILTH! NEVER SHALL YOU ENTER MY PORTALS AGAIN!

He had never heard draconic speech akin to this – only, perhaps, that in his most fevered nightmares he had imaged Dramagon the Red could twist his speech with such nuances of execration, abhorrence and vitriol. Whatever could have moved the great Air Breather, always a measured if implacable voice amongst the Dragonkind, to attack a youngling like this? Every bone in his body, every iota of the fire and magic that made him Dragonkind in his own right, protested that this was wrong, ignominious, unprecedented.

The Iridium Dragoness had conspired with Aranya to bring a Thoralian low. Now Yiisuriel sought to cast her out?

Ardan shook his great head slowly, with care for its tenderness. A ragged whisper escaped his lips. Strength, Iridiana. Aye. Just look at her courage now, the proud but not haughty tilt of the chin that said, ‘I have integrity. I am a force to be reckoned with.’ It reminded him of none more than his own Aranya.

Iridiana said, For all your great wisdom, Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, your speech only heaps dishonour upon your own conscience. Asturbar, will you take us away from here?

Bravo, Iridium, he breathed, and felt Leandrial’s regard snap to him. Aye. I am back, he said even more quietly and privately to the Land Dragoness. Muster thy courage, great one of dauntless service; moreover, my noble friend. When the Star knows of my restoration, she shall be revived. And we shall not stand for this travesty.

The fires of Leandrial’s mighty single eye fixed upon him, swirling with the tides of her burning emotions. Then, as the hangar door rose again, her immense paw hove to in the gap where even Genholme had inserted her metallic frame in an attempt to attack the danger – she had to steady her wrist upon the rock – to gather Iridiana and Asturbar to herself in an unmistakably maternal gesture. Her paw curved tenderly; her hearts’ fires, even more so.

Then, she passed into the morning’s mists steaming off Yiisuriel’s flanks, and was gone.

Chapter 15: Song of Chaos

Manly Shoulder pillow. Aranya awoke to the curious sensation of Zuziana withdrawing from the forefront of her awareness, the better to observe her reaction. What was this? Despite that she was accustomed to her best friend’s predilection for high jinks, one never quite knew what the Remoyan, diminutive in stature but immense in mischief, might be plotting.

Still, she was very snug. Curled up beneath an orrican wool blanket, her cheek rested upon a stalwart slab of muscle, the slight scarified ridges of which struck her as familiar, and his smell … oh, his tangy, ever so slightly soapstone-and-lime scent was just the pinnacle of masculine scrumptiousness –

His? His … what? Ardan!

By rights she should have leaped off the pillow-roll shrieking in shock. Zip, however, slipped in half a blink before Aranya lost ten years of her life, chortling, Relax, petal. Ardan’s healed.

Her eyes snapped wide, wide open.

Roaring rajals! Mad songs of thunderous joy and disbelief rolled from her head down through her chest, making her toes curl against his thighs. Soft breath puffed across her lips as Ardan lifted his mouth slightly from hers, chuckling like the scabrous Princess-kissing pirate he so clearly resembled in that instant. He grinned inanely at her reaction, watching how she searched his face, his eyes, with burgeoning wonder; how her hand flew to her mouth, stifling an inhalation of joy.

“Ardan? Ardan, are you … you are!”

“I am.”

“You’re … aye?”

He leaned forward to brush the fingers covering her mouth with a kiss. “That I am, Princess.”

“And you are –”

“I am decently clothed, as are you, dearest heart. I’ve missed you.”

Aargh, a blush! Aranya was unsure what shade exactly described the heat in her cheeks, but she would not have done the average volcano any shame.

She spluttered, “I-I-I …”

Rascal! He took advantage of her confusion to raid another kiss, and then another before she could recover so much as half a breath. Rainbows over Islands!

“A-Ardan –”

His strong fingers laced into her hair. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

“Ardan!”

“Mwa-ha-haaaa, nice squeal, my girl,” he chuckled evilly, before he evidently remembered that his acting might be misinterpreted, given as he had been the Thoralians’ hench-Dragon just a day or two before. “I – uh, I’m healed. Somewhat. I’m fully free from the Thoralians’ influence, anyhow. Sorry. I should have made that clear before the mean laugh. Dhazziala’s crew have been meddling around in my brain’s innards, which feel like mashed, fermented prekki-fruit – but I’m very much back on the right side of this war, I’ll have you know, Princess – mmm!”

“That’s better,” Aranya murmured when finding air again became a necessity. “I like the strong, silent type of man-Dragon.”

He sniffed, “Flying monkey droppings and worse!”

“Are you really …”

“Really, really, really,” Zip interrupted from Aranya’s own mouth. “Trust me, I checked.”

“Can we not snoop when I’m having a –”

“Kiss? So fussy.”

“Zuziana of Remoy!”

“You are betrothed to the man, might I point out? A smidgen of canoodling – or a Dragonship-load, for that matter – is neither here nor there in the estimation of most peoples upon most Isles.”

Ardan said, “I cannot express how very sorry I am, Aranya, for everything –”

“You tried to save me,” she replied.

His black-in-black eyes grew shadowed, and he drew away from her as far as their position beneath the covers allowed. “It seems I am always the one to be held, to be captured, to be used against you. You must be tired of chasing after me.”

“What is ten thousand leagues compared to waking like this?”

Ardan sighed.

Aranya so desperately wanted to reach for him, but his curled, defensive posture gave her pause. She did not wish to slight his honour, so crucial in Western Isles culture, yet the rush of their feelings was like standing beneath a fast Dragonwing as it swooped into battle, and the stillness of souls intersecting like ripples playing across the pond of reality; joining, changing, merging and separating. She felt humbled that this man should choose to stand by her when she had suffered so much. Seeing him restored was too much – too much for words, too much for tears, too precious a gift to allow herself to believe it, yet Aranya knew she must.

This was reality. It was far from perfect, but it was beautiful, and hers.

Oh! Aranya chuckled, “Would you look at that? I’m glowing.” She held up her hand in the chamber’s semidarkness. A faint luminescence played beneath her skin, as if stars sported in her veins and peeked out from beneath her fingernails, her knuckles, even the scars that creased her skin and gnarled her joints. Inner starlight.

“I feel beaten,” he responded after a long, searching pause. “Beat, and beaten. But this – your light – helps me keep the faith.”

“Same.”

His arm drew her close. Uncurling, he shifted until they lay nose to nose in their own space, just a man and a woman affirming the intimate truths that intertwined their lives. “Together?”

“Forever.”

She saw her shining face reflected in his pupils. They talked quietly for a few minutes more by the light of her joy. Soon they must rise, and see to the fractured state of their alliance.

* * * *

Patience was not a virtue Zip possessed in great abundance, but this day put her reserves to the test as an ultimately fruitless seven-hour meeting with the full Council of the Lost Isles unfolded at less than scintillating pace. Yiisuriel’s recalcitrance wore Aranya and Ardan thin when they should both have been allowed to rest, or been tracking down the elusive Chameleon. All this over a matter of history. It was not even Iridiana’s fault!

Sitting in the great Council chamber, she quietly checked off the conclusions on her fingers while Aranya communicated surreptitiously with Leandrial for a second time.

One, Chaos was evil. Dragons of white fires mistrusted such a power because of the fundamental distinction they drew between Chaos and the works of Order, as best exemplified by Fra’anior’s creative endeavours but also a path trod by all right-thinking Dragonkind. Uphold the lore. Build civilisation. Teach magic and its uses to the next generation. To tear down thoughtlessly was to act chaotically, against the fundamental spirit and legacy of the Great Onyx. Two, Fra’anior hated Chaos because he had been betrayed – a tale related at considerable length by Yiisuriel – by an Ancient Dragoness called Iosaxxioa, whose core powers included a mastery of many forms. Chaos magic, historians determined later. As best Zuziana could fathom from the various accusations flapping about the chamber stuffed with overheated Dragons and inscrutable Lost Islanders, Iosaxxioa had been an eccentric, a misfit, amongst her more illustrious kin. She had come under suspicion as a result, and ultimately been ostracised and driven away by her peers, perhaps the unwitting victim of one of Dramagon’s internecine plots. Three, Iosaxxioa had been an Iolite Blue – the same colour as Azhukazi – and her Chaos powers thus by draconic logic inextricably linked Iridiana to a heritage of betrayal, necromancy and suspicion.

This had been the point of the latter two hours of debate. Aranya argued that Iridiana’s actions proved her character and worth. Yiisuriel raged, fulminated and lambasted all arguments advanced against her own position. She knew no reason.

Eventually, having made a general agreement to reverse course so that the Air Breathers could ascertain a viable route to the North in pursuit of the First Egg, the meeting broke up irascibly but without fisticuffs or outright collapse of the alliance.

Zip sighed. Small mercies.

Ri’arion immediately flagged their attention. What did Leandrial say, ladies?

Aranya replied, Ardan. Sapphire. Zip. Leandrial is hurt but adamant that she will assume charge of Asturbar and Iridiana for the time being, until some final decision is reached – until, according to Yiisuriel’s almost-directive, I decide to cast them out of our fellowship, since apparently that decision is mine to take and everyone trusts a Star Dragoness will follow white fires truth and bow to her grand shell-father’s ways!

Wow. Didn’t know you had entire volcanoes of sarcasm in you, petal, Zuziana observed.

Saddling Aranya with the decision – how mature of them, Ardan growled, drawing her into his embrace, but it was a stiff, angry affair altogether. This is the worst form of injustice! It is wrong on so many levels. Beloved –

I take it you are with me then, Ardan?

He measured her fires with a gruff inward laugh. Aye, my vehement Dragoness, that I am!

Zip? Ri’arion? Sapphire?

Likewise! they chorused, and Sapphire trilled her approbation after.

Good, it’s decided then. Aranya wiped her brow tiredly. Let me explain. Ri’arion, we’ll need you to tarry here to oversee the training we initiated in order to better combat the Thoralians’ techniques next time. I propose that Ardan, Zip and I make a supplies run. Our sweet parakeets have very few requests of their own, but I for one need to speak with Leandrial, and I should make apologies to Iridiana. I don’t want to lose them so soon.

They’d be justified in jettisoning us, Ri’arion said, accepting the packing list from Aranya. I’ll see to – a large mirror? This is Iridiana’s request?

The Immadian shrugged. Who knows? I can’t imagine she has a narcissistic bent.

Maybe Iridiana’s faking the shyness? Zip added dubiously, then laughed at her observation. And maybe the suns orbit the Moons.

Indeed, it would be good for Aranya and Ardan to spend a few hours together, away, said the former monk, scratching his bald pate self-consciously. When Zuziana giggled, he formed his features into a mock scowl, and said lightly, I’m learning how to be romantic. It’s working, isn’t it?

Marvellous, said Ardan, clapping the other man on the shoulder. I’ll snip a leaf out of your scroll, my friend.

Sapphire said, See babies first?

Aye, agreed Aranya. Departure in one hour?

Keeping this alliance together was proving harder than she had thought. The Dragon Riders of the Vassal States had one set of ideas, the Land Dragon recruits quite another, and the Air Breathers, she had learned, were as stubborn as the mountains they were. Thrice now they had battled the Thoralians and this time won a partial victory, but the Egg remained at large. Now was hardly the moment for a Star Dragoness to wish she could go rogue – was it?

When it was just her and Zip Dragonback, life had seemed so simple.

Terrifying, but simple. All they had done was declare war on an evil empire – two teenagers, the wits they possessed between them, and a fledgling’s knowledge of how to be a Dragoness.

As disruptive as Chaos itself.

Quietly, Aranya summoned those memories to herself. King Beran would have said that oftentimes, there were too many choices. No person could rightly know whence a particular path over the Isles might lead, or what the outcome might be, for good or for ill. In such situations it was no cliché to follow the heart or to do what one knew to be right, consequences be tossed into a Cloudlands volcano. That was how Beran had snagged himself a Star Dragoness to wife, after all. From everything Aranya knew, they had been happy together – hounded to the ends of the Islands over the course of a decade by an implacable foe – but deliriously, over-the-rainbows happy.

Could she hope for such bliss with her Shadow?

She must put her affairs here in order.

Huari, Gang, Ri’arion, I’ve another task for you to perform meantime, she said. Something I need you to keep very quiet indeed.

* * * *

Upon an evening’s stormy blast and bluster, the Shadow Dragon of the Western Isles cloaked and shielded himself and his Rider, and cast himself exuberantly into the depths in pursuit of Leandrial and her two passengers. The Land Dragoness had taken them an hour’s travel north to a relatively stable under-Cloudlands region, while they awaited the results of this day-long Council. No good news on that front, yet his hearts bubbled and his flight needed no ferocious wind to remain buoyant. He was physically in fine shape for a relatively short flight, but the mental degeneration would take longer to heal, he had been warned. No mind. He carried Aranya upon his back. She was arguably the most powerful healer in the Island-World.

Her touch was enough; her shining, a constant source of wonderment. That was because of him, she had declared. Him!

Even now as he adjusted his aerodynamic shields before winging powerfully across the initial adverse current, he might steal a glance over his shoulder and see seated there, ahead of two saddlebags, a slender young woman of mysterious mien, for she was cloaked and hooded, and her face further concealed by a full veil that left only her eyes showing. Eyes lambent with power. A face so radiant, it lit up the inside of her hood. And her joy was so contagious, bubbling like many zestful springs, that his crusty warrior heart had become awash with half-formed poetic attempts to evoke how she made him feel. If he was shadow and absence, her light was his filling. If he was darkness, she was his polar opposite. Rather than banishing his Shadow, her light seemed to make him more substantial; darker, more powerful, and purer than ever before.

He truly liked the man he wanted to be around her.

Catching a counter-current, Ardan rode its buffeting with wings supple to its demands, the shearing effects of turbulence and the muscle-straining density of the atmosphere at this level, while he navigated steadily toward a deep mountain range, whose peaks reached some four miles beneath the Cloudlands. That was where Leandrial had, symbolically he guessed, taken refuge beyond a canyon which could not be crossed by the Air Breathers, not without the laborious and perilous effort of re-floating them again. He could not see her as yet amongst the thickets of obsidian spires, for the Land Dragoness was surprisingly well camouflaged and the air currents thick with debris, obscuring the vista from time to time as they winged steadily for an hour over a landscape of blasted emerald-hued badlands and bottomless black ravines.

At length his draconic eyesight picked up an anomaly down in a sheltered dell of sorts, where a white crack betrayed the fact that Leandrial observed their approach.

Great one, he said respectfully.

Ardan, we await the pleasure of your company, she said warmly, but he thought he detected notes of grief and anger in her voice.

We come.

Surging through the air, he hastened to her side, noting how she had concealed herself amidst the debris. Ardan’s quick eye scanned the visible expanse of her grey-green hide, checking for fresh wounds or signs of healing, but those he saw stemmed from the previous battle at the Suald-dak-Doon and were already well on their way to being fully healed. Considering her venerable age, Leandrial was in fine shape thanks in the main to Aranya’s ministrations. He soared up over the hump of her massive right shoulder, angling past her relatively modest skull ruff, sleek and frayed in places by the effects of battle and time, and swept across her cheek above her hoary muzzle, shooting past her cavern-sized nostrils toward the front of her mouth, which cracked open for them. Back-winging deftly, he rode the choppy currents to sideslip over her massive, spatulate teeth. He brought them to a neat landing upon her tongue.

Arching his neck proudly, Ardan raised his paw, intending to bring his Star to her own landing just in front of Asturbar and his nude girlfriend, who hid shyly in his lee.

“Help with the bags, Your Majesty?” the Marshal said dryly.

“That’s how one addresses kings in my culture,” Aranya returned, hefting the bags with aplomb. Not only was she no weakling, she was a Dragoness.

Zip snorted acidly, “Listen, you lump-tastic man mountain, I’ll have you know that this Princess carries her own bags, and she prefers friends to call her Aranya – and don’t think I haven’t noticed you rolling your eyes at the Star Dragoness-worship business. Well, so do I, mind.”

The girl chuckled, as did Ardan.

“Greetings to you, other-Aranya,” the soldier offered. If either he or Iridiana noticed the unearthly gleam of the Immadian’s countenance, they gave no sign.

“Other-Aranya? Of all the nerve!” the Remoyan howled, overriding Aranya’s attempt at speaking. “You – yes you, fidgety silver girl with the incredible legs – slap him for me, would you? I don’t have hands these days, but if I had …”

“She does have incredible legs,” Asturbar agreed with boyish eagerness. Slap. “Ouch!”

Ooh. Romance, Dragoness-style. He agreed with Aranya’s assessment. He enjoyed this girl’s spirit; the Marshal would clearly need to be on his toes. He seemed to handle his girlfriend’s chaotic nature extremely well, however. Perhaps they could swap notes on how to handle errant stars and misbehaving chaos phenomena?

This seemed an opportune moment to demonstrate his own command of romantic parlance, the Dragon decided. He rumbled zestfully, “As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one pair of legs in the Island-World for me. Trust me, I’ve looked – both sides of the Rift.” MMM-GRRR!

Ha! Another blush! For one who was avowedly not the blushing sort, being more of a vaporise-her-enemies-with-incandescent-starlight kind of girl, Aranya could certainly serve up an impressive shade of rose when properly ambushed. His culture made little of the balladeers’ obsession with the maidenly blush, but on a Northerner whose skin tone evinced only the faintest yearning toward tan despite the brutal suns-shine of Wyldaroon, the effect was fascinating indeed. He was still chuckling as she enclosed him in an opacity shield and snapped an order to transform.

Ardan growled, “Why don’t you come in here, beloved?”

“Put some clothes on,” Aranya retorted.

“They can’t see.”

“Male Dragons,” the Princess explained to their allies. “Here, Iridiana, this is one of yours, I believe.”

Clothing? Highly overrated around Shapeshifters, he had discovered. Even more overrated around his girl, and he would have to watch the direction of his gaze around Iridiana, or Zuziana would find some pretext to roast his … well, to roast him. Thoroughly.

“Ooh, my trousers are stuck,” he complained. “Aranya, will you help me, please?”

“Asturbar’s right on his way,” Zuziana cut in. “Woof, is that half a dress you have there, Sparkles? Takes me right back to summer in Remoy. My poor ex-monk was so embarrassed by the attire – all Helyon silks, and not much material on display, either. Nice pick on the colour, girl. Truly suits your eyes. Is your skin natural?”

Trust the brash Remoyan to dive right in.

“All mine,” Nyahi said wryly.

“Azure is my Dragoness’ colour,” Zuziana added covetously.

“It’s an effect of the iridium, may I conclude?” said Aranya, drawing a diffident nod from Iridiana as she uncovered the mirror from its sackcloth. “Here. We brought supplies – food, pillows –”

“For their love nest? Sweet of you, Immadia.”

“Remoy!”

“Aye, your Celestial Highness?”

“May I have my mouth back, please?”

“Not if it’s going to kiss that tasty dark warrior like you did for an hour this morning. Ew. Some things, even best friends shouldn’t share. Here he comes. I’m off. I’ll just talk to my other self in here.”

Ardan swaggered forth, wearing nothing more than his familiar dark leather trousers and a smirk meant to rile Aranya just a little more. A challenge-come-flirtation, Dragon style. She responded by throwing a shirt at his head, calling, “Honestly?”

“Blush away, Immadia,” he chuckled, moving forward to clasp hands with the Azingloriax warrior. Holy Fra’anior, that girl’s legs were phenomenal! He wrenched his gaze away a fraction of a second after he had betrayed his thoughts, causing the other warrior’s hand clamp upon his. A friendly warning between men. A manly squeeze that returned strength for strength. Together, their grips might have powdered granite.

The Shapeshifter Dragon belted Asturbar on the shoulder, which was to say, he felt as if he had just clouted a boulder. “I dug my Dragoness up in a cave. Where’d you scare yours up?”

“Seven hundred leagues from civilization, out in the Doldrums. She was lonely.”

Ardan grinned at Iridiana, who startled as if he had just bared a hundred fangs at her. He drawled, “Oh, the poor little man was lonely, was he? How’s the stomach doing there, my friend?”

“Sore,” said Asturbar.

“And how was your birthing experience?”

There, have a taste of blunt Western Isles humour, big man! Everyone was laughing now, even Zip inside Aranya, as Asturbar barked, “Good! Fine. Aranya, can you check Leandrial with your healing power, please?”

Leandrial said, “Did I ask for help? More importantly, how fared your summit meeting with Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, noble Aranya?”

“Frustrating.” The Immadian knelt uneasily, focussing on her hands rather than Asturbar and Iridiana as she summarised rapidly, “We learned much and achieved nothing. She is adamant, unapologetic and as stubborn as you’d expect from several million tonnes of rock. You are not welcome to return, Iridiana, and allegedly, I am a naïve dupe in your vile schemes to – I don’t know what! Desecrate the Island-World with your Chaos powers?” Aranya shook her head furiously. “Apparently, in my boundless ignorance I thought the Thoralians were the malevolent power of the age, but no, apparently you represent some ancient lineage of illimitable evil banished beyond the mountains by Fra’anior himself. What did you want this mirror for, anyways? If you’re planning to shred Thoralian’s gullet with its shards, I’m in. Oh, Leandrial, you should have spoken up sooner! You’ve a nasty fracture right across your upper jawbone.”

Queer. It was unlike Aranya to gush like that.

Reaching down to clasp her shoulder, Ardan almost startled back into his Dragon form as she suddenly shouted, “She questions my authority! Mine! Not – not that I have much, really. Just my lineage and the whole Star … thing. I’m sorry, Iridiana. This is meant to be about you, not me.”

Drawing Aranya to her feet, Ardan squeezed her knotted shoulders. So much tension! He massaged with care, mindful of her lesions. After a silence so awkward it threatened to slink out of Leandrial’s mouth of its own accord, she sighed heavily and rested her forehead upon his left shoulder and said privately:

Oh Sha’aldior, something … I’m so … disquieted, around her. Is it her power of Chaos? I’m – look at me, I’m trembling like a reed! Can’t even look at the poor thing. What’s wrong with me?

Ardan replied, I am here for you, Aranya. Be of good courage. We shall puzzle this out. Aloud, for everyone, he said, “Suggestion, my beloved. Heal Leandrial first, and then let’s work on the easy parts.”

Aranya said, “Did somebody spy an ‘easy’ somewhere around Herimor?”

“Not me,” Asturbar grunted. Then, with what struck Ardan as forced jocundity, he added, “So, a mirror? Nyahi, was this your idea? Some unsuspected vanity wriggling about in there that I’ve never detected?” The shy girl squealed and protested as he prodded her ribs. “You are beautiful, ma’am! Yes you are!”

“If you say so, sah!” she retorted, saluting rather haphazardly.

“I do say so! Shall I hold the mirror like this?”

“Yes, sah!” Turning, Nyahi seized Aranya’s left hand from behind. “I’ve a very impertinent request I wish to make of you, Princess. Possibly a hurtful one.”

Ardan’s jaw sagged as he finally divined their intent with the mirror. No! What was she thinking? Did she understand nothing of the anguish of a blemished woman, that she must … oh, Aranyi! Please …

I … oh help me, Sha’aldior, I cannot, but I must, I MUST!

Aloud, Aranya said, “I … see.”

“I hope you will,” Iridiana said gently. “After all, I haven’t much looked in mirrors for seven years. I sincerely hope my intuition is right. Otherwise …”

Intuition? That’s rich! Ardan seethed. I’ll have her head for this – that disrespectful, insensitive carrad-nadik!

Only he could have understood what it cost his Princess to push through, to summon the spark of courage which had always served her well, and fan it into flame. The emotions thundering through their oath connection were choking, miserable and frightened, but he soothed her instinctively, taking what he could upon himself, meantime thinking: That brazen girl would pay! If she made the slightest move to disrespect Aranya, he’d teach her what it meant to earn the wrath of a Shadow Dragon!

Even Asturbar seemed horror-struck. How tentatively he raised the tall, brass-framed mirror! Had Iridiana not forewarned him?

Fra’anior grant me strength, Aranya whispered.

She raised her hands to push back her hood and unknot her headscarf.

Chapter 16: Of Fates most Fearful

Of ALL THE fates she had ever feared, Aranya knew that a direct comparison to this exotic beauty must rank among the most pernicious. She could not imagine why Iridiana wished to make this gesture, but the only consolation in her mind was that if she could face such a moment down, then perhaps she might also be freed of the soul shadows cast by her blighted form; freed to become more.

Handling the fabric was a struggle. Untying first the headscarf and then the face veil, she became acutely conscious of how poorly her cramped fingers performed what should have been straightforward tasks. At last, the material whispered away from the roughened nodules upon her cheeks and jaw. Now, she yielded to Nyahi’s tender touch as she bade Aranya, without words, to turn and regard their images in the tall mirror that her man held.

The Princess’ eyes brimmed helplessly as she blinked twice, thrice, trying to find a way to see without descending into a puddle of tears. Why was this kind of courage the hardest of all?

Oddly, the first image she focussed upon was that of Ardan peering over her left shoulder.

Thunderstruck.

Next came Asturbar’s shocked inhalation and a reflexive, revealing tightening of Iridiana’s fingers in hers. A sidelong glance fixated upon the descent of a single teardrop to the perfect silvery-blue plane of her left cheekbone, betraying the other girl’s high emotions. She wept!

Dragoness or none, the Immadian Princess very nearly spilled over into outright panic as her own feelings threatened to overwhelm her. Why was everyone acting so bizarrely? She did not understand. Did Iridiana grieve her disfigurement? Impressions cascaded through her awareness with impossible languor, while the thundering drumbeat of her heart made her head feel as if it wished to lift off her shoulders. The realisation that she and the other girl were matched of height. The rich pulse of Shapeshifter life within Iridiana’s being, counterpart to her own. The precise contours of that moisture-streaked cheekbone. The oh-so-familiar slant of her eyes, frosted blue to her own amethyst; the way Iridiana’s answering smile also quirked upward at the corners as though they shared a private joke – and now Aranya could no longer tell which image was her own and which was Iridiana’s, for she seemed to have sunk into that shimmering mirrored surface merely to return as herself. Only the warmth of slim fingers clasping her own kept her grounded in reality, occluded as it was.

For a breathless second of terrible wonder, Aranya no longer knew which image was her.

Impossible!

She clutched at straws of detail – Iridiana had sable locks, not her rainbow-hued uniqueness. Aye, those black strands belonged to another. To her. Echo-Aranya. A twin even closer than her Shapeshifter Dragoness had ever produced. One glowed. One did not. Just … her gaze leaped about, taking in the salient descriptors with spasmodic illogic. She knew. It was impossible, but she knew.

Aranya could not breathe. She dared not!

Exhilaration seared her breast from within. Untameable hope mingled with the terror that she might, somehow, be mistaken. Her heart thrashed her ribcage fit to bruise her very bones, while her ears filled with an all-encompassing wuthering akin to that first time she experienced the purity of Dragonflight, and had known the inexpressible transformation of her universe.

A single gargantuan peal of thunder shook the Land Dragoness from without as her reaction manifested itself.

Every detail of Iridiana was perfectly … Aranya. Here was her being reproduced in loving, lavish detail, yet with those slight variations that conversely made her more certain rather than less. Aranya’s frame was woefully skinny after all her deprivations, but Iridiana was a filled-out version of her. Just look at their tremulous smiles in the mirror, like identical lovebirds perched upon a branch. Paint her own skin a silvery-teal hue, and they could be twins, couldn’t they? And if she had the slightest doubt left in her mind, she had only to note Asturbar, Ardan and Zuziana’s confirmatory reactions.

No-one could have made this up.

Nyahi choked out, “I was sort of … wondering … how this might have come to be?”

“Oh! By the mountains – it’s impossible …”

Wonder imploded in her breast. A song of stars breathed new life into her soul, and Aranya knew nothing would ever be the same again.

* * * *

A girl sobbed by her mother’s bedside. Huge, hot tears shook free of her lashes to splash unheeded about her bare toes. Sleep, dashed away. Heat rolled up her neck as Aranya watched her father drawing a covering over her mother’s disfigured face. The skull bulged strangely, as though horns pressed from beneath skin and bone. Her outflung arm dimpled the covering, which obscured what seemed to be the beginnings of a bird’s wing.

“Daddy! Oh daddy, why?”

King Beran turned desolate eyes upon her. “It was a poison, Sparky. A rare one. I … I don’t … understand either. What did my Izariela ever do to anyone?”

“I want my mommy! Come back! She has to come back!”

“She can’t, my sweet –”

“Mommy! I want – noooo!”

Aranya buried her screams against her father’s uniformed stomach. She knew nothing would ever be the same again.

* * * *

Aranya pleaded, “How does a person fly? Why does the fire burn? Why am I not dead? Tell me in words of one syllable, so that I can understand! Please … Oyda, Nak, please. I’m scared.”

The two old people regarded her with such a depth of understanding that Aranya began to cry. She hated showing weakness, but it was all too overwhelming.

Nak spoke first. “People don’t fly,” he said. “Dragons do. You can fly because you’re a Dragon.”

The old man’s raw sincerity shattered her unbelief. Aranya searched his eyes, and saw only truth writ within. Were the legends true?

In that interminable sliver of time, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.

* * * *

All about them, Leandrial sang a new song of delight, filled with spine-shivering notes of exultation, yearning and white fires worship. She had carried them so far. Loved them so well. Her way was to cherish her ‘little ones’ on a prodigious scale, as if all the mothering of ten thousand were concentrated into a single being – a terrible foe when roused, but a friend true to the very end of all fires.

She was all the mother Aranya had enjoyed for so little of her life.

I slighted you, Silha. I’m so sorry, she said, as if speaking to Beran’s second wife. She had never allowed Silha close.

Izariela, we will return for thee. This, I vow.

Leandrial’s song assuaged her brokenness. For the first time, Aranya allowed the healing to soak deep, like a refreshing rain of the soul.

* * * *

Memories and impressions flashed through her mind with the power and impact of Fra’anior’s own storms, yet beyond these flashes, she beheld a shy, complementary presence – and invited her in to partake. Deep and mighty were the bulwarks of that mind, as if through the forge of tribulation and deprivation Iridiana had learned to guard herself in ways Aranya had never encountered before. Such a bastion! Such shimmering splendour surrounding a core of chaotic fury, yet despite their dissimilarities, the fundamental sense of kinship only grew deeper the more narrowly she considered the person behind the image.

The other girl hung back, watching from the heart of her own internal Chaos storm, as the Immadian rode the tidal surge of emotions. Myriad colours! She was reality’s antithesis; yet no, that descriptor could never suffice. A contradictory reality? Indwelling that amazing psychic existence she beheld a hypnotic, highly intelligent ferocity that she recognised as clearly as the soul of her own draconic being. Dragoness!

Starlight love does burn, Aranya whispered impulsively. Know me.

Oh … Iridiana blossomed before her eyes. Psychedelic offshoots of flame surrounded her, as if Aranya stared into the endlessly mutable depths of infinity’s own flower. I never imagined – this! I … have no words, Aranya, kin-soul most enigmatic.

She meant that starlight itself, in its verimost essence, seemed strangely chaotic. Light was a seething phenomenon of energy or matter, Aranya knew not which; perhaps a particle or a beam moving at unimaginable speed, so that like Iridiana’s reality-bending chaotic transformations it no sooner seemed to have departed here than it was already there, having traversed the gulf in defiance of any attempt at perception. Was life itself innately chaotic, transcending natural boundaries and orders to create something wholly new?

Aranya smiled, By those memories, I meant to show you –

– our mother?

Could it be? A heart’s pang most tender!

Wildly, Aranya cried, Aye, but that which you must grasp, what grips my heart so sorely –

– the sense of ultimate, paradigmatic change –

– is that nothing, nothing, nothing can ever be the same again! That all I chased after, and desired, and dreamed of; all the revenge I lusted for till it corrupted my very soul, must crumble to dust before this realisation –

– as stardust returns to the cosmos –

They spoke in mental heartbeats, each completing the other’s thoughts. Aranya pulled up with an inward gasp. Shocked. Moved. Terrified of a power that could rout her like this.

She had faced battle. Monsters. Fra’anior. Dramagon himself!

Nothing compared.

Softly, Nyahi said, No-one understands your fears better than one who has lived all her life in fear’s own shadow, dearest –

– petal. O petal, I am so petrified, but jubilant, if only you could see –

– a soul ignited, as the Star Dragoness alone can be! Oddly, they were both mentally wheezing as if their brains had sprinted a thousand leagues.

All that was Aranya burst forth in a cry of woe-tinged exultation, O long-lost sister soul, thou art!

Mutual marvelling. Paradoxically alike.

Iridiana chortled, Indeed, and myriad times indeed! Oh, I have an idea …

Reaching up, she gently tugged back Aranya’s long tresses. Then her own. They tilted their heads simultaneously, checking the ears. Pointy, thanks to her mother’s Ha’athiorian heritage. Their mother? “As I suspected,” the girl said. “Every detail – no-one else I know has these ears. Are you real?”

The Immadian just pinched her own arm. Tangible, but dreaming. Surely!

Ever so drolly, Zip murmured, “Those are Fra’aniorian ears, girlie, real as they come! And if you superimposed the two of you – well, that’s freaky. Umm … good, but freaky. Freakishly amazing! Aranya, you don’t have a sister, do you? A half-sister? Has King Beran been naughty, do you think?”

“Zip-Zap, you take that back!”

Her friend insisted, “I mean, he could be a King in the Remoyan sense of –”

“What’s this about my ears?” Iridiana interjected, her eyes liquid with wonder. “Fra’anior’s ears, did you say?”

“He’s not! My father’s a good man … I think,” Aranya spluttered at last, holding her throat as if to deny the thundering of her heart within. “Not that Remoyans are bad. Iridiana, I’ve no words. Uh, Remoyans practise polygamy, just to clarify – one man, many wives. Big families. Immadians are usually monogamous … holy Fra’anior! This is a shock. Quite incredible.”

How her thoughts failed to articulate a coherent response!

Asturbar quipped, “If you do indeed trace your lineage from Fra’anior, then has he been naughty?”

All four of them shouted with laughter; a release of pent-up tension that had Asturbar cradling his poor, abused stomach and Iridiana huddling over him, crying with joy, while Ardan swept Aranya into a rib-bending hug and spun her around several times. He chortled, rubbing his eyes as he kept glancing between the two girls, disbelieving. Then the men were back-slapping and guffawing uproariously, while Iridiana clasped Aranya to her bosom, murmuring over and over:

“Can’t be true. A sister? No. How could it be? A sister, a sister soul … even just that word sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Can you believe this, Aranya?”

“No, but I do. I do! Oh, would you listen to me, gabbling on …”

Quicker than thought, Iridiana blurred through a dozen or more transformations before managing to take up her clothing once more, from the inside, with a bang and a small blast of glowing mauve particles that absorbed back into her gleaming skin before everyone’s startled eyes. She rubbed her upper arms self-consciously. “Uh …”

“Haven’t seen that particular transformation before,” Asturbar joked, snaffling her into his embrace with a covetous hand that unconsciously strayed well below her waistline. “What do we call it, the mauve powder-puff?”

Naughty man. He’s as bad as your Shadow, Zuziana teased Aranya privately.

Her ears must resemble peaks of fire.

Eventually, Ardan called them to order. “Food! Food, my friends! I for one think better on a full stomach.”

Nibbling on nutty bread topped with pungent orrican butter and washing bites down with spring water sourced from Yiisuriel’s own peak, the five companions fell into a meditative silence until Zuziana typically chose to break it – only, she recounted Aranya’s heritage for the eager Southerners. Even Ardan learned new details. Once she had whammed them about the earholes with the idea that Aranya had an aunt who was six hundred years older than her, described Immadia according to the ballads and reiterated the matter of distinctive Fra’aniorian ears, she summarised their campaign against the Sylakian Empire and the Thoralians until even Asturbar was left scratching his bald pate in bemusement and approval.

However, Aranya mused in private, there appeared to be four years age difference between her and Iridiana if they matched up the timelines. Might peculiar Star Dragon gestation periods account for that?

The Marshal said gruffly, “So you – invisible person soul-stuck in her best friend’s body – which I do actually believe since I felt your dragonet traverse from your person into my stomach – I … suffering murgalizards! Where does one even start? You’re claiming Iridiana is not from Yazê-a-Kûz at all? That she’s daughter to some Northern kidnapper and his Shapeshifter Dragoness consort?”

“That’s King Beran to you,” Iridiana corrected mildly, “and Immadians are strictly monogamous, right? No consorts in sight.”

“Hmm,” Zip put in dubiously, disparaging Immadia’s entire royal line with a single syllable.

Aranya supposed an illicit child might be possible. Her Dad was not an unattractive man, and he was a King to boot. But just … so out of character, were it true!

“You seem very calm about this, Nyahi,” Asturbar growled.

A perfectly radiant smile touched those silver-chased lips. “I know! I mean, I’ve always known I’m a freak, haven’t I? I trust you’ve noticed by now. This is just a touch … well, more freaky, to borrow a phrase from a disembodied soul. If it’s true. Could someone have pinched a baby?”

“Egg,” Zuziana corrected.

Ardan said, “If Shapeshifters are ordinarily born as triplets, should you not technically have two other siblings anyway, Aranya?”

“Well … I’m not sure it works exactly that way,” she said, reaching out to clasp Iridiana’s hand and turn it over in her own. Even her fingernails were the same! “I’ve been making inquiries. The data indicates that Shifter-Shifter relationships have a ninety-eight percent chance of triplets, close to two percent twins, and an insignificant percentage of single births. For Shifter-Human relationships, the recorded data is scarce due to cultural practices and beliefs in Herimor, but the data suggests those categories are ninety-four, five and one percent respectively.”

Asturbar scratched his left ear like a feline feeling the tickle of a flea.

Zuziana chirped, “So, there’s a ninety-four percent chance you have two missing siblings, Aranya? And, what percent chance of ancestral mischief?”

“One hundred,” Ardan put in firmly, overriding Aranya’s half-hearted protests. “King Beran is a notorious pirate who evaded the Sylakian tyranny for over a decade. Her mother’s a Dragoness. And just look at her character, if you want to ask that sort of question.”

She smacked him for that.

“Excuse my ignorance, but how does one pinch a foetus out of a womb?” asked Iridiana.

Having lurked about the fringes of their conversation as only a mile-long Dragoness could possibly lurk, Leandrial rumbled, “I can answer that. There is a class of very rare magical parasites in Herimor which are believed to be concentrated in the far North, which are known to parasitize Dragon eggs, and a few types specialise in exactly the type of theft that you have just outlined – most often, from weak or sick Dragonesses. The eggs are said to be used in occult rituals. We Land Dragons have our struggles with the terrible Theadurial, which magically parasitize our kind. It’s a Dragon-eat-Dragon world out there, to use a clichéd but accurate phrase.”

“Or, we have the scenario where Iridiana’s mother might have been poisoned during her pregnancy,” Asturbar said.

“Still requires a Shapeshifter in the lineage,” Aranya observed.

“And the ears?” said Zip.

Leandrial said, “I can help with that question, too. There are recorded instances of Shifters skipping a single generation, so we could be looking to your grandparents, Iridiana. It’s highly unlikely, however. And there’s the minor detail of you possessing Chaos powers.”

“My unique damnation, do you mean?” Iridiana groaned. “To think I had hoped you could heal me of this – I guess not.”

“No,” said Aranya. “But, entering into the Shapeshifter life is –”

“If I am a Shifter!”

* * * *

When everyone had finished shouting at Iridiana, and she had given up on pouting, turning various colours and shapes and the like, she managed to find her way back into her Human form again. Kerpoof! Asturbar seemed disappointed that he did not get to help her into her dress, Ardan decided. Just look at Aranya! If she had been agleam before, now she was shining so brightly he feared she might combust.

Did the stars themselves shine for joy?

“So, amidst all the chaos, we did learn something about Chaos magic,” Zip punned badly, drawing them back to the mundane. “Tell them, o Amethyst. No, before you speak, this Princess also wishes to make a royal declaration.”

“Princess?” said Iridiana.

Zip’s also a Princess, of the Island of Remoy, Aranya explained. It’s a position very similar to your – ah, previous, sorry – station in your realm.

Except that your cultures allow Princesses to ride to war! Iridiana complained.

The Immadian chuckled. Ah … we didn’t exactly ask permission. It just so happened that we were branded criminals and decided one day to declare war on the Sylakian Empire, just the two of – very well, Zip. I know you’re bursting to speak. Go ahead.

The Remoyan said at once, “Apart from, hold onto that man of yours because he’s such a dish –” she sniggered rather rudely at Iridiana’s scandalised expression “– but don’t tell him I said so, alright? I’ve listened to a bunch of nonsense around Herimor about lineages and religion and all that malarkey. I want you to know that Shapeshifters aren’t so very sacred and special. They can arise spontaneously, and no Dragon who ever lived has any idea why. The closest they come is this mystical notion of Hualiama’s breath still floating about the Isles. I can tell you from personal experience that Aranya’s tears can make Shapeshifters, and that isn’t exactly a secret we want bandied about the Isles, is it? That information is about as explosive as your powers.”

Iridiana muttered, “It doesn’t mean I can ever live safely in Herimor, does it?”

With a tender mental caress that touched them all, Leandrial said, “It appears not, little one. But never fear, we shall protect you.”

“What about Iosaxxioa?” Asturbar asked. “Did I say that right?”

“Ee-YO-sak-si-OH-yah,” Aranya corrected him. “Apparently Iosaxxioa was a little-known shell-sibling of Fra’anior’s, one of the original Ancient Dragons who arrived in the First Eggs at the beginning of the Island-World as we know it. As Yiisuriel tells the tale, the egg housing Iosaxxioa must have been infected by some unknown magical parasite or great interstellar Chaos power during that timeless journey between the stars.”

Ardan and Asturbar snorted simultaneously.

“When Iosaxxioa the Iolite Blue – yes, hold onto that thought – emerged from the shell, it was remarked upon that she seemed different from the other Ancient Dragons. They eventually ascribed her eccentric behaviour to a mental illness or disability. It’s clear from Yiisuriel’s tale that during the conflict between Fra’anior and Dramagon, Iosaxxioa took the side of the Onyx, but her unique range of powers aroused the suspicions and jealousies of Fra’anior’s allies. Although she was a smaller Dragoness, by the standards of the Ancient Dragons anyways, she famously decapitated Simiox the Yellow in single combat, and beat Xantuskator the Lime Green so badly that the mighty Hunter Dragon later perished of his injuries.”

“Eerily parallel to the deeds of this Iridium Dragoness I happen to know, isn’t it?” Zuziana put in proudly. “You were awesome, Iridiana. Just in case anyone was wondering, I thought I should be the first to throw the A word in there.”

“Thanks, Princess,” said the Chaos Shifter, sounding unhappy. Ardan wondered if she thought upon the possible connection with Azhukazi.

“So, anytime you feel like usurping reality to slip me and my babies out of Aranya’s soul, o Mistress of Marvels and Purveyor of all Chaotic Mayhem, just say the word.”

“You’re pregnant? Inside there?” Asturbar gasped.

“Hey, Ri’arion’s a reformed monk,” Zuziana audibly smirked. Ardan rolled his eyes. Remoyans! Did they never miss an opportunity to drag a conversation through a mire of immorality? “I’m irresistible. Clearly. Not that I disrespect anyone’s religion, of course. He was just far too scrummy to resist corrupting.”

“Before Zip-Zap gives us far too much information,” Aranya interrupted, “it seems that Iosaxxioa’s madness led her to become involved in many aspects of dark and forbidden lore, which Yiisuriel was kind enough to list out for us in excruciating detail, but the key one amongst all of that, which you will not appreciate in the slightest, Iridiana, is –”

“Necromancy,” she whispered.

“Aye. Necromancy. With the additional detail that she was accused of experimenting upon Lesser Dragons, developing techniques to transfer fire souls between living bodies, too.”

“Uh, as in … you and Zuziana?” Asturbar blurted out. “Freaking murgalizards, that’s a low blow! I can’t believe she’d say that.”

“She was very, very angry,” Ardan said. Strength to you, girls – uh, Dragonesses.

Thanks, Iridiana said wanly.

Aranya sighed and squeezed Ardan’s fingers, conveying her deep gratitude. “Aye. Let’s just say I think we should keep the matter of our potential familial relationship quiet at this stage, shall we? My misdeeds would only make your situation worse in their minds.”

“Who’s them?” the giant Marshal asked, flexing his fingers as though he dearly wished to be tying a few Dragons’ necks into knots.

Ardan knew that exact feeling. He had been gripped by that desire ever since Yiisuriel started battering Aranya over this issue; but now that they had spoken at more length with Asturbar and Iridiana, and uncovered this miracle of a potentially shared heritage … aye. Once again, Aranya’s instinct about the necessity of finding this girl, as indeed she had found him, had been absolutely right and his was – well, rather slower to catch up. He grinned at no-one in particular. Alright, absent. But he had a sense about what must happen next.

Aye, me too, Aranya returned through their close bond. Good thinking, Shadow-beloved.

“The entire mental congregation of the Lost Islands Dragons and Humans,” the Immadian Princess clarified meantime. “The Dragon Riders sit on the fence, but very few voices actually spoke up for you, or me, for that matter. To complete the history lesson, proofs were brought against Iosaxxioa. Yiisuriel said that with much grief, Fra’anior banished her beyond the mountains of Wyldaroon. He set in place a third sun to guard against her return. She believes it is from that place that Chaos magic yet arises, and that Chaos Beasts are Iosaxxioa’s way of trying to explore the Island-World in order to find a way back past the third sun. The Ancient Dragoness is said to have been driven insane by her solitary confinement, so let’s just say her return to our realms would be, ah …”

“Undesirable,” Ardan deadpanned.

Even Leandrial chuckled uncomfortably at his tone.

“Generally, any notions in the region of ‘unthinkable,’ ‘catastrophic’ and ‘unleashing boundless evil upon the unsuspecting innocents of the world’ would cover her insinuations,” Zuziana noted angrily, eager to have her say. “I’m afraid neither of you come out well in Yiisuriel’s estimation. Still, she will continue as an ally. The Thoralians are heading a few points shy of North, toward the Passage of Dark Fires, we believe.”

Ardan added, “It’s unclear as yet whether he intends to attack Infurion in the Rift, or whether he will continue farther using the knowledge garnered from my mind, to return the First Egg to the last place where it might have been breached – to Jeradia Island, beyond the Rift. In my culture, it is called the Island of Giants. There, he would attempt to reverse history by un-speaking the Words of Command that we believe allowed the Pygmy Dragon to hide an entire volcano and its Dragon Rider Academy inside the Egg, and – aye, Asturbar?”

“Pygmy Dragon? Academy?” He waved a blunt-fingered hand. “Explain?”

“Last time the Thoralians invaded the North,” Ardan continued, “our histories tell that he invaded with an army of Dragons –”

“The Night-Reds!” Asturbar growled at once. “Even I know that tale. It’s taught to soldiers as one of the finest examples of Dragon Marshal-craft, highlighting the way he set Houses and Lines against each other and then cunningly trumped them all and vanished together with his Island into the aether, but it wasn’t Thoralian, it was – ah, your face betrays you, Shadow. Very well. Continue your tale.”

When Iridiana seemed puzzled at the men’s behaviour, Aranya teased privately, It’s some sort of masculine bonding routine. ‘Respect my muscles!’ ‘Aye, my ego needs massaging!’

The Iridium had to bite her knuckles to stifle her laughter. I did live as a hermit for seven years.

All very educational, said Zip. Allow me to take you in paw –

Delicately, Remoy! Aranya ordered.

Ha, the other complained. Since when do I lack tact?

It is a fact your tact has been lacked … ah, never mind. It’s worse than my rotten rhyming, anyhow!

Meantime, Ardan continued, “We aren’t certain, but it seems plausible that Marshal Re’akka was indeed one of the Thoralian triplicate, possibly a breakaway who wished to exert his hegemony over his shell brothers. He vanished because he used the power of the First Egg to transport an entire Island and his Dragon army across the Rift, where he conducted his merry campaign of pillaging and destruction until he encountered this Pygmy Dragoness. She is meant to have been an Onyx colour, just like Fra’anior, and she stopped Re’akka in his tracks – again, we believe, by magical sleight of paw. But in so doing, because of the laws of magic, we believe she trapped herself inside the magic she wove even as she wrought Re’akka’s – or Thoralian’s – demise. By that time this Marshal from Herimor had succeeded, with the help of a dread creature from the beyond called the Nurguz, in decimating the population of Lesser Dragons North of the Rift. That in turn created Imbalance and space for the rise of the Sylakian Empire.”

“Let me guess,” said Asturbar.

“Thoralian again?” Iridiana said simultaneously.

“Aye, the triplicate seems indestructible,” Aranya said. “He wants what is within the First Egg and he will go to any lengths to secure it. Destroying all of Herimor and Wyldaroon is probably just another small Isle crossed in his quest.”

“So we caused him a small case of the hiccoughs at the Mistral Fires?” Asturbar suggested, but his tone was sceptical.

“Terminal indigestion?” Nyahi chuckled.

With her shining gaze, Aranya pinned the couple with the formidable force of her conviction. “You performed a mighty deed yesterday. Both of you. Despite this trouble with Yiisuriel, I want to ask you formally – you and your Mistral Fires – to join us in the fight against Thoralian. You both are mighty and true, and I should rest easier knowing I can call upon allies of your calibre.”

“Besides, you make an awfully sweet couple,” Zuziana put in. “That’s reason enough.”

“Remoy, you are out of order,” said Aranya.

“As usual,” chirped the Remoyan. “You meant to say ‘friends’ rather than ‘allies.’ Besides, you are very, very curious about the potential familial relationship, aren’t you, dear petal?”

“Petal?” Asturbar hooted, evidently catching onto the humorous expression for the first time.

Iridiana kicked him fondly on the kneecap. “It’s a term of endearment, Boots.”

“For a Dragoness?”

“I’m sure these Northerners think we’re just as peculiar as we think they are,” she returned, giving her man the proverbial fiery eyeball. “I speak for both of us when I say, unequivocally, yes. You don’t need to ask for our service, Aranya … uh, o … Princess of Immadia. Unfamiliar title. Sorry. You have it of our freewill. Asturbar?”

“Yes indeed,” he nodded.

After that they spoke much. Aranya introduced Asturbar to the matter of management Air Breather-style, linking with his blunt, straightforward soldier’s mind to walk him through over three and a half thousand individual decisions related to the disposition and welfare of his displaced people. The girl seemed resentful of Aranya entering her man’s mind in this way, until Ardan stepped in to brief her on the actual process, and to describe the ‘layering’ of mental landscapes whereby Dragons were able to keep certain elements of thought and being private even while connected telepathically to others.

So much to learn, Iridiana admitted. I had no idea my mind had natural wards, nor – you do know that Asturbar speaks Dragonish, don’t you?

Aye, I heard through Aranya, Ardan said. Now, don’t be disheartened by all of this Isles flotsam. Aranya is a master negotiator, every ounce as tricky as her father, who went by the moniker of ‘the Immadian Fox’ –

Fox?

A creature of legendary cunning, in a positive sense, he said. And besides, we’re firmly on your side. In my culture, familial ties are the strongest of all. We say, ‘No thong binds true hearts like the bonds of kin.’ He clenched his right fist over his heart. We’re family, Iridiana!

His intensity brought a tear to her eye. I’m not much used to that sort of sentiment, back in Yazê-a-Kûz. Not very much at all.

Just you try to escape this family, Dragoness! he mock-growled. We’ll hunt you down – you and your mangy metallic hide – without pity or rest …

Their outburst of merriment stopped Asturbar and Aranya mid-flow. As the pair regarded them curiously, Ardan said, “Don’t mind us, Marshal, I’m just threatening your girlfriend over here. She can handle it. Trust me.”

Asturbar’s eyebrows peaked.

“Listen, man, it wasn’t long ago your girl crisped the most powerful Dragon Marshal in Herimor and served him up for toast bread. Don’t get me started on what Aranya’s like. Or Zuziana. These girls are plain dangerous.”

“I can handle her,” Asturbar began to gripe, but at Iridiana’s pointed look, he hastily added, “mostly … uh, yes. Somewhat. Sometimes.”

Zip cut in, “You boys know nothing. Do you think it’s a coincidence you both, and my Ri’arion, all have no hair? Us girls flame things when we get riled, so don’t you start with me, you gargantuan hunk of man meat, or I’ll start rearranging your precious nostril hairs with my talons – do we understand each other?”

Iridiana patted Asturbar on the arm. “Don’t worry, my darling petal, they’re just teaching us what family’s like.”

His helpless guffaws shook the inside of Leandrial’s mouth.

Chapter 17: A Parting of Ways

The SHADOW DRAGON turned to his Rider. “So, petal –”

“Don’t start with me, saith the Zippy one,” Aranya said. “Do you think they’ll take the bait?”

“You’re a girl after your father’s devious heart.”

“I’m a girl, period,” she quipped, drawing a gruff bark of approbation from her mount. “Am I still shining so brightly?”

“Occupational hazard for a star. See? Even this Dragon warrior is learning a few expressions from Snippy Zippy. Good thing she’s sleeping, eh?”

“Troublemaker.”

“Conniver.”

“Ready to help me foment further disorder?”

“Iridiana is such a bad influence,” Ardan averred. “Pure chaos! So, do you think we seeded the idea sufficiently?”

Aranya hugged the spine spike just ahead of her. “I’ve never been happier in my life, Ardan. Well, there have been several notable events recently. Confirmation of my mother’s continued existence. Sapphire’s re-embodiment. Recognising the hope that you and I share together; then losing and regaining you. Now this – this craziness! Aye, I predict that within the hour, Leandrial will be persuaded to travel North and she will leave a magical trace here to try to disguise her departure.”

The Shadow Dragon smacked one massive fist into the palm of his other paw, before gritting between his fangs, “I hope they wring every drop of truth out of that worthless, callous Uxâtate Shan-Jarad’s scrawny neck! Imagine imprisoning your daughter before abandoning her in the Doldrums! If he even is her father …”

“I plan for us to pursue them,” Aranya said.

Startled into expectorating a fireball, he spluttered, “You are not merely devious, you are wholly wicked!”

“I need to know, Ardan.”

“Aye, my beloved,” the massive Dragon crooned, side-slipping a chunk of debris that, true to the immense scale of the under-Cloudlands world, was a torn-off chunk of burgundy plant matter half the size of a respectable Island. I would surely bear thy woes …

No woe is this, but I do thank thee, noble Shadow, she riposted lightly, then chuckled at her Dragoness’ formality. We’re both deeply grateful, Ardan. Likewise, I do ache to carry thine.

A Dragon might rule the skies, but this woman owned his hearts. At the soughing of his protracted sigh, it seemed, his stiff wingbeat smoothed as if every function of the complex joints and ligaments had been simultaneously oiled and then instilled with the knowledge of how to cooperate more seamlessly. He rushed onward beneath the upper plate of a mile-wide blue fungal outcropping like an arrow unleashed by a master archer, this new refinement perfectly in keeping with the formidable oleaginous throbbing of his Dragon hearts. Aranya responded unconsciously to his mood, her thighs moulding to his scales and her body inclining to their direction of travel, while her mind melded gracefully with his.

They flew as one.

Her personal preoccupation with questions of how the theft of an egg could possibly have worked, practically, mirrored Ardan’s own questions. How could Iridiana be older than her, if they were born of the same twin or triplet? Could it be that Izariela had been pregnant years beforehand – and not known it? How could a Star Dragoness, with her delicate knowledge of Balance, miss the fact that she was pregnant or not know how many babies or eggs she carried?

How had that theft not grieved Izariela as only a mother could grieve her lost ones?

At length, Ardan decided to draw her out. He said, “Now, o Jewel of the North, your mind has an air of Immadian subtlety and subterfuge about it. You’re planning to mislead Yiisuriel in order to befog their departure, correct?”

“Correct.”

He clicked his talons in a self-congratulatory gesture. “Do I scent a Chameleon hunt?”

“Correct again. Chameleon is firmly on the menu.”

“Excellent! Ah, and how exactly do you propose we expose what no magical artifice has so far discovered?”

One luminous eye winked at him for his teensy poetic rhyme, an Immadian mannerism which had soundly confused him at first. In the Western Isles, a wink was an aggressive reference to unsatisfied or even malicious ancestral spirits still at large amongst the Islands – most often, a serious insult between warriors in a culture which made an art of insults. ‘May the spirits ravage your village.’ Charming.

Gnarrr, he purred.

“It is a plan rife with certain, shall we say, shadowy elements.”

The Dragon mulled over this, whispering beneath the ragged edge of a tearing, jetsam-laden khaki airstream as he approached the steep, dark flanks of the Air Breathers. At length – admittedly, having resorted to a swift, furtive probe through their oath-connection – he puffed out his cheeks. “Wow. That’s a tall ask.”

“Aye. Are you willing, Ardan?”

“Willing? Of course!” His wrathful wing stroke bounced him ninety feet upward, before he corrected with a graceful flexion of his wingtips. “It shall be as the potentate of all Herimor desires – but if you’re planning to have me fly through every soul aboard Yiisuriel and her kin to discover which ones may display unusual characteristics –”

“You’d best get started the moment we arrive,” his Rider replied serenely. “Only a few hundred thousand persons and Dragons to track and confirm.”

GNARRR!

“I can pay richly. It’s worth a kiss from a Star Dragoness.”

“No less than three kisses,” he negotiated feebly, knowing her mind was long since made up. Born rogues, these two Princesses!

“Three it is,” she agreed, and pressed her veiled lips to his spine spike.

“Hey!” roared the Dragon.

“You didn’t specify where,” she giggled as his belly fires thundered into tumescent life. “That’s one already.”

“Just you wait, Aranya of Immadia! This Dragon will be calling in his debts. And you –” he aimed a talon over his shoulder “– you are mine.”

“Perfect.”

* * * *

Three days later, the deception continued successfully with Leandrial, undetected, having traversed several hundred difficult leagues toward Iridiana’s homeland in search of answers – while Aranya, Ardan and her allies were left bereft of any answers of their own. Forty-three thousand souls examined. Nothing to show for an effort that had drained Ardan’s strength to its dregs.

“Despite copious revitalising kisses,” Zuziana lamented, interrupting Aranya mid-mouthful as they shared an evening repast with Gang, Huari, Ri’arion and First Hand Dhazziala.

She spluttered indignantly as she tried to catch the crumbs tumbling out of her twisted mouth.

“I know, petal,” her best friend needled. “I’ve never seen Ardan so motivated, have you? Careful. Can the babies and I have a bit more of the spicy lentil miskuti? Very tasty.”

Ardan aimed his tine at Aranya. “Remoy. Stow it.”

“Nowhere to stow anything.”

“Figuratively.”

“Funny how I’m having trouble with figures just now – are we expecting a visitor?”

Security check, Aranya ordered.

Yazina, fourteen summers of age, daughter to Marshal Chanbar; cousin also to the Chaos Beast, most unfortunately, Yiisuriel responded instantly. Poses no known danger. Checked by the Shadow yesterday, three minutes after noon. May I remind you however, that this is the girl who travelled with Chanbar and the Chaos Beast via Mount Morgu-Zayê –

Thank you, noble Yiisuriel.

In a moment, the guards completed their physical checks and the chamber’s circular door slid open to reveal a nervous young teen.

Marshal Huaricithe rose at once. “Yazina. An unexpected pleasure. Share our repast; share life with us.”

The girl cleared her throat. “I thank you, Marshal.”

“Shuffle up, Ardan of Ur-Naphtha,” Gangurtharr ordered, employing his bulk to ensure that room was made.

Yazina was a slim teen of medium height and build, dark and curly of hair in the way of Herimor, and Aranya observed her curiously. If she was Iridiana’s cousin, then they might be relatives, despite the immense physical distance and barriers between their places of birth. Was there a resemblance? She clearly took after her father, Chanbar, but Aranya could not tell if there were definitive familial characteristics or not. She did not know Wyldaroon well enough.

Once Huaricithe had offered a traditional choice portion from the dishes upon the table and Yazina had partaken, even though she appeared a touch off-colour, Dhazziala enquired after the purpose of her visit with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“No, my family doesn’t know I’m here,” Yazina responded to the direct question, colouring noticeably. “It’s not so much a family matter as … as a magical one. I think. I’m sorry to disturb –”

“Disturb away,” Gang invited.

Huari’s scowl over the table at her mate could have slain a Drake at a thousand paces. She turned to Yazina. “What’s bothering you, child?”

“I have a concern about a member of my family who has been acting strangely,” she confessed, speaking indirectly according to Wyldaroon tradition so as to avoid disparaging a relative, Ardan realised belatedly.

“What kind of concern?” Huari pressed.

“One who is close, has not been quite themselves, I don’t feel. And I don’t understand the stresses they might be under, but – there was a peculiar incident when we travelled from the Mistral Fires to here.” Yazina winced, clearly realising how muddled an explanation she had just attempted. “I’m so sorry to bother your illustrious selves with such … I should go.”

Aranya touched the girl’s arm. “No. Please, tell me more.”

She felt the Shadow’s measuring gaze upon her. Aye, he said. A Balance instinct?

Aye.

Twisting her hands together in front of her, the girl said, “While we were doing mental exercises with the noble Ri’arion yesterday, a strange recollection came to my mind. I remember waking that night we travelled in the Land Dragoness Leandrial’s mouth, thinking I had heard someone speaking in a language unknown to me. I opened my eyes and looked, and it seemed to me that a strange light shone beneath this person’s face, and their face was – I can’t describe it well – maybe ‘twisted’ is the word …”

“Twisted, how?” Huari asked.

“In a way I have never seen before,” she said. “It was … cruel. Almost alien, as if a stranger lived within this person – I know them well, you see.”

This time, Aranya lifted her eyes. Shadow? Oh mercy, it must be …

Not examined yet, he said. He was treating with potential allies offshore these last two days. We’d discounted him as low risk for a Chameleon infection – perhaps wrongly so? Furthermore, we’d need protocols of permission to be granted.

Unaware of their confidential telepathic conversation, the Shapeshifter Marshal said, “And what made you bring this matter to us, Yazina? It’s very brave of you, so I imagine you must be deeply concerned about this person.”

The teen wet her lips. “It was … that when they saw me awake, this person raised their hand … and I felt them. I felt them in here. Inside.” She touched her right temple. “It wasn’t … it wasn’t my father!”

Granted. Go, Shadow! Yiisuriel hissed in their minds.

As Huaricithe comforted the sobbing teen, Aranya called after Ardan, Take care. Do nothing to alarm the Chameleon, if indeed it is him.

Gently, Huari drew out the rest of the story. How Yazina had forgotten the incident until Ri’arion’s exercises had returned the memory to the forefront of her mind. How anxious she was; how she feared that Azhukazi or Thoralian had attacked her father’s mind. How she had travelled with and seen much of Asturbar and Iridiana and observed her father’s atypical handling of their situation.

Ri’arion leaned forward to clarify gently, “He knew Iridiana’s location? He deliberately dispatched Asturbar to the same Island, and then, you say, he changed his mind?”

“It was something to do with the Iolite Blue’s takeover of our House,” the girl whispered. “But I know my father, noble Ri’arion, and now I feel I don’t know him at all.” She eyed Ardan’s clothing, slumped in his previous place beside the table. “Where did the other warrior go?”

“To investigate,” Aranya said simply. Sha’aldior?

In a moment, Ardan replied, Right outside, Aranya. Please bring my clothing. I just don’t know. I do sense something different about Chanbar, but it’s almost like an echo of a taint. If a Chameleon literally subsumes their victim’s entirety, how would you know that they are wrong, as such? How long ago might Chanbar have been infested? Would the mind not be indistinguishable from the original, if a perfect assimilation had been made?

I don’t know. Come back. We need to discuss this.

Clothed and returned to their company, the group rapidly discussed the bones of the matter telepathically before electing to take Yazina into their confidence.

Aranya said, “Yazina, we’re hunting a Chameleon Shapeshifter who we suspect might be hiding somewhere within the population of these Islands. You know about Chameleons – aye?”

“Only the legends,” moaned the girl.

Time to tread a careful line. She was scared enough already. “Chameleons can perfectly take on the appearance of a person, Yazina. Not only that, but they are able to take on all aspects of a host – mannerisms, memories, patterns of speech and suchlike.”

“They kill them?”

The Princess of Immadia silently applauded her. No fool was she, and her courage showed in the straightness of her back as she faced the table.

Everyone looked at everyone else. “We just don’t know, child,” Huari responded eventually. “We don’t know enough about Chameleon Shapeshifters to confirm whether or not one might have attacked your father – all we have to go on is your intuition and what, forgive us, Ri’arion and Yiisuriel have seen in your mind.”

Ardan said, “Yazina, one of my powers is to be able to see inside of people. I see souls – Human souls and the fire souls of Dragons and Shapeshifters. With Shapeshifters I see the Human manifestation or the Dragon one, but each to my insight appears individually, not even as some form of echo or trace. Recently, I have started to recognise the subtle draconic patterns of minds like Aranya’s, Huari’s and Gang’s. They are all Shapeshifter Dragons. In your father, I saw a purely Human mind, but unfortunately, that is exactly what a Chameleon’s power would present to examination. They are unique among Shapeshifters.”

“Perhaps we might more accurately label them shape-morphic draconic beings,” Yiisuriel observed, projecting her voice into the chamber.

Yazina said, “You saw nothing wrong with my father?”

“It’s complicated.” Ardan spread his hands. “What I felt in him as I passed through – uh, passed through his soul –”

Bravely spoken, my Sha’aldior, Aranya encouraged him.

There are times I hate this power! said he.

I’m sorry, my fiery love.

Seamlessly, he continued “– was more akin to a fey shiver. Upon reflection, I am concerned that he felt my presence and reacted to it, perhaps employing some innate protective capability.” Yazina pursed her lips, following his words very closely. “I have passed through tens of thousands of people and Dragons these last few days. None felt like him. It could be that he possesses latent magical powers, but, forgive my Western Isles bluntness, I don’t think so. I sense there’s something different, I just couldn’t identify exactly what. I am also exhausted, so it may be that my thinking is clouded.”

The young teen shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“No, you did anything but. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Yazina,” Huari said. “I feel that this is important intelligence. Yes?”

Nods around the table.

Aranya asked rhetorically, “How does one entrap a Chameleon?”

“They are perfectly the person they represent,” Ri’arion noted. “They are the perfect mimic. Even the memories are duplicated, or subsumed … or whatever they do.”

“Chanbar would be an incredibly bold choice,” Dhazziala put in. “Forgive me, child, but he would present a significant target for any Chameleon.”

Unless the takeover was accomplished long ago, Ri’arion added for the adults alone.

Boldness indeed, Ardan observed drily.

They discussed the matter back and forth for several tens of minutes, narrowing the possible approaches down before discarding them each in turn. Aranya tented her fingers, trying to think it all through. If every element was a perfect duplication, they had to flush the Chameleon out of hiding. Trap him in a mistake, a misperception, a lie … better still, in true Herimor style, they must lay a snare within a snare.

She turned to Yazina, measuring the girl’s demeanour. “What I’m about to ask of you will require great courage.”

The dark curls bobbed to the tune of an audible gulp. “Alright.”

“If your father is indeed a Chameleon Shapeshifter, or possessed by a Chameleon, we need to trap him in a lie. Something that he believes is true, wrongly – a lie that we feed him. Then, we use the fact that he pursued Asturbar and Iridiana before, to spring our surprise.”

“Flush him out; bring the lie as proof? Interesting tactic,” said Ri’arion. “It could work.”

“Won’t he smell a lie?” asked Ardan.

“No, I don’t think so. Not if it’s fed to him by someone he trusts,” Aranya said. “Yazina, we’ll need your help to strike just the right note – for your father’s sake?”

The girl nodded again. “Yes. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

She departed twenty minutes later with a mission.

“Brave girl,” Gang said.

Flicking back her blue hair in frustration, Huari said, “I don’t like it. I’m not at all certain this will work. If Chanbar is the Chameleon, who knows how long he might have been hiding his presence? He could just call her out on the misinformation straight away, or if he discovers why she left –”

“Hopefully that’s been taken care of by the excuse of tracking down medications,” Zip noted, “but what if the Chameleon has other informants? He must also participate in the mental network. Her performance is key.”

Curling her warm tail jealously about Aranya’s neck, Sapphire spoke for the first time that evening. “Tell girl to speak at bedtime.”

“Why, Sapphire?” Aranya asked in surprise.

“Scratch,” demanded the dragonet. After the obligatory scratching, stroking and a few compliments, she purred lazily, “Sleepy, warm Humans are silly. Chameleon like Human, yes? Have silly emotions, like clouds over mind, yes-yes?”

On that hilarious but insightful note, Ardan swiftly departed to brief Yazina en route about the best timing for slipping the lie to her perhaps-father, while the companions pressed choice snippets of meat upon Sapphire until the mite was fed fit to burst.

Thereafter, the conversation remained grave.

* * * *

By two hours after midnight, the plan was already unravelling. Immediately after putting his children to bed, Chanbar had departed by fast Dragonship to consult with potential allies some one hundred leagues Northwest, leaving Ardan in a fang-champing fury and Aranya scratching her head. His behaviour appeared perfectly normal. Could they have mistaken him? How had they overlooked his exit when Yiisuriel was primed to keep track of his mental signature? Could the Chameleon somehow have become aware of Leandrial’s subterfuge? Something did not add up.

For four hours, Ardan hunted other anomalies which a new programme of magical checks designed by Aranya had thrown up, but in the end, they had to admit failure. They were just about to start the process of alerting Yiisuriel and chasing Leandrial, when alarms crashed throughout the Air Breathers. They were under attack – from beneath, by Theadurial-infested rock borers!

There followed one of the strangest battles Ardan or Aranya had ever partaken in. Land Dragon allies delved beneath the besieged Air Breathers while hordes of Lesser Dragons attempted to reach the basal parts of the Air Breathers from within and stop the fast-drilling borers from damaging any vital organs. Within hours, the mental network was under powerful attack from first tens and then thousands of durable Theadurial minds, which linked themselves together in order to defy even the combined might and wiles of Yiisuriel and the Star Dragoness. Meantime, Brown Dragons and Overminds worked to bodily dig out the invaders.

Was this a parting gift courtesy of the Thoralians?

Since it was too late to move the Air Breathers to a safer location, the work became dull and attritional, being a case of digging out the embedded borers and slicing through their dense metallic armour to reach or burn out the thin, stick-like Theadurial parasites within.

To their grief, as too many borers penetrated through to crucial mind nodes, they lost three of the older, injured Air Breathers and one youngster before they were able to turn the tide. Dozens of Land Dragons also fell prey to borers that reversed course and drilled into their bodies, despite their magical protections, to deliver a toxic Theadurial payload before they could be stopped. This was not about infestation. The invading parasites overloaded the nervous systems of their unwilling hosts before perishing in the backlash.

Late that evening as they finally returned from the battlefront, Ardan said, Much as I hate to say this, Aranya, but I feel it’s time to trigger our departure.

Must we?

Chanbar might already be closing in on Asturbar and Iridiana. He has over a day’s lead on us and your sister, four days. Given the distances involved, and the fact that the Chameleon could take on any disguise at all … time leans against.

The Amethyst Dragoness smiled wearily at her mate’s Western Isles expression. Time leaned? Very apt, she said. Aye, you are right, mine third heart. We’ll make a big broadcast –

So that if he doesn’t already know where Leandrial is –

NO! she thundered, biting his shoulder. Her Humansoul fell over laughing at Ardan’s expression, which he did not appreciate in the slightest. Uh, sorry. The petite Dragoness composed herself, and then purred sweetly, Great leaping Islands, Ardan, I can’t even get my jaw around those boulders you call shoulder muscles.

He dangled his wingtip in front of her muzzle. Better?

He almost lost a foot of wing membrane for that jest, but Aranya, who in her Dragoness form was significantly less than half of his hundred-and-five foot length, besides that she was fetchingly slim to his musclebound bulk, bathed his flank in a stream of gentle, warming yellow flame. Good joke, Your Very Sooty Handsomeness.

Aargh! He could fall for her every day until eternity.

Apparently, his reaction was most pleasing to a Dragoness, for right there in the centre of a very busy upper hangar inside of Yiisuriel, she surprised him with the very un-Immadian gesture of a public neck nuzzle that had a few of the older Dragons nearby rumbling and commenting favourably. The Amethyst’s fires surged sweetly at his responsive wing caress.

Then, he called out, Yiisuriel, where is Leandrial? Her signature remains fixed in one location, does it not? Why did she not run to our aid?

Despite the looming darkness of sorrow he sensed in the great Dragoness’ mind, Yiisuriel was quick to respond, She has deceived us! That signature is a static one, already fading with time. WHERE IS SHE?

After a pause as if for thought, Aranya said, Iridiana spoke of seeking the truth of her heritage, for Yazê-a-Kûz boasts no Shapeshifters. It is a mountain-shaking matter with her – her family had her imprisoned and effectively tortured when she came into her powers, before –

I DO NOT CARE TO HEAR THE HISTORY OF FILTH AND LIES! Yiisuriel fumed at a headache-inducing volume. It is that Leandrial; it’s her ignoble influence that has led us to this strait. We need to pass through Yazê-a-Kûz territory. I’ve no desire to pick a war with such a powerful realm. Someone must go and stop her. Noble Huaricithe. This is your task.

Through the shared mind, Huari responded, My relationship with Sanzukê and Uxâtate Shan-Jarad is not on the best footing, noble Yiisuriel.

How? came the blunt query.

Once, I inadvertently supplied Dragons and resources to their enemies, an error of judgement for which I have not been forgiven.

I sense opportunity, Ri’arion cut in. His mental signature was as hard-edged as diamond. Deterring the Chaos Shifter from her indubitable quest for vengeance would win us honour and favour with Shan-Jarad. I say, dispatch the Star Dragoness to treat with the Kahilate. Even these famously abstruse autocrats must surely bend an ear to one of her eminence, must they not? I am not well-versed in the politics of Wyldaroon –

Nor I, the Air Breather admitted after another pause. Ardan wondered if she considered what she must surely have sensed; Aranya’s unspoken desire for a little wingtip room. Marshal Huaricithe?

Better her than me, came the narked response. But it must not be a large delegation, nor any affair involving proxies. Face-to-face meetings are received best.

Yiisuriel said, Aranya. Decide.

Amplify me. She gathered her concentration. LEANDRIAL, RETURN FORTHWITH!!

Ardan winced at the incredible volume Aranya achieved, but more so at the tone of Leandrial’s wordless retort, heard seconds later – effectively a rude salute followed by a deliberate cessation of communication.

As posited, Yiisuriel rumbled, apparently satisfied by being proven right. Her mental faculties began to divert to other issues.

With your leave, Ardan and I will prepare to fly at once, said the Amethyst Dragoness. I shall also prepare the necessary protocols and directives for rulership and decision-making.

The Shadow Dragon disguised a wide smirk. As in, the details they had already decided upon days ago. This was how the Immadian Fox had evaded and out-thought the dominant power of the North for over a decade. Clearly, there could be no doubt about Aranya’s lineage.

O plot most nefarious, actioned, the Azure Dragoness put in privately. Aranya, I’ve a feeling … we should also take along Sapphire, the Chrysolitic dragonets, and Yazina. The Chanbar Chameleon will give chase, of that I am convinced.

Future sight, petal? Aranya asked.

Oyda called it Nak’s nose for trouble. He was invariably right.

When he wasn’t sniffing around girls’ skirts, Ri’arion added self-righteously. Whatever his wife said to him in there, it elicited a squawk of outrage from the ex-monk.

Our pursuit of the First Egg must not be delayed! boomed the mental congregation.

So it was.

Chapter 18: Hunting Abroad

AS A BLAZING dawn spread its wings across the eastern skies, Ardan surged up out of the Cloudlands, greeting the new day with an involuntary bugle of delight. He wriggled his wingtips and stretched the length of his spine with the sinuous grace of a feline, prompting Yazina to clutch Aranya’s waist either side of the spine spike that separated them in his double saddle. The Dragon’s great muscular girth had prompted the armourers and outfitters to make hasty modifications to the Herimor-style saddle, an ornate affair not made of leather like those Aranya had seen in Remoy, but fashioned from a tough, fibrous cloth apparently sourced from hot-climate succulent plants, with additional padding sewn in. Saddle-side nets held basic supplies to Aranya’s left and more importantly to her right, a cotton-stuffed basket inside which the dragonets had burrowed a miniature travel warren.

Typically, they were enjoying the scenery to the tune of a surprisingly rambunctious, sevenfold snooze-fest.

The Dragon fixed a fiery eye upon his Riders. “Alright there, ladies?”

“I just can’t get used to the idea that this Dragon is also Ardan,” Yazina said, trying to act casual as she sat back again.

“Same guy,” he growled, flexing his forelegs until his back and shoulder muscles popped beneath his Riders.

Aranya kicked him playfully. “Stop showing off. You’ll snap your girth strap in a minute. Why don’t you make yourself useful and teach Yazina about Dragons?”

The Shadow growled, “Alright, listen up, youngster. Dragons are bossy, especially the female ones, and Star Dragons, they’re the worst … just when you’re about to wax romantic about the richness of the crimson suns-rise touching those floating Islands ahead of us, they’re chuntering, ‘No. Get to work, you lazy Dragon. Make yourself useful.’ ”

“Oh, is that so?” Aranya objected. “Here’s some news for you, Shadow. You’re fired.”

Yazina’s eyebrows danced in delight.

Ardan said, “Well, let me tell you a thing or three – actually, I’ll make you a deal. You tell us all you know about Asturbar and Iridiana. Then I’ll further your education.”

Don’t be grumpy, Sha’aldior, Aranya admonished.

Yazina only laughed. “Huh, you sound just like Asturbar, Black Dragon. Is now when I confess that Yiisuriel ordered me to look after you two?” Over Ardan’s rising rumble of aggravation, she said boldly, “So I shall attempt to further your education in matters Wyldaroon – if I may be so bold, noble Ardan?”

Her wistful tone made him chuckle deeply. “I am no Dragon to stand on ceremony, Yazina. We have an understanding, I believe.”

The girl related how she had stowed away on her father’s Dragonship as the Marshal attempted to beat Azhukazi the Iolite Blue to the prize – the Jewels of Instashi – and how Nyahi had accused her father of attempted murder and brought about his downfall as Marshal of the Mistral Fires.

She did not sound embittered, but chattered the hours away as Ardan and Aranya peppered her with questions.

They flew directly northeast for that day and more northerly the four days following, skirting the western periphery of Yazê-a-Kûz territory as they attempted to spy out what countermeasures the notoriously reclusive and impenetrable realm would have put in place against any incursion by Dragons. No data or rumour they had uncovered, not even Huaricithe’s detailed knowledge of Wyldaroon’s magic, had shed any light on what their protections might be. By day they progressed with obdurate haste past flotillas of increasingly lush Islands, inhabited by many species of dragonets and unfamiliar bird, insect and reptilian life, with Ardan and Aranya taking turns to convey the group in their Dragon forms. Around noon of the second day aloft Yiisuriel confirmed by long-distance communication that Chanbar was indeed missing, as was his Dragonship and all of its crew. That could be no coincidence.

In the evenings they took opportunity to rest upon floating Islands and to hunt for the protein that would sustain their Dragon forms for this long haul. Each time Aranya was able to detect what she felt was a hint of disturbance in the Balance caused by Leandrial’s passage, the Land Dragoness was hundreds of leagues ahead. Indefatigable. Fast-moving and dauntless of purpose. Now Ardan flew nights whilst Aranya took the daytime, setting themselves a punishing pace in pursuit of their allies.

At length the triangulation of distances began to work against them and the Shapeshifter Dragons made the inevitable decision that they must strike for the capital city of Sanzukê or risk losing further ground to Leandrial.

Sanzukê lay in a protected bay in the north-easternmost corner of their huge realm, protected by the mountain range called ‘the Roof of the World’ to the East, with many peaks over five leagues tall capped with permafrost and year-round snows. This monolithic barrier separated Wyldaroon from Herimor for over five thousand leagues from the Straits of Hordazar to the Rift Storms of the North – unbroken save for the dangerous pass Zuziana had found before.

One morning Aranya lifted her eyes, seeing through Ardan’s Dragon sight, and whispered, “Oh, would you look at that! Snow! It’s snow, Ardan!”

“Those patches of white?” asked Yazina, sounding baffled by the emotion in Aranya’s voice.

Oh Ardan, I never imagined how I’d feel, to see snow again …

He failed to see the attraction, but he understood the wonder pulsing delicately through their oath link. Had he to see Ur-Naphtha again, not scorched but budding once more … Aye, beloved. We shall return. Never fear.

“The weather is much cooler here,” the Shadow Dragon observed aloud, running his shielding checks one more time. They had used every ounce of knowledge they had gleaned from the Dragonfriend’s lore to try to ensure that their approach would remain undetected, or they might face unwelcome delays.

“Look, the colours of the trees are already turning to autumn,” Aranya pointed out.

“They do that?” asked Yazina.

“Not where I come from either – it’s always hot and green,” Ardan said. “Nor is there snow. These Northerners are a strange breed, I tell you.”

The teen chuckled; Sapphire wound herself closer about Aranya’s neck, and her brood of dragonets wriggled reflexively within her warm amethyst robe, as if they were all of one mind. Ardan did agree that the autumnal colours were starting to promise magnificence, with the crowns of the heavily forested Islands starting to turn orange and yellow and russet, while great flocks of golden shimmerbirds wheeled in the skies beneath their altitude, gobbling up airborne insects by the million. Steadily, the ambient temperatures changed from Wyldaroon’s stifling heat to remind the Immadian of the cool, forested climes of her native Isles. Every one of the thousands of Islands they passed was grey beneath and thickly forested atop, aside from clusters which appeared to have been deliberately cleared for farming diverse types and colours of grains, vegetables and unfamiliar fruit. The mountains formed a magnificent backdrop to the sea of floating Islands, and the overall impression where they saw civilisation was of peace, prosperity and abundance.

They had been travelling at a very high altitude of three and a half leagues above the Cloudlands in a tripartite bid to avoid the insects, evade detection and avail themselves of the reduced friction advantages of the thinner air. But they were not catching up with Leandrial fast enough.

The Shadow Dragon stretched his wings, driving himself to yet greater speeds. They must not arrive late. He felt it in his bones.

* * * *

That evening, the fast-flying team passed over two groups of patrolling Dragonships and put down near a large village with the intent of securing culturally appropriate clothing in case they needed to infiltrate the Ruby City. From the cover of a redolent patch of berry bushes, Aranya and Yazina regarded the bucolic village scene with shocked inhalations.

Ardan snorted appreciatively. “Mmm, I’d like to see you in skirts that short, Aranya.”

“That is … so inappropriate!”

He drawled, “They do cover the essentials. I see that Iridiana –”

“Barely! This was a bad idea.”

Zip put in, “I like their style. See, they wear tight silk shorts underneath those slightly flared thigh-length dresses so that, as Ardan noted, they do just about conceal the necessities.”

“Thigh?” he protested. “Barely.”

Aranya prodded Ardan in the ribs. “Stop drooling this instant. It’s despicable.”

“I’m just imagining a certain Princess of Immadia so clad …” He ogled her legs outrageously. “A veritable banquet of delights. Right. Shadowy theft in process.”

“Men!” she accused his invisible, departing person.

As Human Ardan shadowed away in search of supplies and necessities, for which they planned to leave jewels by way of payment, Aranya focussed inwardly, reaching for that faint trace of Iridiana’s familiar signature. Leandrial was virtually invisible, but the touch of her maybe-sister’s mind was a lure too great to resist; similarly to her instinctual connection with Ardan, she had discovered she could detect Iridiana from afar. Leandrial would have called this an echo of Balance. Shortly, she hissed in exasperation.

“We’re still not catching up!”

Zip said, “The maths remains firmly against, right? They’re almost a day ahead –”

“Twenty-three hours,” Aranya clarified.

“Pernickety Princess. Aye, and we have two full twenty-seven hour periods to traverse the 854 leagues to Sanzukê. At our best speed we’ll arrive half a day behind them, give or take. And I can’t shake this feeling that you and Ardan should not overextend yourselves with those tricks you played on each other when we were approaching the Mistral Fires.”

“What do you sense, Zip?”

“Trouble.”

“Nothing unusual where you’re concerned, Remoy. What sort of trouble?”

“The talons-and-fangs sort.”

Aranya shook her head. “Against Iridiana’s people? I’d like to avoid that if – hmm. That’s odd.”

“Odder than an Immadian contemplating showing an illicit quarter-inch of ankle?”

“No, you ridiculous prekki-head,” she said, chuckling hoarsely. Aranya wondered if she was coming down with a cold. “I’m detecting flickers of Ardan’s Shadow self against those buildings over there. He’s definitely making a disturbance which should not be possible in the Shadow state – and it’s not like him to be careless – or something even more peculiar is going on. I don’t like this. We should withdraw.”

Zip’s tsk-tsking informed Aranya that she felt retreat was an unnecessarily conservative measure, but after warning Ardan, they hiked back to a small dell about half a mile from the settlement, deep in conversation. Sapphire also seemed unusually chary, and the Chrysolitic dragonets restive. Ardan rejoined them partway with supplies, and corroborated Aranya’s observation. His presence had clearly been detected; the Islanders had rushed through him with a great uproar and rather less effectiveness. The Shadow was more than annoyed. He was worried. He marched up and down the dell, his bare feet trampling gorgeous mauve flowers and tiny white pepper-daises with abandon as he fulminated, seemingly without drawing breath, for a good ten minutes.

Eventually, Aranya rose and seized him by the right bicep. “Ardan. Calm down.”

Apparently his version of calm involved imitating an active volcano. Yazina looked alarmed.

Zip said, “Try flirting. That always works for me.”

Touching her hot, taut throat in disbelief at her elevated levels of concern, Aranya said slowly, “Look, friends, we’re stuck between an Isles cliff and a volcano. I’m going to call on our resources.”

“What resources?” growled the Western Isles warrior. “And don’t tell me those ruddy strange chain-linked Dragonships aren’t on our tails, too. What technology or magic do these people possess, that they can detect my Shadowed self? This is beyond forbearance!”

“I’m off to consult with Aunty Hualiama.”

Gnarr. “Very well,” said Ardan. “I’ll keep a Dragon’s eye on our surroundings. Keep your mystical muddling to a minimum, alright?”

Aranya tilted an eyebrow rather precipitately at him.

“Aye, and I’ll try to be less grumpy about it,” he grumped, but moved to clasp her hand against the swell of his bicep, and then he guided her fingers to stroke the mound of iron-hard muscle. “In my culture, we flirt like this. Mmm, aye. Doesn’t that feel ever so … squeezable?”

“Ardan!”

He pressed his lips to her scarred knuckles. “Aranya?”

“You are incorrigibly … ah, whatever!”

“Desperate,” Zip suggested.

To Aranya’s further surprise, the dark Western Islander actually managed to colour noticeably. “I am not desperate!”

The Immadian Princess snorted, “What are we teaching the teenagers, might I ask?”

“Bah. Less of the mendacity and more of thee, Immadia,” Zip ad-libbed, imitating Nak rather badly.

On that absurd note, Aranya sat down cross-legged, closed her eyes, and prepared to consult her relative, the illustrious Dragonfriend.

Unsuccessfully.

Over a light dinner of nuts, fruits and unfamiliar bread that was so dark it was almost black, they discussed the strange interference both Ardan and Aranya had experienced without reaching any sensible conclusion, and decided to snatch a few hours of sleep before taking off once again and trying to push right through, two full days on the wing.

Aranya could not drift off. Her thoughts were too preoccupied with Yazina’s sleepy question just before the teen had shuttered her eyes. ‘Princess, if the Chameleon did infest my father, what are the chances he’s still alive?’ She had no answers. Ardan had replied honestly but gently that they should hope for the best but prepare for the worst – exactly how she felt about her own mother. Why, o Fra’anior? Why? Why had he been absent from her dreams for so long? Why could an Ancient Dragon not simply lift this burden from her shoulders?

That was one answer she knew, but knowing made the situation no less painful. Hope could be so tenuous. So unattainable in the now – which was both its power and its affliction, she realised, shifting restively before stilling herself. Ardan must not wake. He had been working so hard.

Through the canopy of aromatic jastunimki hardwoods fringing the dell, with their characteristic clover-shaped leaves hanging from spreading boughs, Aranya watched the stars watching her. Maybe out there were other Stars like her, or perhaps unimaginably different beings enwrapped in robes of eternal light – beings who spoke in chimes like the notes that tinkled upon her very brow now, it seemed, drawn to her – she laughed soundlessly to herself – elemental starriness? Her throat strained to reproduce the lucent sounds she had heard once before.

/Stardrop./ Were such a miracle true … This stardrop needs serious help, her Dragoness helpfully teased.

No words came, but a transcendent awareness of bourgeoning peace caught Aranya entirely unawares. Breathtaking! It was as if at this moment, every last scintilla of her being breathed in oneness with the cosmos, and whispered poems of effulgent enigma into her soul. Was this the wonder which had gripped those Ancient Dragon star travellers, or had it been terror? What power in the universe could possibly threaten an Ancient Dragon?

Despite these thoughts, the unexpected sense of tranquillity only deepened.

“Awake, beloved?”

Ardan’s husky whisper was accompanied by an equable squeeze of her arm. She had pillowed her head upon his stomach and lay at right angles to him, with his left hand resting warmly upon her crooked elbow. Just a touch possessive. An oh-so-draconic, mine. She liked that.

“The moons are bright,” she temporised, struggling to articulate her feelings.

“That’s you lighting up the dell,” said he.

“Oh.”

His hand moved to her cheek. “So erudite this evening? What troubles you?”

“I just – beware!”

Mercy! Her light winked out as Aranya reflexively yanked her hood over her face. Sight? No mind. She had other senses that responded to the sound and scent of soldiers on the slight night breeze, and the muffled wuthering of turbine propellers as unfamiliar Dragonships approached. Through Ardan’s sight she realised that the crews had stilled the engines in order to approach undetected, but the slight forward motion still stirred the propellers and that was what she had heard. Great nets shot over the trees. The cords glowed greenish in her magic-enhanced sight rather than the familiar chains of runic magic language she knew; that fact alone stopped her from transforming.

Great leaping rajals, these people were smart; better-prepared for draconic or even Shapeshifter incursion than she had ever imagined!

Ardan –

GRRRAAOORRGGHH!! The Shadow Dragon’s monstrous challenge split the night, making Yazina scream. CAPTURE ME, WILL YOU? Dark crimson fires lashed Aranya’s mind as her mate went feral, charging into the darkness, tangling up in the nets, demolishing trees and leaping at the incoming Dragonships. Such was his power, even the anchored nets did not stay his crazed course. Threads of pain laced his hide and then pierced him sorely as the soldiers struck back with their weapons, great multi-stringed upright bows and ten-foot lances tipped with the same green … mineral?

Aranya paused. “Yazina. Steady now. Sapphire?”

Ready for Ari’s word, panted the dragonet.

Collect your brood but be very, very careful of those nets, alright? That green mineral is dangerous.

A mineral akin to chrysolite? Its antithesis? Even the houses of that village had been constructed from this green stone, which somehow appeared reactive to draconic life and even to the Shadow state – or Flow, as her Aunt’s writings named it, she remembered.

Inflamed by pain, Ardan leaped and smashed three of the Dragonships together, bringing an end to the rain of green-tipped arrows. His body looked as if he had run headlong into a gigantic thorn bush. His backside alone had to sport forty quarrels. He ripped up a tree and managed to kinetically hurl it back across the clearing where they had slept, damaging a further flight of Dragonships. The slender vessels, linked by light chains for reasons beyond Aranya’s ken – they are their own net, Zip panted as if she was running about in there, pregnant with triplets – slapped together and tangled themselves up.

Seizing Yazina by the hand, Aranya ran in the direction of Ardan’s thrashing. That was probably the last direction the teen would have wanted to run, but the instinct to rescue her Dragon overrode all else. The dragonets fluttered all about them in a cloud, chittering in alarm.

Ardan. ARDAN!

Nothing. It was as if he had vanished into a black spiral of madness, his normally unflappable presence subsumed by the most basal parts of his draconic being. A reaction to being captured again?

See the light, Sha’aldior. Come to my light.

He struggled and heaved, entangling his wings still further. Despite his enormous bulk wrecking the forest, she felt no fear, only the rising of pure flame within her being. She had no weapons but her hands, yet gifted with inner fire, she was her own weapon. She released Yazina for fear she would burn the girl. Flame flared from her hands, encasing them up to the wrists, and Aranya hacked at the trailing hawsers, looped about the tree trunks Ardan dragged along behind him in his feral rage. Not enough. She needed whiter, more beautiful fire. Drawing air deep into her blighted lungs, she summoned a memory of her mother, not as one struck down, but envisioning her in the full panoply and beauty of her White Dragoness form.

Izariela!

Her cry sped her past Yazina, who had drawn twin serrated daggers from her waistband, weapons as long as the girl’s own forearms. Yazina sawed vigorously at the hawser. Nice! Spinning about the axis of her torso, Aranya danced into the netting wrapped around Ardan’s left wing with powerful but not terribly balletic sweeps of her hands. How Hualiama would have laughed. The metal- and mineral-infused cord resisted, but the purity of her purpose was greater. Springing up onto Ardan’s reflexively raised wingtip, she ran deftly along the leading wing edge, slicing with instinctive accuracy. So focussed was she, the Immadian did not even touch his hide with her fire. One wing freed; up onto the mound of his shoulder, striking left and right!

Net incoming! Zuziana shouted, drawing close as they had learned during those first few battles against Yolathion’s Dragonships.

Aranya stabbed her arms upward in a star shape and spun again, slicing the enveloping net open before it could enmesh Ardan. She bounded up his long neck, her flying feet barely seeming to touch the tough hide alongside his spine spikes, before she forward-somersaulted over his hugely flared skull ruff and landed squarely between his startled eyes.

Kneeling, she gazed right into his flaming orbs and shouted, Dragon, you are MINE!

Snick! Swish! Slash! Her flashing white blades bracketed his muzzle.

Gnarr-gurk? the Shadow Dragon blurted out.

“With me!”

Aranya dived into a tucked somersault again, somehow passing between two intersecting lances as she parted the flame spurting from his nostrils, and landed awkwardly ahead of his forepaws. The massive Dragon looked utterly bemused as she blurred beneath him again, cutting and slicing about her path like a demented woman flailing at swamp insects. Despite the collapse of her right knee, she finished the job with aplomb.

The netting sloughed off his body.

Suddenly, his guttural laughter was all relief and admiration. Thou!

With the hawser at his tail sawn through, the Dragon found himself fully freed. He swept the girls up in one forepaw and Sapphire and her brood in the other, coiled his thighs, and rocketed skyward, easily outstripping another two catapult-launched nets.

Whap! Whap! He drove upward, sweeping his tail to jink them around a second, higher layer of Dragonships which had not managed to completely draw the trap shut.

How did they do that? he growled. Thanks, ladies.

“Oh!” Yazina gasped as she fumbled a dagger.

Dropping fifty feet, Ardan lined Aranya up to snag the weapon. His body blurred and appeared to destabilise as he Shadowed, but he was still pinned by the strange quarrels – only by their tips, Aranya noticed peripherally, as Yazina howled in pain. Arrow through the foot! For Ardan the experience was even more uncomfortable. He had green stone fragments embedded inside his lungs, dangerously close to his second heart, and up in his skull beside the lower brain stem. Aranya unleashed healing power, then belatedly ordered him to Shadow again. Her telekinesis forced the jagged fragments back out the way they had entered his body before she soothed away the pain as best she could. It would take time to work on the right healing paths, a luxury they could not afford right now.

Aranya touched his mind. Physical deflection shields, Dragon.

Complying.

Storm winds could do what Shadow could not, apparently, given this mysterious technology. In seconds Ardan darted between a quartet of intersecting Dragonships, folding his wings to avoid their chain links before he speared into the night.

Storm winds. Light. Chrysolitic dragonets. Flow.

There had to be a crazy, brilliant, eminently workable idea in here somewhere. The Amethyst Shapeshifter bit her lip, curling in upon herself as she focussed deeply. She wasn’t a pinch on the engineer her Aunt had been – or was – but she did rather make a habit of turning the impossible on its head.

She might not know why something worked, just that it did.

Did Chaos pause to ask permission of ordinary physical laws? Did light ask permission of the night? Did a waterfall beg the chance to hurl itself joyously into the abyss …

“She’s laughing to herself in there,” Ardan commented.

“I know. Some sort of madness that stems from snowy mountains,” Zip averred. “Let’s get these Riders onto your back, Ardan.”

Aranya said, “Aye, and then we need to surround you with the dragonets, Ardan, and work out how we travel through Flow space. I’ve an idea that I fervently hope will be absolutely brilliant. If not – we might just arrive too late to save Iridiana and Asturbar. We’ve already lost far too much to allow this. Will you work with me?”

* * * *

It took the better part of fifteen hours for the combined efforts of the companions to produce the desired result, but Aranya was her usual implacable self and Zip, although she would have preferred to be catching a few winks herself – intangible pregnancy was so tiring – thought it the better part of comradeship to stick with her best friend all the way through. To provide useful commentary. Jokes. Encouragement. General annoyance.

Her contribution was nothing if not memorable, Ardan grunted at one point.

As the Shadow Dragon speared across a brilliant night sky and onward into a dawn of blazing orange fires over serrulated, perfectly outlined white mountain peaks, they tried and discarded literally hundreds of formations and possibilities. Flow was an energy state they barely understood, a way of seeing the Island-World as if matter itself were constellations of infinitely tiny brilliant motes interacting in ways Zip had never imagined. Even Aranya’s instinctual grasp of physical magic needed to be entirely re-learned and reimagined here.

Then, success!

Zuziana’s soundless whoops expanded around them in concentric spheres of rippling light as Aranya’s transformation enfolded her companions in light. Light of searing purity. Light that accelerated according to some unknowable physical limitation, yet achieved far greater velocities than ordinary flight could ever achieve. They seemed to crawl across the sky, yet Island after Island expressed in concentrations of life-light receded behind them with infeasible speed.

As best she understood it, the Chrysolitic dragonets had first enclosed them inside their state-altering shield, then Ardan had wrapped them in his own Shadow power, before Aranya’s starlight infused everyone and everything, inside and out … well, direction seemed to have no meaning here. Reality intersected itself in migraine-stimulating ways.

Aranya regarded her fondly. Thanks for helping us figure this out, Zip. Baby check?

Zuziana rubbed her non-existent tummy fondly. They’re good. Look. They’re like tiny, vivacious flames dancing a trio of life …

Fascinating, Ardan and Aranya responded in concert.

Aranya said, Does that mean the flame of draconic fire life precedes the eggling state, wherein flame is enclosed in eggshell and then living flesh? Is that how Iridiana might have been stolen?

I … have no idea, Zip admitted. Alright there, Yazina?

They could not communicate with her in this strange state, but a dint of sign language achieved the desired result. The teen seemed overcome. Just slightly! One day she had known her world. Then Azhukazi had come, followed by battle and Island-sundering and escape, and now she travelled in search of her lost father through a magic-scape of cascading, luminous unreality – all on the whim or prophetic foresight of a Star Dragoness. Reaching out, Zip waved her insubstantial hand through the spectral apparition that apparently expressed Yazina’s being.

The motes shivered – laughter, Zip realised.

Could understanding this process lead them to a solution for un-birthing a Remoyan Princess and her babies from her friend’s soul?

Clearly, she was alive. She just did not know how.

Chapter 19: Shiver, o Mortal Flesh

The farther EASTWARD they travelled and the higher the mountains rose, the greater the interference from the exotic mineral that appeared to permeate this region. Perhaps the immense mountains were laced with it. Having eschewed the need for air – at least, until their existences required sustenance, which they surely must, Aranya, Ardan, Zip, Yazina, Sapphire and the dragonets soared higher and higher, until they flew an estimated seven leagues above Wyldaroon. This was higher than the mighty mountain peaks, but still could not compare to the greatest Deeps beneath the Cloudlands.

Aranya tracked Iridiana’s progress assiduously, calculating and recalculating the relative velocities, and quietly thanked her royal tutors for drumming mathematics into her recalcitrant brain.

It would be a close-run thing.

Of the Chameleon or Dragon – whatever he was – they could detect not the slightest trace. Aranya did not understand how draconic magic could be so well-shielded that it was untraceable, for the greater population density of this region was easily visible due to particular concentrations of the glowing white motes that appeared to denote different forms of life. Yazê-a-Kûz was indeed an immense realm, dwarfing her native Immadia and perhaps rivalling the entire extent of the Western Isles from which Ardan hailed. It nestled against the mountains for league upon league, and the landscape below slowly shifted from floating Islands to primarily rooted ones, making it more analogous in this respect to the geography North of the Rift. The Flow state unmistakeably revealed a continental shelf beneath the level of the Cloudlands on which these Isles stood, and their patterning suggested links of vines or other vegetation between many of the flotillas – a natural bulwark, Ardan theorised while verbally discussing ways in which they might seek to penetrate the Ruby City’s secrets.

The problem was the growing concentration of that green mineral. Sanzukê lay within a bay in the mountains, perhaps eighty-five percent surrounded by immense ramparts that left only a relatively narrow entryway to its south-eastern aspect.

As a natural form of defence, it was perfect.

Even from their height, it took many hours before they could ‘see’ inside the bay, which was eight miles wide and eleven deep, given the sheer four-league cliffs that surrounded it. Aranya had wondered how little suns-light its position afforded the fabled ruby citadel, but when they flickered briefly into their normal state to take physical observations, she realised that it was night-time, and the great cliffs glowed with a luminescence of their own. It was this mineral. This city never knew complete darkness.

Seven large Islands stood within a bay of pristine turquoise Cloudlands. Permanent glaciers topped the cliffs far above, giving rise to many waterfalls that leaped thunderously off innumerable cliff ledges before plunging into the Cloudlands in spectacular, frothing plumes of white. Each of the seven Islands was a dense settlement of houses, buildings and roads that appeared to be perfectly white from this height, even at the limits of Ardan’s Dragon sight, and in their midst was a ruby-red citadel that had to be a substantial size, but appeared hardly larger than a gleaming ant from their perspective. That would be Shan-Jarad’s dwelling, the place where in all probability Iridiana had grown up. Every aspect of her realm bespoke immense, almost overwhelming power and wealth.

Ardan pointed a talon. “Look. You can’t hide Leandrial.”

“Mercy, she isn’t making a frontal assault on the citadel, is she?” Aranya gasped.

“I … don’t think so,” said the Shadow. “As we discussed, we should approach if we can, but remain in the background until we ascertain from where danger might strike. Even my scales shiver with portent.” The Dragon stretched his wings, yawning hugely.

Atop his back, Aranya nodded minimally. “Aye, this is Iridiana’s moment – but I don’t believe she knows the danger the Chameleon represents. Ready projections?”

“Ready,” said the Dragon.

“Armed and dangerous,” said Zip, who had been tasked with working out the illusions and deceit they hoped would obscure their descent.

“Look, Leandrial’s submerging again as she enters the bay,” Ardan noted.

“Can’t imagine Shan-Jarad ever, in his worst nightmares, imagined a vengeful Land Dragoness turning up on his pretty bejewelled doorstep,” Zuziana said with rather more gratification than Aranya thought strictly necessary.

“Hurry,” the Immadian returned tersely. “The timing’s crucial.”

“Hey, this is hardly the first time we’ve burgled a palace.”

“No, but this one isn’t filled with friendly relatives –”

“– under guard by vile Sylakian soldiers?” Zip finished, but her words were gentle. “I know, Immadia. I’ll try not to finish too many sentences for you. Having one mouth is quite restrictive, I’ll have you know.”

“And I wondered why my jaw is constantly sore.”

“That’s from your marathon kissing exploits, Immadia.”

“Yuck, can you two stop that?” Yazina complained.

“Bah, just wait until you have a boy Dragon to call your own,” Zuziana snorted. The teen squealed in protest. “You have to meet our friend Nak …”

As Zip chuntered away, the Shadow Dragon drove downward from the sky toward the green dome of light cast above the peaks embracing the Ruby City. To the Remoyan Princess’ credit, she was perfectly capable of talking nonsense and dispersing the increasing signs of their presence into pretty clouds and mists simultaneously. Aranya wondered if her mind worked better because she was chattering non-stop. She generated a modest breeze to blow the mists about, and collected moisture from the environment to help further obscure any disturbance.

Just a second before the Shadow Dragon plunged into one of the waterfalls in a vertical dive, they faintly heard the clangour of the city’s alarms as Leandrial passed beneath their defences.

Mile upon mile of cliff-side flashed by as the Dragon manoeuvred deftly, navigating the ledges and outcroppings in the nick of time that had Yazina clutching for Aranya’s hand.

Over her shoulder, Aranya said, “Don’t worry. He’d do this in his sleep.”

“Are … are we going to be in trouble for this blatant trespass on a Kahilate?” Yazina worried.

“Trouble? May I assure you, we are about to assault their ruler and cuff him about the earholes like a snotty-nosed toddler,” Zip elaborated with her usual zestful tactlessness. “We’re about to snip through his defences like a whetted dagger carving slow-roasted lamb from the shank. And, we have Leandrial down below, who will swallow half of his city if he dares to complain. Trouble? What’s there to worry about?”

The teen’s eyes rolled wildly as they navigated the thundering vertical torrent. “The insane thing is, we’re bone-dry in the midst of all of this?”

“Define insane,” Zip suggested snidely.

“I give up!” Yazina yelled.

“Me too. You only need to listen to ten percent of what she says anyways,” said Aranya, taking command of her own mouth once more. “Yazina, don’t forget that we’re here for you as well. Don’t ask me how we know it. But we’re committed, alright? I know something about how terrifying it can be to face such a moment, when the truth must become known.”

As they shot down with the flow into the Cloudlands, a descent of many long minutes, she told Yazina about her own mother’s state. How she yet lived in a sense, yet attempting to revive her might just end her life. How she knew that day, and that terrifying decision, must surely come.

At length Ardan plummeted into the gloom of the Cloudlands, echo-locating as Leandrial had taught them to ensure he did not fly headlong into an unseen obstacle. Aranya prepared an opacity shield. She projected the target into their minds.

Half a mile, Shadow.

Rooted Isle. Adjusting. Will this alert Leandrial?

Inevitably, said Aranya.

Aye. Where is she now?

Approaching the central citadel. It’s only a few steps across this bay for her, said Aranya. Seventy seconds.

Ardan accelerated, looping around the concealed bulk of an Island. Ha! Nets below! he exclaimed barely a millisecond before Sapphire reacted.

Change! she ordered the dragonets.

Nothingness slipped between the under-Cloudlands defences, which apparently had not been reinforced with the strange green mineral, or they would have been hopelessly entangled.

Fifty seconds.

Ardan sprinted ahead, having to weave around several secondary peaks.

Twenty.

Show me the spot, Aranya.

Ten. She scanned the projections rapidly. There. That building. Right against it –

Going. A couple of seconds later, the Shadow Dragon breached beneath a building that descended to a mere twenty feet above the Cloudlands level, flattened himself against the sheer wall, and then flap-slithered upward.

As one, the companions turned to regard a confrontation a mere four hundred feet away, across the gap between the white Isle and the ruby-encrusted portico of Shan-Jarad’s citadel. Leandrial was already withdrawing, the ripple of her great body disturbing the light-green Cloudlands, while Asturbar and Iridiana faced off with a troop of clearly unfriendly soldiers. Aranya strengthened her opacity shield, projecting the image of another part of a perfectly white wall to the outside world. A sneaky Remoyan’s idea, of course. As Ardan’s Dragon sight zoomed in, they saw a hugely moustachioed fellow clad in a splendid king’s ransom of golden armour spitting some insult or another at the visitors. Asturbar himself wore no armour, to her surprise, given that their reception party numbered a good two hundred most likely elite soldiers, judging by the rigidity of their ranks, numbers of which were mounted upon powerful, heavily armoured beetles that looked like they tore men apart for fun.

Asturbar looked both mightily unimpressed, and fearfully intent.

“This promises to be fun,” Ardan whispered.

“How many rubies?” Zip breathed. “Is that whole citadel one big ruby?”

“Encrusted,” said Aranya, scanning the waiting soldiers with every sense on high alert. Nothing there, apparently. Where was the danger? When would it strike?

Even from that distance, the golden-armoured fellow’s shout was clear. “Last chance. Take the filth away!”

Ardan’s mighty shoulders quaked with mirth. “He didn’t.”

“He did. Watch. I’m betting – oh, a dragonet!”

Apparently Nyahi was having trouble with her Chaos powers again, because her clothing fluttered in the breeze as a violet dragonet bounced off her man’s arm. He bent to retrieve her garments and then … whoosh!

“Holy Fra’anior!” Ardan said feelingly.

Iridiana had just turned herself into the heaviest infantry armour any of them had ever seen, enwrapping Asturbar’s immensely muscled bulk in untold sackweight of gleaming iridium armour – upward of half a tonne, Aranya estimated – while the man hefted his battle-axe and rolled his shoulders with ominous, unambiguous intent.

“Oh … I can’t watch!” Zip squealed.

“Me neither!” yelped Yazina, pretending to cover her eyes.

“I can,” Ardan snickered.

“Sadist,” said Aranya.

Over on the priceless ruby portico, Asturbar roared, “FOR THE DRAGONESS!”

The regiment barring the outer gateway of Shan-Jarad’s ridiculously over-decorated fortress drew together as the man charged them in an ostensibly mad solo assault. Well, mad until one realised that his armour was a Chaos Dragoness, and her fey power uplifted and braced him as the soldier took them on. His heavily armoured arms stretched impossibly, twelve feet wide.

KEERRUMP!! The regiment caved in like a rotten piece of fruit smashed by a Sylakian hammer.

Ardan winced.

Aranya almost bit through her lip.

Hee hee, so silly, tittered Sapphire, while her brood of six fell about coughing and choking with laughter. Apparently seeing soldiers flung into the air as if launched by a feral Dragon and their allies vanishing through the gateway was beyond hilarious.

Yazina gasped, “He just –”

“Aye. Squelched the lot of them like bugs. Azingloriax, eh?” Ardan said enviously. “Time to catch up, ladies? I do believe our allies are inside the Palace. We should offer timely aid.”

“I’m not convinced they need it,” said Zip.

“Moral support, then,” said Aranya. Silence, thou Remoyan yokel. “Come on. Leandrial has sensed our presence and I think she’s pleased, although she’s giving nothing away. I’m guessing that means she’s concerned as well.”

Evening was no shroud in the ancient Ruby City, but a Shadow had ways of moving in this terrain that, coupled with Aranya and Zip’s skills, meant that the intrusion of a hundred-plus feet of belligerent Dragon remained undetected. She slipped beneath the Cloudlands. Now, ambulant rubies conformed to the body-littered portico. Soon a deeper shadow, with an almost imperceptible rippling effect, clasped the top of the outer wall and slipped over and down the far side as Aranya attempted to fold the ambient light around her Shadow Dragon. Two soldiers looked right through them. Drifting, Dragon-stepping over traps and defences toward a second wall. Ardan slithered up the battlements. The gemstone cladding made for easy climbing, but Aranya had to catch numerous falling rubies with swift wafts of air. She secreted them behind an ornamental planter.

Around that tower, she directed, following the sense of Iridiana’s movement. They must be running.

Every inch of Shan-Jarad’s round-towered citadel was immaculate. Every plant was perfectly trimmed. No flower dared to droop so much as a quarter-inch. Every surface was so thickly crusted with rubies, there was no trace of the original stonework beneath. Even the ornamental fountains were each a different study picked out in shades of ruby; masterful, but more than slightly over the top. Obsessive, Aranya thought. Ostentatious. The overall effect was not of warmth, but of a cold, brooding lack of passion. Nyahi had called her culture solipsistic and inflexible. That conclusion was undeniably expressed here.

With the dragonets’ help, they scaled several Palace outbuildings to reach the exterior of what had to be the central meeting hall, perhaps the place where a King – or Uxâtate, the absolute ruler of this realm – would meet his subjects. Iridiana had already entered.

Those windows? said Ardan, pointing.

We can try.

Make tiny to enter, said Sapphire, trilling her pleasure as she realised she had come up with a use for the Flow state her companions had not even considered. Go in, yes-yes?

Sapphire, once again, words fail me, Aranya said feelingly.

The dragonet wingtip-genuflected with staggering immodesty. Sapphire is genius. Ari know.

Gorgeous rascal.

I thought that was my title? Zip whispered, but her tone was anything but jovial.

A ninety-foot shimmy up the sheer ruby walls of the massive hall – even the roof was festooned with rubies the size of Dragons’ eggs – posed no challenge once a little Chrysolitic mischief had been perpetrated. The dragonets compressed everyone down to the size of Sapphire’s ordinary body and they landed on the window ledge to peer inside, and down at the confrontation developing inside of the hall.

The decorators had not tired of the unrelenting use of rubies. The floor and walls were artfully presented in different shades and patterns of ruby, whilst the delicate veils of chandeliers that lit the yawning space were, just for variety’s sake, picked out in blood-red diamonds. The hulking throne was … aye, a monolithic chunk of unblemished ruby standing ten feet tall and five wide, its arms and high back forming the sculpted heads and wings of birds of prey, just now vacated by a crimson-robed man whose grey pallor contrasted violently with his preferred decorative colours as he gaped at the apparition of his exiled daughter confronting him, trembling, seemingly on the point of tears.

Shan-Jarad hissed, “I will speak with my daughter.”

The hall bristled with fear and indignation.

Small and cramped together as they were, Ardan managed to stifle Yazina’s gasp as a man moved, from their perspective, out from behind a column supporting the roof. Chanbar!

Aranya was shocked. How? How had Chanbar beaten them here, and what did this portend? Were Chameleons capable of flight? Even as he stepped forward, the man glanced about him as though, impossibly, he had sensed the Shadow Dragon breathing down his neck. Was it possible? There was no apparent draconic presence about him, but she knew better. She must believe. Watch. Be perfectly attuned to every nuance of his expression, his behaviour, his speech …

Chanbar said smoothly, “Brother, it is against the law for you to even converse with this criminal, this –”

“Silence, brother!” rasped the pallid ruler. He stumbled down the steps separating the throne area from the hall’s main floor. “Iridiana, my daughter, it has been far too long –”

“Don’t touch me!”

Shan-Jarad flinched.

“Father, I am here to demand from you the secret of who I am.”

Chanbar’s whisper carried clearly to the concealed watchers, “Secret?”

“Yes. You know – one of you two know – a whopping secret about my fundamental nature, and you have denied me that knowledge all of my life,” Iridiana said bravely, but she could not disguise a pleading note in her voice. “I will not speak it aloud for fear of the consequences, but you both know what I mean.”

As the dragonets drifted them downward, no more substantial than feathers brushing against the wall, Chanbar replied, “You mean, the secret that your soul is blighted by the touch of infernal magic, you ghastly Chaos Beast in Human guise? The terrible secret for which you were exiled – wrongly, as it would appear? Guards, you know the law. Destroy this beast now!”

Rings of soldiers pulled away from the columns nearest the throne, quickly surrounding the arguing parties in a wall of heavily armoured bodies – but they did not move between them. Perhaps they did not dare.

Asturbar demanded, “Tell us the secret of Iridiana’s heritage, Shan-Jarad.”

Chanbar’s left hand twitched, drawing back slightly. Flick.

Fast as he was, Aranya moved faster, reaching out with her psychic power to guide Asturbar’s arm into the dart’s path. To deny what must be a deadly pinprick from doing its dastardly work. Metal clattered upon the floor. If a Chameleon he was, he must surely sense her interference and start drawing conclusions – and, he had just tried to murder Iridiana. Aranya clenched her jaw. She wanted to weep for Yazina’s sake; for the grief avalanching inexorably toward her young life.

Their group landed soundlessly, a stone’s throw from the throne.

“See?” Chanbar shrieked, clearly incensed at being denied. “Kill the beast. Now!”

Still the soldiers hesitated, hands gripping the pommels of their curved swords as they awaited the Uxâtate’s word.

Before the ruler could speak or respond, Iridiana sprang upon Chanbar in a roaring fury of chaotic mauve flame! Flinging up his hands to shield his face, Shan-Jarad sprawled aside, landing beside the highly polished crimson boots of his soldiers. Shields smashed down around him, protecting him from a rolling blast of heat.

“Father! No!”

Yazina broke free. Aranya’s hand blurred before she knew it, preventing Ardan from stopping her. A moment. Let it play out, Sha’aldior.

“Yazina!” Asturbar’s jaw dangled.

“Get off him. Get off!” wailed the teenager, racing between the soldiers as if they were not even present.

Iridiana! Asturbar shouted. Iridiana, STOP!

The flames appeared to hesitate before seething off the fallen ex-Marshal like a wave withdrawing from a terrace lake beach. Chanbar seemed unharmed, but acted unsettled nonetheless. Aranya blinked. Now Iridiana was back to a diamond bracelet clasped about Asturbar’s wrist? That girl!

Asturbar spat, You’re not Chanbar, are you?

Yazina stared at the man picking himself up off the floor; never more vulnerable, never braver. Aranya could almost read her thoughts. She asked, “Are you my father?”

“Of course. Don’t be silly, child.” Chanbar brushed down his dark dress uniform. He had to be wondering where she had come from – unless he already knew? She touched Ardan’s paw, having no need to speak to convey her apprehension. Her danger sense was screaming a hundred shades of murder, and she had no idea why. Chameleons were not reputed to hold great power, but this one seemed different despite his innocuous guise.

Raising her chin, the young teen said, “What was your pet name for me when I was three?”

“Tollisweetness, after my favourite sweet berry wine, Tolliskutar,” said he.

The Immadian’s hands clamped into painful fists as Chanbar glibly repeated the lie, but even so, what happened next surprised them all. Yazina swung to Marshal Asturbar, pressing her face against his chest. “That’s not him! That’s not my father – oh nooooo …”

Chanbar gaped. “What? What nonsense is this, child? What’s going on? Somebody …”

Any second now, the danger must erupt. Go. Help them, Shadow! Aranya snapped. One of them had to be close enough …

WHOMP!!

In his Dragon form, Ardan had a way of dominating spaces. It was the predatory tilt of his muzzle. The striated bulk of his muscled upper body, the lethal sleekness of his ebon scales, the fire blazing in his gaze as he brushed past the petrified soldiers as if they did not exist. His tread was soundless upon the polished ruby floor, an utterly mesmerising effect given his undeniable tonnage.

Ardan growled, “That’s the same nonsense that we fed you before you left.” Chanbar’s eyes flew wide. Gleaming? Afraid, or triumphant? “What became of the real Chanbar, Chameleon? When did you dispose of him?”

“How did you –”

“Shadows hunt for men’s souls,” Ardan put in smoothly. “Yours displayed characteristics I had never encountered before. It was Aranya’s idea for me to try to pass through every person present aboard Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron after I was restored to my right mind, and I’ll admit to learning a trick or two from Thoralian as well. But despite every magical examination we could devise, your protections were inviolable for, given enough time, Chameleons become their target in every respect.”

As he spoke, the Black Dragon moved up behind Asturbar and Iridiana, unsubtly placing his very considerable presence in their camp.

Chanbar seemed to find this unaccountably amusing. “Is that so?”

“You forgot only one detail. Memories do not transfer,” said Ardan, pulsing through their private link, Be ready for anything, Aranya. This one stinks, but not of fear. Steadily, buying time, he continued, “With Yazina’s help – she’s a very bright girl, you see – we fed you a false memory. And we were just about to entrap you when you disappeared, ostensibly to speak to allies. So we had to follow in a tearing hurry. My apologies, Nyahi, that we arrived so late. We were concerned, as you saw, that he might attempt an assassination, as he just did. Well then, Chameleon. Time to show yourself.”

“That’s an interesting theory, but sadly, it’s all completely false,” Chanbar replied. His face flickered before reforming into a different likeness. This man had sandy hair and eyes of a very particular, piercing blue. Yazina bit her knuckles with a low moan.

Zip muttered, Where have I seen that before –

Chanbar raised his right hand in a peremptory gesture. Bones! Before anyone could think of moving, he snapped, Magic! The very sound of his voice immobilised Iridiana mid-transformation into her Human form.

It took every ounce of Aranya’s resolution not to charge to their aid. She guessed his true identity, but now he had Ardan trapped, too. She must wait. There was no other recourse, for the Balance was not yet right. To act prematurely could prove fatal.

Pacing back and forth, the man rapped, “Now, even your precious Land Dragoness out there cannot reach me. You see, I know everything there is to know about you. All of you. No, Shadow, you cannot transform either. Not without tearing your own bones out of your body, and that would be very awkward indeed. Rather terminal, in fact.”

Exactly. Aranya rummaged through all the lore she knew, all her memories, powers and creativity with rising desperation. Mercy! Nothing would come …

Turning to Yazina, not-Chanbar said with a callous show of indifference, “No, I am not your real father, child. Sorry. The real Chanbar was just an obstacle in the Chameleon’s path to the Uxâtaayn Kahilate, and later in mine, but I will have you know, Chanbar was not a pleasant man. He poisoned Shan-Jarad on his sixteenth birthday. He poisoned him to ensure that Shan-Jarad would become infertile – isn’t that so, brother-once-mine? And after the four sons you thought your own were born, that was when he chose to reveal that he loved Talrishana, and she loved him. Their affair continued for years after your marriage and ascension to the throne.”

How the tale twisted despair into Aranya’s heart. Talrishana was Iridiana’s mother, who must have had an affair with Chanbar, which meant that none of the succession of this realm was as it seemed … and did this imply that all of Iridiana’s brothers were also Chameleons?

Iridiana seemed to groan, despite not being able to move a muscle. Chanbar was that powerful; his command, absolute, as he continued to expound:

“You are probably wondering when the Chameleon took Chanbar. It was on the third anniversary of your coronation. Your brother came to you to confess his love for Talrishana; in a blind rage you beat him unconscious, Shan-Jarad. The nurse – that was the Chameleon. The thing about a Chameleon is, as the Shadow Dragon noted, that they take on all characteristics of the host they have imbibed, given time. Duly the Chameleon, in his new guise of Chanbar, fell in love with Talrishana. She bore four sons by him. That is normal for Chameleons, because they are only capable of siring male heirs – which brings us to you, you filthy Chaos Beast!”

He spat full into Iridiana’s face, and his chuckle was laden with malicious enjoyment Aranya could not guess at. Was she wrong in her guess as to his identity? Who –

Chanbar jeered, “Do you want to know more about your precious heritage? I’ll tell you more! When Talrishana became pregnant with a girl child, the Chameleon knew he had been betrayed. It was either a miracle of conception by an infertile man, or she had another secret lover – but the truth was vastly more heinous still. He poisoned the foetus with a mythomaxorydial-based compound. Why would he do that, unless the child was destined to be … a Shapeshifter? Shan-Jarad, I’m sure you’d love to enlighten us at this point, but I’ll save you the trouble. Has anyone guessed yet who I am? No?”

His laughter belled throughout the frozen air of the hall.

The smashing power of the Shapeshifter’s transformation struck even Aranya to her knees. Only Ardan yet stood, and even he was staggered. “I AM AZHUKAZI!”

The Necromancer Dragon!

His monstrous muzzle dipped until his nostrils almost touched Iridiana’s slumped, half-complete body. “Know this. I am Azhukazi, and I am your father.”

Chapter 20: Chaos and Starlight

Had he imagined the truest face of horror, Ardan knew he would evermore picture Azhukazi’s expression as he took his pleasure in ruining a young woman’s life – and that of the man she had called father. He blenched at the devious, abhorrent manner in which the Necromancer delivered his revelations. He knew why Aranya blurted out the word, ‘mercy,’ for no other descriptor sufficed as response to the leisurely manner in which Azhukazi sniffed Iridiana’s body, the better to relish the scent of her fear-terror.

He had a captive audience. He had them all ensnared by his bone-paralysing power, and all a Dragon could hope was that the Star Dragoness, who had yet to reveal her paw in this matter, might yet hold some power over this beast.

Flicking spittle off his lips with the force of his vehemence, Azhukazi the Iolite Blue hissed, “The Chameleon and I had a little agreement. We exchanged oaths. I wanted an heir to receive my power; he wanted the throne. But he would not give Talrishana up. We quarrelled. So I took my chance. I was a younger Shapeshifter then, and I knew much less of the lore, but I knew no mere Human was a match for my mental powers. In my Human form I availed myself of Talrishana’s person and in due course, she became pregnant with my longed-for child. But the Chameleon was cunning! He was as shifty and shady as all of his kind! He discovered her pregnancy early on, but he also possessed the power to detect the gender of the child – and so, he conceived a vile plan to murder you, Iridiana. He would have succeeded, but for my intervention.”

“Having saved your life in the womb, I watched over you all the years of your growing up. I watched, and I waited.” His right fore-talon slipped forth from its sheath to touch her throat with delicate, perverse care. “You see, if the iridium compound did not slay you, there was a good chance the poison had not reached the foetus at all. Shan-Jarad was a good father, however, and he worked very hard to ensure that his precious family, none of whom are his own children, would be safeguarded well beyond the reach of any potential enemies, including Iolite Blue Dragons. When my presence was discovered, he forbade me from ever entering the borders of Yazê-a-Kûz again. Imagine my shock and my distress, when I discovered my progeny had become a Shapeshifter exactly as I predicted – but not in the form of a Dragon!”

Azhukazi paced away, almost out of Ardan’s sight as he fought to master his rampaging emotions. The Shadow wanted to shudder, but was incapable. That necromantic power paralysed him from within his bones. Almost he spoke to Aranya, before remembering the power of this Dragon’s mind. He had defied the Thoralians. Tricked them. Could his extraordinary perception discern the fact that the Shadow might even be thinking of speaking to another? Or infer the existence of their oath bond?

Right beneath his chin, Asturbar conversed with Iridiana, unaware that they were not keeping their interaction private. The soldier said, Something rings untrue here, Nyahi, and I promise you, we will find out what it is.

Boots, o Boots I could not bear it; I would die!

Don’t! Just … breathe.

Pausing his prowling, Azhukazi turned toward Iridiana, rasping in a ghastly whisper, “I knew I had been double-crossed. Somehow, the Chameleon had bested me, and tainted my shell daughter with the ultimate foulness of Chaos Magic! Null-fires, travesty, abomination – that’s what you are! The child was no longer mine. From that day on, I plotted against the Chameleon, who had disguised himself as Chanbar. I vowed I would become great. I would become the greatest Dragon in the Island-World – and aye, what of the Marshals Thoralian? I bested them! I seized their knowledge – and you, Marshal Asturbar – you were the only person in that chamber astute enough to deduce that I had been defeated too easily! For I had already used my powers to oust the Chameleon from his host and to take over in his stead, so it was a Chameleon Dragon that Thoralian murdered that day, and not me.”

“And now, all that remains is to destroy a Chaos Beast, to bury the evidence of my righteous white fires doings, and to assume mastery over this realm. Then, I shall wait for the Star Dragoness, and with the new powers I now command courtesy of that unthinking triplicate of Thoralians, wrest from her what is rightfully mine. Where is she, Shadow? Where is Aranya hiding? Tell me, or I will end this abomination’s life – right now!”

Ardan shuddered, almost missing the Iolite Blue’s double-ruse as his talon speared toward Iridiana’s back and the Marshal, unexpectedly released, threw his body between them. Unnh! moaned the man, taking a heavy blow for his girlfriend, yet the talon did not penetrate his gambeson.

He called, Aranya, release –

The Amethyst Dragoness somehow leaped through space to materialise directly in the path of an Azhukazi fireball. She marshalled the dragonets to her aid. Again, the fireball was just the veneer of the Necromancer’s true intent, for he concealed within that attack a vile payload of his subtle bone-twisting power, yet this time Aranya was able to nullify his grasp before it took root. Her white fires flared, sheathing their marrow with the fire life of Fra’anior himself. Azhukazi backed away slightly, shaking his muzzle as he sized up his options. The Immadian’s resistance clearly bemused him.

Aranya swept a paw elegantly to compass the chamber, while her Word of Command struck with vital power: BE FREE!

Free at last!

With a belligerent roar, Ardan joined his Dragoness in pounding Azhukazi with force that rocked the great building like an earthquake, only to face the backlash from the Necromancer’s cunning absorbent-reflective shield construct. Ardan bit multiple holes in his tongue as his own power rebuffed him soundly, but Aranya seemed to shrug aside the attack and countered with a volley of her blue-white fireballs that, striking in ultra-rapid succession, blew through his shield and quarried gouges of cauterised flesh across the Necromancer’s muzzle!

Over to his left flank, Asturbar seized Uxâtate Shan-Jarad by the scruff of his thick ceremonial robes and shook the man like a cane rat, shouting into his face. Still, he was quick enough to respond to Azhukazi’s bullying charge by spinning with extraordinary grace for such a boulder of a man, yanking the ruler away from a sweeping talon stroke by a rajal’s whisker while using the centrifugal force to spin his almighty battle-axe into a blow that almost severed one of the Iolite Blue’s talons. Ardan was not so overcome with admiration at his battle craft to miss his chance to pinch a leaf out of Asturbar’s scroll. He shoulder-charged the Iolite Blue from a standing start, causing Azhukazi to fumble his intended attack. The crimson-robed, gold-armoured soldiers scattered before the rampaging Dragons like windswept leaves, leaving Asturbar to handle their ruler with worthy disdain.

Ardan could not help but feel the man deserved a few hearty Dragon slaps!

* * * *

With Ardan venting his spleen on Azhukazi, Aranya rapidly cast about to check the situation of their allies. Yazina was fine, crouching near a column with her daggers drawn. Her face was wan, yet fearfully determined. Asturbar had Shan-Jarad in hand, literally, half-strangling the ruler by his robes. The dragonets circled her head, unharmed. And Nyahi?

GRAAARRGGH!! howled Azhukazi, lurching about like a drunken Sylakian lout. GRROOUURRGHH!

Oh! She sniggered at the sight of a purple spike ball some five feet in diameter stuck beneath the Dragon’s right hind paw. That would be Iridiana, as unconventional as ever. Her spikes had pierced his paw through in several places. As Azhukazi arched his neck to try and bite off the offending Chaos manifestation, Ardan promptly pummelled the bigger Dragon again – working relentlessly to provide Aranya the opportunity she needed, only she had to keep battling the deployment of Azhukazi’s unique bone-life-grounded power as it morphed and changed, as sly and elusive as the Dragon himself. Five or six times she sensed him acquiring control, only for her Storm-driven starlight to infiltrate his constructs like water seeping into the faintest of fault lines in a terrace lake wall. She was the impermeable coating, creating a repulsion effect akin to the interaction of oil and water – her response was purely instinctual, but Aranya was terrified of what might transpire if she failed. This required her utmost concentration; once again she was denied opportunity for outright attack.

Frustration boiled her Dragoness blood!

Iridiana snickered, “Having trouble there, Azhukazi?”

“GET OFF!”

“Can’t make me.”

In that moment of oh-so-feminine distraction, Ardan hammered Azhukazi in the chest with both fists pumping furiously, and the battle rolled away. The two males clashed violently, tearing scales off each other as the Necromancer tried his one trick over and over and over again, and the Shadow flayed his hide for the trouble – neck and wings, flanks and underbelly. Did Azhukazi know nothing else?

Even as the thought crossed her mind, Azhukazi reacted. Aranya had the barest millisecond to warn Iridiana and Ardan as the Iolite Blue switched tactics – had he just stolen the idea out of her mind? Lightning traced with ice flared all around his body at once, forming a thick, impermeable layer of armour that levered Iridiana’s strange form free of his paw with a loud grating of spines against bone and drove Ardan away, momentarily stunned by multiple flashing arcs of electrical overload. The Necromancer Dragon whirled and snapped at the Chaos Shifter with incredible speed –

Flowers! Aranya projected into the girl’s mind, fearing she could not see the attack.

Petals blossomed in her perception, mirroring the dracofloral form that slipped between Azhukazi’s champing fangs, and then the girl was laughing upon his tongue, her strategy matching that which Zip and Aranya had many times worked successfully on angry Dragons – distracting them by playing the tease, throwing insults about and otherwise disparaging their deep-seated sense of honour.

Yet Iridiana’s mental state was another matter, a mad vortex of lavender-spitting sparks. Get me out – Aranya – please! I can’t –

Stay! Trust me …

I CAN’T! shrieked the Shifter, pinned in place as Aranya wrestled Azhukazi’s domineering magical force to a standstill. She felt like a flower herself; a flower trapped and bruised beneath a thundering waterfall.

The greater her opposition, the greater he seemed to become. Azhukazi’s power swelled monstrously against her mind, battering and blasting her without pause until dark spots almost obliterated Aranya’s vision. Only the shrieking of her Storm could hold this beast, and that by the barest claw hold of her talon tips. He wielded the Thoralians’ awesome power mixed with his own peculiar form of fire life-dominance, and it was slowly but surely crushing her will and capacity to resist.

Change the odds. Unbalance him.

Inspired by a crazy idea, Aranya slipped a fear to the forefront of her mind. A false weak female vision that might just fool –

The Necromancer Dragon’s fire eyes darkened entirely to black as he mined his greatest powers, and then he flicked his long, brutish muzzle upward and slurped Iridiana down his throat!

Zip screamed, Petal, what are you doing?

Aranya enfolded the Chaos Shifter with her light in exactly the same way as she had succoured her best friend’s soul, only this time, she consciously enforced their separation – not acting with an overload of motherly protective panic, but deliberately playing her gambit to its logical end. She held Iridiana by the merest thread of connection, fed through the dragonets, for that was the only way she could imagine she might penetrate Azhukazi’s tyrannical mental hold.

Failure would doom Iridiana.

Suddenly, the Remoyan’s scream terminated in a gasp of wonder. Oh …

As the Chaos Shifter slid three quarters of the way down into the Iolite Blue’s primary food stomach, Aranya pulsed with her tightest possible mental focus, Do this, precious Nyahi.

Muted as it was, the Immadian felt and heard her kin sister’s trusting, chaotic transformation take hold and lodge deep in Azhukazi’s throat. Returned to her cactus form, the four-foot spikes lodged the Chaos Shifter immovably deep in his craw, in the place where the working of his massive throat muscles could not dislodge it.

Batten down the hatches! Zip shouted in her mind, melding her strength into Aranya. Here came Leandrial too, finally breaking past the Iolite Blue’s psychic barriers to bring her formidable mental prowess to their aid.

It took an everlasting hiatus, but Azhukazi began to choke on the obstruction. His superheated breath sizzled around Iridiana’s bulky form, before drawing back toward his labouring lungs with an agonised whistling sound. Throttling! Frustrating his fires. The Dragon convulsed in a blind panic, releasing his inner fires and magical powers in a devastating barrage that nonetheless failed to dislodge or even harm her, because she had all of Aranya and Zuziana layered around her person by way of mystical armour, and they in turn leaned heavily upon Leandrial’s resources. Again and again the stricken Iolite Blue struck, but succeeded only in burning and blasting the inside of his throat. He tore at the obstruction instinctively with his talons, doing himself greater damage than anything Ardan had managed so far.

Then, he stilled. Eyes suffused with manic hatred fell upon Aranya.

The fury of his madness was like a mountain unleashed upon her. O Daughter of Onyx – BEGONE!!

Merciless. Immense. A sledgehammer belted her overwrought mind into the darkest beyond.

Aranya never felt her crumpling knees touch the ground.

* * * *

Ardan swatted unhappily at the blue pest. What?

Ari-Ari-Ari! Save! shrieked Sapphire.

He forced open his eyes to behold an unbelievable sight smearing across his unstable vision – Asturbar, cradling Aranya’s nude Human form in his huge arms as they slid across the ruby floor right past his bewildered nose, whilst Azhukazi’s massive paw descended from above, his every muscle popping with the effort of splattering the pair into a bloody pulp!

The twin shocks galvanised him.

His paw shot out and yanked the Marshal backward. KERRUMP!! Azhukazi’s wrist rebounded off the soldier’s helmet, delivering a stunning blow Ardan would have preferred to provide himself. Girl-stealing traitor! Backstabbing slug! His attempt to Shadow them out of harm’s way was a stuttering misfire, however, even as he realised that Asturbar must surely have mistaken Aranya for Iridiana. Otherwise, he’d skin the fool alive!

A case of raging draconic jealousy only yanked his brain back to full awareness. The Iolite Blue, coughing and burping spurts of gelid grey smoke like a dyspeptic toad, gathered himself against a column just fifty feet from Ardan’s position, squashing three soldiers beneath his paws as he launched back toward them, clearly intent upon finishing the Star Dragoness once and for all. Finally, he understood her strategy – almost brutal in its elegance – for she had exploited Iridiana to hoodwink the Iolite Blue, and then thrown all her might into protecting the girl thing once she was stuck inside Azhukazi’s throat. The Necromancer knew this too. Golden blood and vermilion fire dribbled from his lower lip as he glared hatefully at them, for Ardan had gathered Asturbar, Aranya and several dragonets between his paws, and then he charged!

The Star’s consciousness flickered. A … Ah …

Shadow!

Perhaps it was Asturbar’s first experience of being handled in this way, for the soldier ducked reflexively as Azhukazi hurtled right through their spectral bodies. The Iolite Blue stormed onward to demolish what had to be an irreplaceable national treasure, Shan-Jarad’s monolithic ruby throne.

GNAA-URK! The Necromancer choked on his own vomitus. GURK-GURK!

… Ir-ah …

Uncaring of herself, the Star bathed Iridiana with her healing power.

Azhukazi gouged again at his own throat, making that toad-like coughing sound. Huge as his talons were, the iron bands of his own muscles still protected Iridiana from the outside and Aranya safeguarded her within, even in her semiconscious state.

The Princess moaned, Ast – ug, mercy – flare …

Asturbar cried, Nyahi! Flare – now!

Flare? Whiteness towed the Shadow Dragon irresistibly into a beautiful space, where the devastating goodness of starlight illuminated Chaos from within, before blossoming irresistibly within the Necromancer Dragon’s flesh. It seemed he saw twice – once with the eyes of his spirit, for the pure connection between Star and Chaos, and a second time with his Dragon sight, tracing the course of incandescent fires as they immolated flesh and nerves, magical pathways and bone. Azhukazi’s hide glowed like a crazily cracked pavement backlit by white fires across an area thirty feet in diameter, before it crumbled away as searing dust the colour of a perfect Immadian night’s frost.

The Necromancer Dragon thumped down on one knee. No … cannot die …

A mauve butterfly dragonet fluttered out of the gaping, charred hole carved through his neck and upper chest region, appearing in that instant as if the mere flip of a butterfly’s wings had shivered the course of the Island-World. Perhaps that was the definition of the chaos effect.

Or should that be called the Iridiana effect?

Ardan began to smile as Aranya stirred purposefully, before a formidable explosion smashed against his ear canals – WHOOOMMP!

Even in his demise, Azhukazi’s magic waxed spectacular. A pyre of sooty black fire roared up to the ceiling a hundred feet overhead, before clearing to reveal the brilliant sapphire bones of his skeleton – despite missing a few pieces which Aranya and Iridiana’s cooperation had vaporised, the whole edifice stood proudly erect for a breathless moment before collapsing as bones rightly should.

Ardan eyed the spectacle distrustfully, muttering to himself, “Really, really dead this time?”

Further back in the hall, rubble tumbled to a standstill with tinkling overtones created by the presence of many jewels. His jewel! The Dragon tilted his muzzle to examine Aranya’s pallid aspect. There, a flicker of pulse in her throat! Gorgeous long lashes – how had he never noticed them so keenly before – dipping gracefully over those beloved cheeks …

An amethyst eye chinked open. Her chapped, scarred lips trembled as she breathed, “Very bad joke, my Shadow.”

His three hearts danced!

* * * *

Aranya glanced briefly at the bone pile they had created, before checking anxiously for Sapphire and her brood. They had defended her heroically, but now they lay scattered like white petals upon the scratched, fire-scarred ruby floor of Shan-Jarad’s palace. Fire life pulsed weakly within each fallen body. For her own part, she was not sure she’d ever move again. She felt as if she had been razed by an avalanche called Azhukazi.

Nearby, Iridiana carolled, We did it, Boots! Then, the mauve butterfly dragonet shrilled in comical amazement, Boots, why are you cuddling Aranya?

WHAT? Ardan thundered.

The man shot to his feet, babbling, Wasn’t! What? Protecting … um … His stricken eyes leaped between the dragonet and her as Aranya’s multi-coloured locks swirled in unconscious response to Ardan’s bourgeoning relief. Sorry! So sorry!

Of course, he had thought he was protecting Iridiana!

Just grabbed the wrong unclad derriere, Zip ribbed Asturbar, causing him to turn a shade of purple in keeping with his girlfriend’s obsession with mauve.

Mauve and amethyst! Could that be the clinching proof?

Mercy, illogic ruled the day.

For her part, Iridiana’s squeals of mirth detonated in a flash of her signature draconic fireworks, as a sparkling stream of fiery purple jubilation frolicked about the columns up near the ceiling. She warbled, I love you, you silly soldier! I love, love, love … everything …

That sounded very much like forgiveness, Aranya judged gladly, casting about for her abused and ruined clothing before trying to decide if she had strength left to conjure up a personal opacity shield. Not every denizen of Herimor and Wyldaroon wanted to see their deity naked, nor did she care to deal with Shan-Jarad in her current state.

This Princess could still afford a touch of dignity.

The bones rattled as though stirred by a foulness beyond death.

What felt like twenty back vertebrae popped unhappily as Aranya twisted awkwardly to inspect the phenomenon. A faint greenish light emanated from Azhukazi’s skeletal remains, utterly out of keeping with their sapphire colour. His Necromantic essence still lived – if that was the even the right word! Somehow, it coalesced out of the bones, obeying a magical imperative Aranya sensed very strongly that she did not ever want to understand.

She gazed inquiringly at Asturbar, who barked immediately, We have to crush his bones, Princess. It’s the only way.

Aranya sighed gustily. Ardan, would you go dance, please?

With pleasure, thou my treasure beyond measure.

Well, no poet was he, but his words breathed bright flame into the centre of her heart. Slinking low with predacious glee, the Shadow Dragon took a second to draw his lashing tail well out of anyone’s path before he pounced upon Azhukazi’s remains. Boom! Bla-da-bam! Graaa-BOOM! Grim laughter and thundering Dragon stomping! Poor Shan-Jarad cast suspicious looks at his ceiling, for whatever passed for dancing in the Western Isles, what it lacked in refinement it made up for in pulse-pounding enthusiasm. Aranya imagined she could hear the tribal drums pounding, and then laughed at the notion. She had no idea, had she? The only hitch was that the bones did not wish to obey. Flung apart, they wriggled back together again. Snapped in one or two places, they reformed themselves seamlessly. The green mist thickened ominously. Now, to her shock, the bones started dodging his paws!

Her attention shifted to Yazina, who had sagged against a column. Blood stained her left leg; quickly, she scrambled to the girl while hissing at Ardan, More. Harder, o Shadow.

This is ridiculous! he snarled. The Uxâtate had taken to waving his men back past a collapsed section of the vaulting hall to avoid falling masonry and gemstone cladding, when the soldiers suddenly scattered with shouts of horror.

Leandrial thundered, “Honestly, can’t I trust you little ones to finish a job properly?”

Leandrial! Aranya cried joyously, so tickled by the sight of elite soldiers fleeing from the spectacle created by Leandrial’s pearlescent eye filling the gap someone had smashed through the walls of Shan-Jarad’s hall, that she inadvertently snapped back into her Amethyst Dragoness form. That rather solved the clothing issue, too.

GRRR … Ardan snapped at a disembodied skeletal paw gripping his wing. “Doesn’t die easily, does he?”

Asturbar seemed to take particular pleasure in addressing the still-ashen ruler, “Yes, noble Uxâtate. If you hadn’t let us in, we would have requested our friend to tap gently upon your front door. Now, Leandrial – I take it you wish us to shovel this little pile of rubbish outside for you?”

“Forthwith, little ones!” she roared, shaking the fortress.

Azhukazi’s bones would not suffer to go easily. Ardan, Asturbar and Iridiana, returned to her Iridium Dragoness form, battled the badly-behaved bones as a random snarl of half-paws tried to strangle Iridiana, a hefty thigh bone smacked Ardan soundly across the nose, and three talons beat a tattoo against Asturbar’s armour. Aranya made herself useful by corralling a collection of knuckle bones and vertebrae, fighting to keep them from linking together, while asking Sapphire to see to her brood. She detoured to touch half a dozen fallen soldiers in passing. Two had passed on but she was able to aid four before she brushed against Shan-Jarad’s shoulder; he had a heart condition she had never encountered before, and Aranya withheld direct healing for fear she might do more damage than good.

The Uxâtate glanced questioningly at Aranya as they departed the hall through a wide western doorway and into a walled courtyard area that Leandrial had appropriated for her own, crushing the ornamental plants and borders with her immense paw as she urged them to toss the bones aboard. Immediately the bones leaped together in a tangle that began to sort itself out into the likeness of a Dragon as if a macabre puzzle had sprung to life.

At once, the Land Dragoness clamped her forepaws together and slithered backward, taking a considerable section of the outer wall with her as she departed with alacrity. Aranya knew she would need to see to the soldiers razed by Asturbar, too.

Cleaning up after our allies, Dragonsoul? her Human chuckled.

Gaining favour, the Amethyst Dragoness murmured, rushing after a remarkably reinvigorated Shan-Jarad as he led a general exit toward the outer portico where Asturbar and Iridiana had landed.

Ardan seemed bent on turning the ruler’s heart condition into a fatal one, for as they broke out into the open, he plucked the man up in his forepaw and sprang for the skies. Ahead, Leandrial’s paw rotated and flattened as she prepared to paw-slap Azhukazi’s remains right through the base of the Island, it seemed to her – and here was Yazina, weeping openly as she ran along with a posse of soldiers. How she grieved for the girl, for the loss of her father …

Sweeping the teen up with a deft wingtip, Aranya flipped her into Rider position with the aid of a touch of storm wind, and followed her Shadow Dragon skyward. She had to see!

BOOM!! The soldiers gathered at the portico’s edge hugged each other unashamedly as Leandrial smashed the bones six feet deep, then raised her paw slowly, and … “Unbelievable!”

Not only had the bones survived, they were now forming sinew and a first sheathing of the magical-and fire-conductive tissues essential to sustaining draconic flesh!

Asturbar yelled, “Honestly, can’t we trust you great ones to finish a job properly?”

Aranya could have slapped his head past Immadia for that thoughtless comment. Idiot!

For her part, the Land Dragoness’ wrath shook the Islands of the Ruby City, demolishing a few perhaps less sturdy buildings and dislodging the crysglass from innumerable window frames, before it returned as thunder from the cliffs. A crafty smile curved the leviathan’s lips as she considered the recalcitrant bones with the air of a connoisseur of destruction. She was proud; a mighty beast of many summers beneath the suns. She was wise. And, the Marshal had just challenged her openly.

There could be only one response.

Her mind meshed with Aranya’s. Examine these constructs, little one. The elemental structure of his bones, the nature of the abominable, corrupted Dark Fires magic he commands … I see it like this …

More … so? suggested the Amethyst.

With an infusion your Star Fire, noble Aranya. I shall supply and direct the Harmonic elements.

Agreed.

Leandrial’s talons gouged through the portico, raising the skeletal Dragon upon a bed of rubble before she flicked her wrist powerfully. Up, up into the deepening emeralds and purples of the night sky the bones flew, forming themselves more fully by the second, while through their mental link, Aranya sensed the mounting tension in the Land Dragoness’ body, the ultimate focus of her fires to feed the power of her eye cannon. She slipped within as bidden, melding her being with Leandrial’s presence.

O Fra’anior, guide our strike, she whispered.

Leandrial’s body juddered as she fired her eye cannon in a series of highly focussed, intense pulses that stripped away Azhukazi’s magic before attacking the fundamental minerals and structures of the bones themselves. The Harmonic magic separated element from element before the incalculable temperatures generated by Aranya’s white-blue starlight vaporised them on contact. The effort cost Leandrial dear. It was as if her friend leaned upon her shoulder, just remembering to breathe as the magical fire life throughout her body dipped, then steadied at the gentle pulsation of healing that Aranya supplied.

Strength, mighty one, the Amethyst Dragoness whispered.

Leandrial’s look told her she knew exactly whose strength had sustained them both. Then, affecting disdain, she sniffed, Help me gather that dust, noble Star Dragoness. I plan to sink it into a volcano thirty leagues from here. How I despise practitioners of Dramagon’s lore!

His necromancy was a manifestation of Dramagon’s dark lore? Aranya was amazed she had never made that connection before

Iridiana whispered, Is he truly gone, Leandrial?

Truly, little one, you own the boasting rights. There is no detectable trace of magic, living or dead, in his remains now. I am so very, very proud of you all, my tiny tyrant slayers!

Iridiana and Aranya chuckled alike.

Then, as one, the Shapeshifter Dragons, the dragonets and their Riders bowed wordlessly to Leandrial. Azhukazi the Iolite Blue was no more.

Chapter 21: Fatherhood, Befouled

HERS WAS THE incomparable face of healing. Zuziana could never tire of the experience of watching a soldier with his or her face crumpled in a rictus of pain, veiling their inevitable suspicion as the tall, veiled Princess reached out, only for her touch to effortlessly spark a smile of unadulterated, childlike wonder. The crustiest, most cussed, screaming-bloody-murder patient would sink back against the ground, or into a comrade’s arms exclaiming gruffly, “Thank ye, lady.” Or, “What ye done … oh!” Then, whispers would dog her barefoot steps, “ ’Tis the Star Dragoness, truly.” “Her worshipfulness, I tell ye no word o’ lie. ’Tis enchantment most mighty.”

She never stinted.

The Remoyan Princess had to wonder, however, at how quickly the word of her best friend’s true nature had slipped out. Was this Azhukazi’s doing?

With dozens of soldiers injured and some in a serious state, her work took the better part of an hour before Aranya slipped away to the bathing chambers at Iridiana’s behest. Zip approved. A girl needed to wash away the stench of battle; most especially, the reek of the Necromancer Dragon’s plotting, betrayal and attempted murder.

Entering the opulent bath chamber clad in just a plush towelling robe, Zip admired the décor through her friend’s eyes. Ruby dominated, of course, but an artificial bathing waterfall was a feature she had never quite imagined – heated, too. Mmm. Could she remodel Remoy’s bathing chambers to this standard? Aranya glanced about. Perhaps the servants had been asked to give her privacy, for no-one else seemed to be present. She approached a range of oils and soaps which had been artfully arranged beside a trio of wide, deep jade lavers by the poolside, clearly puzzling out how the protocol was meant to work.

Clean off here first, then into the pool? Zip suggested. Cold, warm and then baking-your-backside hot?

Huh. I suppose you Remoyans must find all this very familiar.

Why, don’t Immadians bathe?

Aranya startled as a very large, sleek head lifted out of the water. “No, but felines clearly do!”

“Great leaping – not-quite-rajals!” Zip spluttered. “Like a leopard, just –”

“Five times the size,” said the Princess of Immadia, not backing away an inch as the stub-eared feline fixed its baleful yellow gaze upon her. I’m a Dragoness. Bother me and you’ll regret it.

The massive cat blinked slowly before stepping up onto what must be an underwater ledge at the side of the twenty-foot bathing pool, and raising its muzzle quizzically. Aranya reached out her hand. She could not help the leap of her pulse, at which her inner Dragoness snickered with suitable scorn, when the feline’s blunt, spotted tawny muzzle pressed lightly against her skin.

Murrr-arrka-nu-harrr Irana? said the cat, in a purr like slow-rolling gravel.

Feline speech? Aranya stared!

Innurratha, arr-su-hurr Aranya, said Iridiana, appearing at the far side of the pool. “I think she’s a bit confused as to who you are. She thinks you smell like me – she remembers me from when I was a child, you see. Innurratha won’t trouble a guest. She’s kind of a royal bodyguard, and understands basic speech. Now, would you like me to show you the bathing rituals here? Father wants to speak – I’m so afraid, Aranya! Afraid of what he’ll say. And I can’t hope … I must not! Yet I do.”

Zip could have knocked their identical heads together, the silly pair. To her mind, the only outstanding question was one of irrefutable proof. Their resemblance was a forgone conclusion. Shan-Jarad must have his own secrets which Aranya would demand of him. She had the right, but her friend’s rising emotions were betrayed by the tautness of Storm intensifying within her being now. Even Azhukazi had not provoked this response from the Star Dragoness. Thunder rolled without the citadel; a swirl of wind ruffled Iridiana’s hair.

“Nervous too,” Aranya whispered.

“Oh, is that –” the silver-skinned girl queried.

“One of my titles is ‘Daughter of Storm,’ ” said the Immadian. “Fra’anior is an Onyx Dragon, but he is also called the Storm of Storms. I sort of inherited that power … it does get out of control sometimes, understandably.”

“Ha. You’re more chaotic than you let on, Aranya.”

Aranya shucked her robe self-consciously. “Try not to stare.”

“Father – I need to stop calling him that …”

“Maybe.”

Iridiana made a face. “These scars stem from a Shapeshifter pox?”

“Thoralian deliberately had me infected with a particularly pernicious strain.”

“That beast! I hope I never … I’m sorry, Aranya. That was insensitive. Look. You’ve a fresh wound on your forehead. We should dress it.”

After a few awkward minutes as they lathered up before agreeing to help scrub each other’s hair, Aranya said, “Did you know that Asturbar keeps staring at your ankles? It’s the funniest thing.”

Iridiana giggled. “I know! Isn’t that normal in men?”

“Ankles? I don’t believe so.”

Zip said, “Completely bizarre, if you’d care for a Remoyan’s opinion. Nice ankles, however. We have an old friend – as in, well over a century old – who’s a self-declared expert on women and as lecherous as the day is long. He’s definitely a chest and legs aficionado, and not shy about telling you to your face, either.”

“He doesn’t exactly address you at eye level,” Aranya added.

Zip cried, “Ah, shalt I compare thy peerless buttocks to the rondure of the twin suns, o Immadia; yea, the twin suns shining in all their glory!”

Iridiana’s giggling exploded into peals of laughter.

“Zip!” Aranya gasped, fanning her face.

“Ah, Iridiana, my delicate petal! I declare that the glorious cascade of thine threads of uttermost night shalt slay a man for the sheer wonder of sidereal beauty! Give me but one kiss, o my silvery muse, but one kiss lest I expire!”

She had them both in stitches, of course, but Zuziana was prevented from indulging in a further round of Nak-isms by a firm knock upon the door to the bathing chamber. “Shan-Jarad awaits,” Asturbar called. “What’s all the giggling for, ladies, may I ask?”

Zip answered, “I hear you’re an ankles man, Marshal Asturbar?”

“What?”

“I can practically hear him blushing out there,” she told Iridiana, who was the one turning seventeen hues of silver-rose. “Aye, Asturbar. Would you like to tell us all about Iridiana’s ankles?”

“I … I would not!”

“Aren’t they the loveliest pair you’ve ever –”

“Ten minutes!” His parade ground bellow almost blew the door down.

Zip whispered, “It’s considered very good technique to keep a man guessing. Flirting is first-class, too.” Raising her voice, she added snidely, “Very well! Shall we conceal Iridiana’s ankles for fear of immedicable distraction, Marshal Boots?”

“THRICE-BLASTED REMOYAN INVADERS!”

* * * *

They took a late tea, a Yazê-a-Kûz custom, in Shan-Jarad’s private chambers. “Thank you for waiting so graciously,” he said. “This is the only place I believe we can talk undisturbed. Drinks?”

Ardan, Asturbar, Aranya and Iridiana settled into the hand-carved chairs placed around an oval murzigi wood table, upon which were set crystal decanters holding chilled berry cordials, water cooled with glacier ice mined from the cliffs, and a tea set of surpassing craftsmanship. Naturally, ruby featured prominently, but the gemstones appeared to have been carved by some process that Aranya could only conclude had to be magical. Her eyes narrowed at the sight. Indeed, Shan-Jarad? Iridiana had insisted that her realm had little time for magic, but their experiences in trying to penetrate their defences argued exactly the opposite. Here was further evidence.

For herself, she chose to try the spiced tea, called arrabis.

If he was surprised at the presence of a sapphire dragonet curled about Aranya’s neck and the brood sleeping inside her pockets, the Uxâtate gave no sign. Yet his mien appeared graven from stone. What was he thinking? How would he respond to this audacious incursion into his realm – he, who had also learned this day of his brother’s treachery and murder by Azhukazi? There must still be a very hard conversation to come, Aranya knew, stilling an urge to scratch at her scars beneath her face veil. The Storm was so close, singing urgently through her veins. How could she deny it? Must a storm not break before it could dissipate?

After a moment, they remembered that Yazina was also present, hovering just inside the doorway. Since there were only five chairs, Asturbar beckoned the teen to sit upon his knee. To her surprise, Yazina sighed and leaned against his shoulder – the Marshal seemed most uncomfortable at this arrangement, but Iridiana surreptitiously drew his arm about the girl.

Once he had poured the tea with ceremonial precision, Shan-Jarad chose to address the air with a scholarly deliberation to his delivery. “Shapeshifters, a Princess, the Star Dragoness herself, an underworld leviathan, my grown-up daughter returned from the dead, the Marshal of the Mistral Fires, and the very foundations of my life shaken. Some day it has been. Some day. Nor has my ruin ever been more complete. Let me start with this: I loved your mother, Iridiana. I loved her with every beat of my heart. And I now know, since the noble Star Dragoness touched me, that all three of my nemeses manipulated my mind and my purposes with masterful ease. I’ve been a deluded fool. Yet at the last, I too have a secret. You know it already, o Aranya.”

Did she? Curious, she offered, “Chanbar was merely duplicitous. The Chameleon and Azhukazi both possessed subtle mind powers that they employed to their best advantage.”

“Yes.” Uxâtate Shan-Jarad passed Aranya a ruby beaker of steaming tea. The spices were unfamiliar, but smelled delicious. “I have carried my secret for far too long. My revelation is that, I am a repressed Shapeshifter.”

She inclined her head to conceal her shock, and murmured, “Aye?”

He had no idea! Truly, he had no idea why they were here … she swallowed a spike of Storm-fury as the thunder neared, prowling like a spitting-mad Dragoness about the fringes of her consciousness.

“Yes,” he said. “It seems clear to me now that Azhukazi spoke the truth when he revealed that I am infertile. I hail from a long line of repressed Shapeshifters. We have magic in my family. It manifests in small ways – skills, or knacks for particular tasks, say. Gifts of leadership, battle craft, strategy and even the skills of survival in a realm as perilous as that of Wyldaroon.”

Turning to Iridiana, he said, “Let me tell you what I believe you will wish to hear first, Iridiana. When the Chanbar Chameleon first confronted me with the humiliating truth of how I had been poisoned, rendered infertile and betrayed at every turn, I spent much time crying, yes, but then a much greater period of time plotting my revenge. Early on, I struck upon the idea that I no longer wanted my bloodline to be one that displayed repressed characteristics. I wanted power. Huge, undeniable fonts of power. Therefore, I depleted the treasuries in searching for an answer. It took five years, but eventually I felt I had divined the perfect solution – my agents found an uistarikolalion Shifter who had a peerless egg to offer, and the skills to implant it inside of my wife.”

Aranya squeezed her eyes shut. No, Iridiana … NO! Oh mercy, oh please, I can’t bear to hear this …

Ardan touched her knee, evidently trying to will strength into her. Peace. Let the man speak, Aranya.

He did not know how close she was to an eruption. This man, this foul, greedy, grasping fool – what had he done?

Unheeding of her torment, Shan-Jarad continued, “I paid a price for that service which made my royal Treasurer die of a heart attack. You have to understand how desperate I was. I would have done anything. Paid anything. Risked anything. Setting aside any morals or thoughts of where that egg might have come from, I had the uistarikolalion, the egg stealer, perform the operation. I provided of my seed to fertilise that unique egg – or so I thought – and the creature magically inserted it into my wife’s womb.”

“What was the egg like?” Iridiana quavered.

“Shh, my beloved,” said Asturbar gently. I know it hurts …

To Aranya, the unfurling of the Uxâtate’s tale was a slow descent into nightmare. She knew what the truth must be; he had only to find the power of articulation, but to her mounting frustration, the man would not simply blurt it out. After another interminable sip of his tea, he said:

“No, it’s a good question, albeit one calling for a strange answer. We tried to verify the authenticity of the egg before final payment was made – with such sums at stake, I wanted to be absolutely certain, but I was also terrified to lose the opportunity. It was at once an egg, and a spark. I have never seen a clear Dragon’s egg before. This one seemed closer in form to a Dragon’s fire eye than to an egg with impermeable shell about it, but inside there was a silvery mist inhabited sometimes by a spark of pure light, and sometimes the very tiniest impression of a foetus – these pinprick fingers and toes might show for a moment, then they disappeared into the light. The uistarikolalion let slip that the egg was sourced from a White Dragoness.”

Covering her mouth, Aranya stifled such a moan as had never been torn from her before, never even in the depths of Thoralian’s dungeons, in the nadir of her life.

Still Shan-Jarad remained trapped in his recollections, not shifting a muscle to acknowledge her agonised reaction as he continued, “The creature called it a droplet of fire life. A unique form of draconic life that could be fertilised by a Shapeshifter such as me, and be drawn from my wife’s being to become inextricably part of us both. Imagine my horror as the Chameleon tried to poison her; imagine my joy when she was born a perfect little girl, and then once more to the pyres of despair … when the chaos came upon her …”

Her teardrops welled helplessly, each falling like a peal of thunder.

Lies, greed and desperation. Did a more toxic brew exist beneath the suns?

Ardan tried to help in his blunt way, grasping her hand as he said, “Petal, oh my petal … it’ll be alright.”

Alright? It was anything but; it was the very opposite of alright! This man had stolen … stolen her birthright, the chance to know Iridiana …

Gazing now at Aranya and Ardan with an evident lack of comprehension, Shan-Jarad said, “Ah … forgive me, o Star Dragoness. I do not understand, yet your tears slay me far more severely than any castigation you could possibly deliver to a ruler who abused his might to steal a life from some other poor, unsuspecting woman –”

“From my mother!” she screamed. Raw, wounded, her thunder crashed around the citadel. Her outcry toppled Shan-Jarad, despite his heavy chair, but her hand snapped out to arrest his fall as if they were linked by invisible chains

“I’ll … I’ll kill you –” She felt her face twist with the violence of her emotions; felt the blood seeping afresh from that new wound upon her forehead, burst open by her fury, but she did not care.

Aranya, precious Aranya … Ardan tried to soothe her. His words were torch to her kindling.

A Star knew the ultimate force of loathing. The unstoppable fury of unalloyed hatred. The corruption of what she had imagined was incorruptible, for the power that curled within her now, begging and thrashing and screaming for release, was as dark and malign as anything she had ever imagined, and she desired it with every iota of her being. She revelled in it. Aranya wanted nothing more than to unleash her Storm and wipe this unscrupulous man, this sister stealer, from the face of the Island-World and his puny realm with him! She would flay them with titanic lightning bolts from the heavens and sweep the blasted, ravaged rubble beyond the Moons with the shattering power of her ultimate tempest!

Shan-Jarad gulped, frozen in mid-air. Her hand; her entire body convulsed. She burned yet could not seem to feel warmth. Mercy!

For the first time in her life, foulness felt good.

Aranya, I beg thee, no, Ardan whispered into her soul. Not this …

Iridiana pleaded, Please, Aranya. This is not the way.

How she shuddered at the thunder crashing through her soul, drowning out the well-meaning pleas of her friends. Release! RELEASE ME! roared her Dragoness, yet also she cried, Don’t, Aranya my soul. We are better than this, better than the Thoralians, the Azhukazis, the haters and destroyers of this age … o mercy, the agony, it burns, how it burns! Nay, we must never become one of them. Do not let us give in!

It was the dread of corruption that swayed her. Fear of becoming like the Thoralians. It was possible. She could seize all for herself, and in becoming a tyrant of her own choice, lose everything she loved, too.

Her laboured breathing rasped more softly.

Slowly, the onyx clouds of insatiable vengeance cleared from her eyes, and she surveyed her companions with both grief and joy – for she knew these emotions were one.

Absently, striving to bring herself back from the precipice by an appeal to the mundane, Aranya muttered, “From my mother … from Izariela … no. It cannot be. How old are you, Iridiana?”

“Twenty-two.”

She knew this. “The timelines don’t work.”

Of course they didn’t, but her friends were not to know she had identified this conundrum already. The sense of kinship with her sister was too close, and too intimate, for there to be any other answer than the utterly impossible – unless Izariela harboured yet more secrets. Star Dragoness secrets.

Shan-Jarad breathed, “Forgive me, o Aranya, but how is your mother involved?”

“This is how – simply this!” She ripped the face veil away, sickened by the loathing she had revelled in. Sickened by this man’s actions. “Explain this, Uxâtate!”

The ruler took in her appearance with palpable aversion, before it became obvious to all that a second, more profound realisation smote him. He clutched his chest. Dropping his beaker of tea, Shan-Jarad slumped to his knees before her, wailing, “O Star Dragoness, o Iridiana, will you ever forgive this vile deed I have done? Ah, ah, aaaaaaaaahhhh … I am a wicked man, ah, ah … I’m a worm, the lowest of men … aaah! AAAHH!!”

Yazina gasped, understanding at last. “How could he?”

Aranya could only stare. She had no words to forgive him, not now. Not – the breath exploded out of her as Iridiana threw herself into the Princess’ arms, “Sister! Oh, my precious … it’s impossible, isn’t it? Sisters? Can we be, now? Asturbar, tell me – yes? It’s true!”

Asturbar cried, “You must be, yes – I’m overjoyed!”

Overjoyed? Aye, and desolate, sick and heartsore, yet here was the definitive testimony. The unbelievable truth. Izariela and Beran had a daughter that they had never known, and the gift of a sister was … it was just … Aranya squeezed Iridiana to her bosom, suddenly speechless with incredulity, thinking inanely that the girl smelled sisterly, somehow, if that were not illogical; nay, nonsensical! As she had confessed to Iridiana before, nothing in her life could compare. To take vengeance would only sully the unfolding of this miracle.

She whispered into Iridiana’s hair, “To think I wandered all of Herimor to discover such a treasure amidst its ruin.”

The Amethyst Dragoness added, Thou art our restoration, o Iridiana. Our beacon.

Poor Iridiana could not stop shaking. She could not have believed, truly believed, until now. She protested, “But, it can’t be true. We must be … oh, four and a half summers apart?”

Aranya said, Aye, but the truth remains the truth.

How – yes! stammered the girl. I’m just all jumbled up … sister! Sister-mine, cherished one!

Zip quipped drily, “Of course, I’ve known since the beginning.”

Well, that set them all off!

When she could slide a few words into the conversation with a skill akin to a Dragoness’ knack with her talons, Zip clarified, “Didn’t your Aunty Hualiama teach you that there are peculiar matters a-paw when it comes to Star Dragoness gestation periods? Four and a half years is nothing compared to the couple of thousand she quoted for Granny Istariela, wasn’t it? Shame we can’t talk – well, we will! When we wake up your mother, we’ll ask her how long she might have hosted a pretty spark of starlight in her womb, and –”

“I am not pretty,” Aranya snapped, biting off her words furiously. Now Shan-Jarad must think she was mad, but she was on the cusp of explaining when the Zippy one seized control of her vocal cords and laid on the snark thick and fast.

“Princesses should not lie. Nasty habit.”

AARGH!

The Remoyan would not be stopped, now. “You. Aye you, Shadow! Do something with those musclebound arms of yours, you worthless, recalcitrant excuse for a ralti sheep. And you, muscly lump-a-Dragon-man. You get in here too.”

He joined the hug fest.

Asturbar threw in a teary, slapdash salute. “Willingly, ma’am!”

Ha, I can sure give orders, can’t I, best friend who’s so forgiving of my waspish tongue?

Aranya threw up her hands figuratively. Very well. Finish what you’ve started, petal monster!

“I see who gives the orders around here,” Iridiana teased. Aranya sneaked an arm about Yazina to snaffle the girl into the group. Who cared if hugs were un-Immadian? The chaotic situation appeared to demand a few – a few hundred!

Zip chortled, Don’t think you can escape either, dragonet. Get over here.

Hey, Sapphire shrilled. I know! I know …

What do you know, petal? Aranya asked. Are we missing out on our huggies?

Sapphire said archly, Doesn’t this make the silvery-blue pest a Princess of Immadia? And since you’re younger, Aranya, Iridiana would become the next Queen, wouldn’t she?

Aranya almost choked.

Nooo … Iridiana breathed in horror, turning her unique shade of silvery-rose.

Sapphire could be all too erudite when she wanted to be, for she had another memorable nugget for the Marshal. She chirped, Are you ready to be a King? King Big Boots the First?

Mercy! Judging by the speed at which the blood drained from his cheeks, evidently not.

* * * *

Aranya snapped awake in the early hours after a fitful period of sleep. Her dreams had swung from a sweet memory of her mother’s revival to successive, fragmentary nightmares involving betrayal upon every front – from Zuziana, Ardan, Yiisuriel, her father, Leandrial and even Infurion, mighty Lord of the Rift Storm. Their choleric accusations had swirled about her before resolving into a single chant, Ugly. Ugly. Ugly …

Then Fra’anior fell upon her like a rapacious thunderstorm, bellowing and raging incoherently until dark flames of fear consumed all of her starlight.

So much for bathing earlier. She woke in a sweat-soaked heap upon the floor, having ripped and charred her bedclothes. Aranya sat up, rubbing her breastbone to still her crazed heartbeat. On the far side of the bed, Ardan dozed peacefully upon his stomach. No blankets needed for an ever-hot Shapeshifter Dragon, she supposed, severely narked at his ability to sleep through storm, turmoil and apparently, her screaming nightmares. How did men do that? He snoozed in pristine splendour; her side of the bed was a smouldering hole in the soft down mattress.

Rising, she drew a fresh robe about herself against the night’s chill and padded to the antechamber, opened the door, and found the Sadukar of the Royal Guard standing hand upraised in the act of rapping firmly upon the richly carved wooden panels.

Aranya said, “My apologies, sir. A bad dream. Could you have your men bring a large bucket of water?”

“Water? At once, Uxâtati-a-Tân Aranya,” said the soldier, clicking his fingers sharply. His medals and honours jingled upon his immaculate dress uniform at the movement. “Water! Is all well, otherwise?”

She wrinkled her nose at the Uxâtaayn Kahilate title. “All is well. May I request additional blankets and a snack, perhaps? Fruit or bread would be fine, the simpler the fare, the better.”

“I shall dispatch a maidservant at once, Uxâtati-a-Tân. My very life is yours to command.”

“Thank you.”

He tapped his heels together twice with ceremonial exactitude before holding a deep, perfectly rigid bow that allowed him to tap a staccato rhythm upon the hard leather sides of his knee-high parade boots, and withdrew as though his astounding stiffness might of its own accord restore law and order across the Island-World.

Well. The differences in cultures she encountered never failed to fascinate her. Take this man’s extraordinary double moustache, artfully curled at its tips, his desire to place his very life on the line for a stranger, and the fact that the mattresses in this incredible palace were so soft she had almost been swallowed alive!

Very peculiar. Humbling.

Moving to the tall, oval glass doors that led out onto a private balcony which overlooked the Ruby City, Aranya considered her last message from Yiisuriel. The Air Breather had counselled, ‘I believe that the Balance of magic is key. Unless you are able to find ways to repopulate the North, and resolve the issue of falling draconic birth rates as already reported by the Dragonfriend’s lore, the Imbalance will only grow. Even the rise of parasites against Dragons, this documented rise in numbers, powers and subtlety, I believe points to the inevitable battle to come – the battle for our survival. Surely, recovering an Academy full of powerful Dragons would constitute the greatest service a Star Dragoness could render the Dragonkind.’

Was it? A worthy goal, surely, but she had to wonder if anyone truly understood the Thoralians’ plans. That was why they had to chase him to the ends of their Island-World. There was no other choice.

O Fra’anior, beloved grand-shell-sire, this was not as you intended …

No … Despite that the voice was faint and heavily distorted, Aranya stiffened at the unmistakable tones of her ancestor. Know this, Aranya: Urzul is a corruptor, not a sustainer of life. It is no fit vessel … Thoralians stole Necromantic lore for this reason …

The Thoralians want true immortality?

At least … if not the power of –

His voice vanished in a crackling roar. Aranya listened for a long time, but the Great Onyx did not speak again. Nonetheless, she could finish the sentence for him. If not the power of the last Ancient Dragon.

Indeed.

Aranya turned, and yelped at the sight of a tiny silver-white dragonet smiling at her through the glass, right at her eye level.

Oh … Iridiana? Ho, pretty-scales, are you also awake?

Other girls your age chase boys, Iridiana said. You chase world-dominating, immortal tyrants.

Chapter 22: The Sixth Moon

ONCE ARANYA HAD worked out the ridiculously complicated latch system on the window, she swung it open and raised her other hand, palm held flat in invitation. The eight-inch exemplar of dragonet perfection perched there and squeaked without further ado, “Tell me about Immadia, Aranya. Tell me about your family – our family. Can I say that? Tell me everything.”

“Well, aye. It’s a little complicated, but –”

“Are you having second thoughts about welcoming a Chaos Shifter into the family, sister? You don’t have to, you know. You could leave me –”

“Shut your fangs!” Aranya drew a deep breath, huddled deeper into the blanket she had wrapped twice about herself, and made herself comfortable on the outside couch. When Iridiana peeped in protest, having switched mid-blink to an even smaller draconic form which had the antennae of a butterfly and diamond fangs like tiny needles, she added, “Cute as you are, I say, shut the fangs. One, the family are going to love you. Two, you are eternally welcome – ah, to clarify, welcome to be part of our family and most certainly not welcome to leave. Ever! And three, I am not leaving you behind … big sister.”

Cue just about the most foolish smile which had ever crossed her lips, a smile so broad, it hurt.

“Whoo … I see. What are our parents like?”

Projecting pictures into Iridiana’s mind and speaking at the same time, she told her about their tall, elegant Ha’athiorian Shapeshifter mother, Izariela, and her fiery romance with the King of the most northerly inhabited Island in the Island-World, the famously picturesque Kingdom of Immadia. How Izariela used to love to stand upon her tower and sing to the dawn, or write poetry. How the bearded, piratical Beran had nicknamed their daughter Sparky; how he, despite his grief and black depression over Izariela’s apparent death, had taken it upon himself to train her in so much more than just looking and behaving like a Princess. How they had gone to war together, a father and his Dragoness daughter. She told Iridiana about gentle Queen Silha and her young twin brothers, Feran and Tiran, and her infant sister Leanya. How deeply she missed them. How she ached to hold her mother one more time; all that she knew about the mystery surrounding the disappearance of her grandmother and Fra’anior’s mate, Istariela.

“He’s truly our grandfather?” Iridiana breathed.

Aranya was trying to decide how her latest form, a striking bouquet of lavender flowers apparently coating a hedgehog-like draconic form, could actually breathe. Trying to keep up with Iridiana seemed to be an exercise in dizzying surprises. “Truly he is, and when we are able to rid ourselves of this magical interference in your Kahilate –”

“The vandanite, do you mean?”

“The what?”

The flowers ruffled in apparent amusement, before a delicate muzzle peeped out. “The green mineral. It’s everywhere. We’ve always known it has magical properties – it’s also our primary form of defence against Dragons. It’s said that Dragon powers work differently here.”

“I haven’t had any other trouble – nor you, for that matter.”

“We’re hardly standard Grey-Greens.”

“No, but Ardan and I were wondering how your Dragonships managed to find us as we travelled into the Uxâtaayn Kahilate.”

“It’s the vandanite. It responds to draconic fire life. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“My sister’s a flower. It’s weird. And you still manage the most remarkable expressions whilst discombobulating my poor brain – even your petals are expressive!” Iridiana nibbled fondly at the point of Aranya’s forefinger as she touched her sister’s tiny head carefully. “Just to write the scrolleaf unambiguously, I like weird. Very un-Immadian of me, I know, but I’m growing as a person in all sorts of unexpected ways, these days.”

“Shall we talk about weird walking stars with shiny faces, then?”

Aranya pouted humorously. “Don’t tell me you like weird, too! I do, however, have an apology to make. Mercy, petal! A humungous and rather overdue apology.”

Now her sister had morphed into a sinuous, scaly amaranthine vine that appeared to be climbing the blankets with the intent of introducing her serpentine coils to Aranya’s neck. “Would this be the cunning strategy you neglected to tell me about beforehand, the bit where I was shovelled down Azhukazi’s throat in a terror sweat induced by the realisation that the Star Dragoness had just unearthed a novel strategy to rid the world of one highly inconvenient Chaos Shifter?”

Aranya sat very still as Iridiana looped herself about her neck. “Umm … if Azhukazi had actually read my mind, it could have turned out far uglier.”

“Terrible excuse.”

“We triumphed, didn’t we?”

“You weren’t the one tickling the insides of his throat, sister,” Iridiana laughed.

“You’ll have to teach me that cactus form. I can see it coming in very useful in the future.”

“Oh? Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“When Ardan’s being grumpy, say?” Soft blue petals unfurled all around her face, and Iridiana managed to kiss her nose, cheeks, eyes, forehead, chin and ears with flowery kisses all at the same time, chuckling merrily. “It was a brilliant ploy, I’ll admit. But in this scintillating vision of future sisterhood we’re discussing here, I humbly submit that you should volunteer to be the one sitting on the Thoralians’ tongue whilst I hang back and protect you.”

“Unlike you, I’d just tie his tongue in a thumping big knot and shove it down his throat,” Aranya suggested delicately. “Job done.”

“I thought Immadians were all about subtlety?”

“About as subtle as your Chaos Beast ravaging Thoralian with fifty maws at once?”

“I’m a Dragoness.”

“Cue the occasional failure of subtlety?” They chuckled together. “Aye.”

Abruptly, the tendrils wound themselves into Aranya’s hair, teasing the strands apart with the air of botanical fingers. “Are all these colours natural? I’ve never seen anything to compare.”

“It’s been that way since I was a baby. Crazy, right?”

“Crazy … or chaotic?” The flowers giggled at the joke. “I know it’s a bit of a stretch of the imagination, but there must be ways in which our magic is similar. So, I know it’s rude and very forward of me, but I wanted to ask –”

“Yes, of course.” Aranya winced as her words emerged brusque and dismissive. “Roaring rajals! Sorry.”

Lightly, her sister said, “I haven’t asked yet.”

But she had learned of Aranya’s discomfort at a potential connection with Chaos magic, inadvertent or not. “I apologise.”

“Aranya, you wouldn’t be the first, nor the only one –”

“I don’t want to be them! I want to be the one who understands, who accepts and includes, who –”

“When I don’t understand myself in the slightest –”

“Who loves her sister for all that she is!”

The flowers seemed stuck somewhere between growing weak-stemmed in disbelief and shivering with delight.

Aranya tried a quirky smile. “Granted, I don’t know much about sisters, mind …”

With a moody sigh, the flowers responded, “I’m sure the pale Northern Enchantress marrying a dark Western Isles barbarian must attract a few looks and comments, right? Let’s not pretend rainbows come without clouds.”

“Indeed.” Grateful, Aranya tickled one of Iridiana’s stems with her fingers, saying, “To finish our earlier conversation – yes, I will gladly make our father cry for joy. Yes, I relish the opportunity to introduce you to Fra’anior and blow that old Dragon off his paws for the first time in millennia. And yes, I hope even to take you as far as Immadia to meet our mother – if you’re willing, that is?”

“I thought we’d finished this argument already, but if you’d like a reprise …”

“I’ve never had a sister to argue with. This is so much fun.”

Iridiana began to chuck her beneath the chin, saying, “The one thing I really don’t want is your crown, mind – yaah! – sorry …”

Aranya teased drolly, “I guess we share the same trouble with clothing, eh?”

“You could offer me at least a corner of the blanket, you heartless fiend.” With this, her own pout appeared full force. It was incredible to see another person’s face making expressions as close to hers as a fine mirror.

Sucking in her lips, Aranya said, “Unfortunately for prospective throne stealers, in Immadian tradition the crown passes down the male line. Good news for a shy girl.”

“How archaic and patriarchal,” Nyahi teased.

“We Immadians are old-fashioned.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Hey!”

“Just putting my little sister in her place.”

She punched Iridiana’s arm. “I’m a deity in these parts. Try not to insult me.”

“Your worshippers are deluded.”

“Your one and only worshipper venerates ankles. I mean, you’re nice and all, but that’s just bizarre.”

* * * *

They rested for two days, what with her best friend’s idea of rest passing for holding several lengthy meetings with Shan-Jarad in order to forge the terms of a healthy alliance and treating the ruler’s heart complaint, besides sneaking off to heal all of the injured she could lay a hand upon, before they took the Uxâtate up on his offer of a guided tour of Yazê-a-Kûz. Zuziana asserted that Shan-Jarad could be quite personable when he wasn’t stealing peoples’ babies. Aranya promptly forbade her from ever speaking her mind on the matter! As for Ardan and Asturbar, both men appeared to struggle with the ongoing fashion parade that apparently passed for daily life in the ritzy city. She had to admit, she had never seen so many female legs either, not even at the sticky height of a Remoyan summer. Generally, the women were willowy of frame, and not averse to a brand of open ogling of the two unusual men in their midst that had both Shapeshifter Dragonesses steaming like miniature fumaroles. The men seemed gregarious on the whole, and affected outfits that ranged from the outlandish to plain garish, and little between.

In a sweet gesture, Iridiana had joined Aranya in wearing light ‘slacks’ beneath their outrageously short dresses, for it seemed that tailors in the Kahilate did not understand the concept of hemlines that even contemplated approaching the knee. Perhaps material was in permanently short supply? Poor Aranya. Zuziana despaired of ever curing her friend of her devotion to floor-length dresses, preferably with a modest train.

True, she had the figure to look amazing in a flowing gown fitted to her ridiculously spare waist, but still … Ardan had checked her slacks no less than twenty-three times. She was counting.

That afternoon, they idled the time away at the palace waiting for Leandrial’s return. This time the soldiers and defences had strict orders to provide her an honour escort. The Land Dragoness’ reaction to this arrangement was predictably gruff and bemused, but Zip thought the old bottom-hugger might just be pleased by the whole affair. She certainly had an audience easily upward of twenty thousand lining the edges of every Island as she strolled into the bay, muzzle held high.

“Alright, ready?” purred the Iridium Dragoness.

Aranya turned from the balcony to regard her Dragoness sister. “You really think this will help?”

“Chiropractic manipulation with a Dragon’s strength, accompanied by the application of healing oils. What are you afraid of?” said Iridiana, cracking her knuckles gleefully.

“It won’t work if you turn into a flower, will it?”

Apparently Human Aranya was not about to wriggle out of this arrangement with such a weak argument. Half a minute later, she found herself being dunked in an oversized barrel of decidedly odd-smelling warm oil by the enthusiastic Iridium Dragoness. Zip observed that they must have added aromatic elements to disguise a fundamentally noxious concoction, like disguising stale vomit with a herbal wash. Still, through Aranya’s senses the warmth and relaxation combined with the complex, soothing herbal scents did not seem unpleasant. Perhaps it was just her pregnancy. Wonky senses were meant to be part of the package.

She missed Ri’arion. Nothing wonky about her monky.

Monkey? She giggled. Oops.

“It’s all good,” said Iridiana, reaching down to grip Aranya’s head between her first-thumb and fore-talon, while her other paw gently but inflexibly stabilised her shoulders.

The Remoyan observed, “Word of warning, Immadia is a famously stiff-necked nation.”

No sooner had she said this, when Iridiana’s paws turned sharply. Crick!

“Yeeeeooow!”

The Dragoness cooed, “Now the other way …”

“No –” Krack! “Ouch! Holy Fra’anior, you torturer, what are you – oh! That does feel … oddly, much better.”

“Minus a few vertebrae better?” Zip put in. “Sounded mortal.”

Aranya twizzled her neck from side to side as she probed with her fingers. “How did you – Iridiana, that’s fantastic. I thought that sore spot was a permanent fixture after the pox.”

“Again? More?”

“Umm …”

A silvery fore-talon tapped Aranya drolly upon the forehead. “A little trust please, sister. Are we scared?”

“Me, scared of a staggeringly good-looking flowerpot?” Aranya snorted. “Bring it on!”

* * * *

When Ardan found the sisters, Iridiana was rolling Aranya between her knuckles, and the Immadian Princess was groaning as if Thoralian himself had just bent her spine into that exact contortion – a touch theatrically, perhaps? Drama was rather unlike Aranya.

Oddly, he missed the Remoyan’s antics. He must be going soft in the head.

“Ho!” he laughed, “what new game is this? Can I join in?”

“Sure. Come take my place – ooo-aaah!”

Affecting a fine swagger, Ardan approached them. “I think I’m content to observe the technique from over here.”

“Baby,” Aranya accused.

“Wise man.”

Iridiana’s fire eyes gleamed with a mesmerising light. “Do you want to reconsider that statement, Ardan of Ur-Naphtha?”

“I’m just consumed by such admiration of your dazzling skills, my lady, I could not possibly interfere at this delicate stage of the treatment.”

Aranya winked at him. “Oh save me, mighty Shadow Dragon. Ooh!”

He pretended to consider her entreaty. “No.”

“I’m a maiden in distress. Ouch. The mean Dragoness is bullying me.”

“Release the prisoner, o fiendish fire breather of mauve-acious hue,” Ardan suggested, making a negating gesture with both hands.

“Brute,” the victim complained. “Ooh-arrrgh – roaring rajals, Iridiana, you’re jolly strong, do you know that?”

The Dragoness paused, saying, “Confession?”

“What?” Aranya asked suspiciously.

“I’m doing this just to learn all of these adorable Northern expressions you use. Leaping Islands! Unholy smoking fumaroles!” The Princess hissed crossly. “Roaring rajals. Quadruple overlapping rainbows! It’s quite the linguistic adventure.”

“Iridiana, you are so – yeow! I felt that one.”

Ardan grinned as one sister finally released the other and Aranya emerged from that paw staggering as if her knees had turned to pliant reeds. Her skin evinced a most fetching sheen, what appeared to be oils lit from beneath by her natural starlight radiance. Catching the tenor of his gaze, Aranya coloured fetchingly and slipped behind a tall, slatted reed screen to dress.

Sometimes he forgot how young she still was, this girl who had chosen to defy the preeminent powers of the age.

Ardan said, “Leandrial wishes us to take our leave. And she wishes to speak to us the moment we board. My guess is that the Thoralians have been creating trouble again.”

“Moving the Egg faster?”

“She spoke of a mounting presentiment of Imbalance.”

The silence from behind the screen spoke volumes. Whatever Leandrial meant, it could not be joyous tidings.

Three hours later, by his reckoning, as the surprisingly early suns-set courtesy of the fringing mountains drew its partial shadows over the always agleam Ruby City, they took their final farewell of Uxâtate Shan-Jarad. He begged forgiveness of Iridiana and Aranya once more, promised to act upon the accords he had agreed with the Star Dragoness, and sent with them private communications intended for King Beran and for Izariela, should they be able to revive her.

He and Iridiana embraced stiffly, and then the ruler bowed to them all.

Ardan wondered if they would ever see him again.

Perhaps in all this, no-one had lost as much as he. Did Iridiana feel the same? It was hard not to nurse hatred for those whose self-serving actions had set one’s life upon a markedly different course, as he should well know. Or one’s own regrettable actions. How did Aranya feel about trapping her best friend inside of her own person?

If only there was an easy way to rise above it all.

Standing in the crack of Leandrial’s jaw together with Asturbar and Iridiana, an overawed Yazina, Aranya and her dragonets, as they departed, Ardan reflected soberly upon the nature of how character might be built. The Land Dragoness moved with fluid strides, taking care that her flanks or tail should not brush up against any of the seven main Islands, or shortly against any of the defensive emplacements around the entrance to the bay. He and Aranya might be homeward bound, but the Marshal and Iridiana planned to leave behind everything that they knew.

Breaking out of the bay, the suns’ last light filtered through the hazy bands of Islands in the distance, making them appear to float upon a carpet of orange, crimson and citrine fire. Since the ground beneath the clouds was shallow and there was no need to hide, Leandrial strode forth magnificently, hugging the curve of the peninsula to squeeze between the cliffs and the nearest clusters of inhabited Islands. Her riders gazed down at the little houses from a vantage point over four hundred feet above.

Yazina whispered, “Alright, that’s just freaky.”

Aranya touched the girl’s hand. “How are you doing?”

“A House besieged.”

“Ah … I see.”

“Aranya, when does it stop hurting?”

The Princess exhaled gustily. Mercy, o Fra’anior … grant me thy wisdom … she said, “At first, it’s crushing and overwhelming and you can’t think of anything else. The world seems grey, not golden as we see ahead of us. You wonder how you can live, or breathe; how you can ever laugh again.” She placed an arm over Yazina’s shoulders. “It fades slowly. One day you discover you can think about something else. Another day, you find your food tastes good, and then you might chuckle at something, but you feel guilty about being happy.”

Ardan dabbed at a treacherous dampness in the corner of his eye.

“Gnat?” Asturbar rumbled.

“Absolute pests.”

Aranya whispered, “They say life is there to be lived. But few people will tell you how to do that when the skies rain Drakes and the Thoralians butcher people like hapless sheep – or when those you love most are stolen from you, Yazina, or murdered by a beast. You question everything.”

Uncaring of her tears, the girl stumbled, “How …. how do you keep going, Aranya?”

“I wish I had glib answers, Yazina. Clever answers. One view might be that when the call came, I answered. I held up my hand and said, ‘Count me in. I will fight.’ Now I’m just too blasted proud to stop.”

Her reply was a soft sigh of dissent.

“Maybe I had no idea under the suns what I was doing, only that something had to be done by someone. By me. One something led to another, then to another …”

Aye, my soul’s starlight, Ardan encouraged. That is white fires truth.

Aranya whispered, “I fear it will not be worth the cost. When it hurts most, I cry out like Fra’anior belling amidst his Storm, ‘Why? Why must they suffer?’ And then I remind myself that is why I am here. I am here because some cannot speak, or they will never have a voice. Because some cannot believe. Because some cannot dream – I must be their voice, their belief, and their hope. Maybe if I can learn to shine brightly enough, despite all this, some might look to the light. Some might follow.” She was shuddering now; it was Yazina who was holding the taller girl, and they shook together as the Immadian Princess whispered, “Then we will discover that we can be more and become more. We can cherish our values, loves and dreams, and know that there can be goodness despite ruin, and hope that springs from destruction. We will learn that we can live and find beauty and laugh and curse evil and cry … and rejoice … and it will all mean something.”

Yazina clutched her so hard, Aranya’s recently Dragon-bruised ribs protested audibly.

Sensing movement, Ardan glanced over at Asturbar.

“Suffering murgalizards, that gnat got me too,” grunted the soldier, twisting his knuckles against his left eye.

“What gnat? What does this expression mean?” Leandrial asked curiously, but Ardan could literally feel the bent of her mighty maternal fires toward Yazina and Aranya. After a brief pause during which Zuziana explained, the Land Dragoness gurgled, “I think a gnat found my eye cannon also. Yazina, when I was alone and cut off from my kind for one hundred and fifty years, I kept going because I realised that to not hope, was to not live. I had to abide in hope. For me it was not even a choice I could allow myself.”

Yazina bowed her head. “Thank you both.”

The Land Dragoness continued, “Now, little ones, the First Egg has already been enfolded in the far mountains, as if it traverses a mighty tunnel or canyon. The Thoralians have accelerated beyond all projections, achieving speeds in excess of twenty leagues per hour by channelling a stormtide through the Passage of Dark Fires. From there, Yiisuriel reports that they have deployed the rearguard of their army to block our entry.”

Ardan asked, “The secret passage is open?”

“Blown wide open by the Egg’s power,” Leandrial rumbled.

“And the Thoralians have essentially abandoned their armies at the entrance?” Asturbar clarified.

The Dragoness bobbed her head. “So it appears, Marshal.”

“Seeking to delay us.” Asturbar narrowed his piercing grey eyes, scanning the horizon as if the secrets of the Thoralians were writ thereon for his perusal. “Interesting. That means the Thoralians no longer need air support for whatever they intend ahead. They have passed through the Rift unmolested before.”

“Perhaps they expect help from Infurion?” Ardan suggested. “Could that be the Imbalance Leandrial sensed?”

“Infurion would surely balk at crossing Fra’anior, wouldn’t he?” Aranya disagreed.

“The Great Onyx is no longer here to protect his territory,” argued the warrior. “But you’re right, we received aid from Infurion before. He holds no love for the Thoralians.”

For the benefit of their companions, Aranya recounted all that had passed as they attempted their first Rift crossing, and the bargain that they had struck with Infurion in exchange for his aid and blessing. They debated the matter until the fierce golden suns finally dipped beneath the Cloudlands, but came to no new conclusions. Ardan wished that Fra’anior had revealed something of Infurion’s motives or background when he had spoken with her before, but his enmity with the Thoralians appeared genuine – they had parasitized his creatures, after all. Whether he possessed the power to obstruct their wiles, supported by the First Egg, or how he would react when the Egg reached the Rift that he regarded as his own, sacrosanct territory, was another question entirely.

Leandrial counselled, “That he has no history of treachery proves nothing, little ones. Infurion is an Ancient Dragon and will regard himself as far higher than any of us. His needs will always assume pre-eminence in his thinking.”

Aranya said, “Fra’anior alluded to a greater issue, one I cannot imagine how Thoralian might aim to achieve – but we must be aware –”

You never told me, Ardan accused.

I … didn’t, she apologised with her tone. Forgive me?

Trying to read her strangely pensive mood, he said, Aye, in advance for whatever delightful secret you’ve been hiding from me.

I’m sorry, Ardan!

No need to be.

He was too narked to dissemble. Softly, the Princess added, There are mysteries about my nature that I haven’t even worked out for myself, Ardan, but I promise I will try to be better about sharing everything with you in the future. It’s been so busy inside, I just want to hide sometimes –

Oh, you may as well tell everyone, now, he growled, and bit back a self-directed curse. Stupid tongue! We can speak later, beloved.

Am I, still?

He gritted his teeth. Can we try to ignore the stubborn male pride? Aye, you are!

Aranya said, “I wonder if you remember me working with the linguists on a potentially new draconic language?”

“Indeed,” rumbled Leandrial, “a most curious utterance, little one, but almost undoubtedly draconic in origin – my understanding is that the explicit dracotonic tones and harmonies do not correspond with any known draconic language or dialect. Might it be a type of proto-draconic utterance, do you think? I know that you dream of the Great Onyx. Did you dream this, too?”

“It was early evening, and I was wide awake,” Aranya said, “but you are correct, noble Leandrial. I did wonder afterward if I had not dreamed it. This is what I heard –”

Focussing on producing the liquid notes, she intoned, /O stardrop! Precious … peril …/

Her companions stared at her. Flustered by their awed responses, Aranya said, “Iridiana, do you understand it?”

Her sister frowned. “I … I’m not sure. Maybe. The latter word is a bit muddled to my mind; I think it’s something about an endangered treasure, right?” She held up her hand to forestall Aranya’s sunken-hearted response. “Let me explain. I feel as if I should understand. It sounds familiar – achingly familiar – but I want to assure you, I see where you might be going with this and I don’t believe my lack of perfect understanding proves or disproves anything.”

Now, Nyahi was practically reading her mind.

Having a twin definitely promised unexpected dimensions!

Trying to smooth the frustration from her voice, Aranya said, “I hoped it might be a star language, as in, a clue as to the identity of our ancestors – tracing back our maternal line through Izariela to Istariela and … beyond? Where did our grandmother come from?”

“Ari grand-star?” Sapphire piped up unexpectedly.

Aranya spluttered, “Aye, Sapphire. I did mean my maternal great-grand … star?” Frowning rather fiercely at the suns-set, she said, “Fra’anior did not know what the utterance meant, but he was quick to stress the importance of continuing to investigate. He misses Istariela, you see. He misses her desperately. And you, Iridiana, you were very close indeed. I believe that those words, mean, ‘O stardrop, precious … peril.’ The communication seemed garbled, as though it originated in a place impossibly far away. But it was definitely speech. I’m certain of that.”

Tenderly, Ardan said, “You imagined – you hoped, Aranya – that you might have heard from the original Star Dragons?”

“Aye.”

Nyahi added, “Remember Shan-Jarad’s description of my egg?”

“ ‘It was at once an egg, and a spark,’ ” Zip quoted, at exactly the same instant as Asturbar said, “ ‘The creature called it a droplet of fire life.’ ”

“Then why don’t you understand … Starrish, or whatever it was?” Aranya gritted her teeth in frustration. “Shapeshifters understand Dragonish automatically. We are born to it!”

Zuziana said, “Whereas Star Dragons, who are expressions of Star Fires and are therefore by definition exactly the same as us ‘normal’ Dragon Shapeshifters … shall I continue, noble best friend, or will you just admit your brain is spurting prekki-fruit mush once again?”

Aranya threw up her hands. “Oh, Zip!”

“How you abuse my name. Just admit I’m right.”

“That’ll be the day ralti sheep dance on rainbows,” Ardan suggested.

She had to laugh. “You’re right, petal.”

“That I am. Now, why don’t you tell us the rest of your story?”

Friendship was so much about learning to laugh together.

Shortly, she continued, “My friends, Fra’anior told me that there are other powers out there amidst the Universe, powers of illimitable evil that roam the spaces between the stars, and are inimical to draconic life in ways that we can hardly begin to imagine. They see us as food. In the time of the Pygmy Dragon, one of the Thoralians managed to summon to our Island-World a creature called the Nurguz. On its own, just one creature devastated virtually all draconic life North of the Rift. It was insatiable. Out there are myriad such creatures, many greater and more voracious still. Fra’anior did not say so, but I believe he implied creatures which are so powerful, they prey upon Ancient Dragons.”

Her companions stilled.

“Those creatures would like nothing more than to discover a planet filled with snacks made of the finest fire life and star-life. Therefore, aeons ago when he broke the eggshell, one of Fra’anior’s very first tasks was to establish a planetary shield to protect tasty nibbles – us – from those hostile cosmic powers. To be our bulwark and our sanctuary. He refined his masterwork innumerable times, but the basic design remains the same. The magical shield, which encompasses our entire world, is anchored upon the Mystic Moon. Aye, Mystic is its source of power. The moon is comprised almost purely of horiatite.”

She held up her fists. “So, imagine my right hand is us and my left is the Mystic Moon. A spherical or bubble shield encircles both of my hands, and those constructs stretch to connect with each other via a long, thin tube – the magic involved is elegantly simple, yet profound. The connection between us and Mystic is malleable. It must be given the complex orbits of the six Moons –”

“Six?” Asturbar echoed quietly.

“Aye. There is one more, which has been a secret kept by the Ancient Dragons until now. Ironically, the Onyx called it Dramagon’s Bequest.” Aranya pursed her lips with a decidedly sour air. “It used to orbit Yellow, but about four thousand years ago, that moon crashed into Mystic and disrupted the shield. Fra’anior made repairs with the help of several of his brethren and the buried moon was forgotten. What he did not discover until much more recently, was that in a very similar way to how the First Eggs travelled through the cosmos, Dramagon’s Bequest was not actually a moon. It was a hollowed-out asteroid which contained a deathly payload of cosmic organisms called Shao’lûkayn.”

Asturbar puffed out his cheeks. “They sound delightful.”

“Fra’anior doesn’t know exactly what they are or what they do, but when I crashed into an argument between him and Dramagon –”

“Now, you’ve met Dramagon?” Ardan gasped, smacking his hand to his bald pate.

She smiled thinly at him. “Aye. Dramagon the Red promptly mistook me for Istariela, it seemed, and tried to squash me like a bug.” The Ancient Red had also called her a stardrop, she recalled now with a frisson of affirmation. It all fit. “Had Fra’anior been less quick I would be a deceased star right now. Dramagon is inconceivably powerful. That incident was when Dramagon revealed the presence of the Shao’lûkayn – and this is also going to sound unbelievable –” she had to suck in a long breath to steady her voice “– but the Storm of Storms suspects the Thoralians will try to fly to the Mystic Moon using the power of the First Egg, crack open Dramagon’s Bequest, and command the creatures within to break the protective barrier over our Island-World and thus pave the way for the Ancient Red’s return.”

“No!” Ardan’s dark skin tone had turned grey.

“Should that day come to pass,” Aranya said, “calamity is far too gentle a word. It would be genocide – no, even worse. Global extinction.”

All the others, even Leandrial, glanced up at the gathering evening and shivered.

Aranya shuttered her eyes. Noble grand-shell-father, you only ask the impossible. Strengthen thou me according to the task.

Somewhere, seven heads inclined to her, listening intently.

Chapter 23: Dramagon’s Plot

THE MYSTIC MOON had fascinated balladeers since time immemorial. Now they knew why. White was merely a brilliant point of light, faraway and unchanging. Yellow was the huge, dominating presence overshadowing most days. Blue and Jade played a lesser role, disappearing behind Yellow or vanishing into thin crescents bleached by the brilliant twin suns. Unlike the others, Mystic was a strange, complex traveller. She had been known to take orbit around Blue, but since records began, astronomers and Dragon scientists had puzzled over her behaviour until they documented a once-a-century phenomenon, when Mystic switched to an orbit that circumnavigated both their world and the Yellow Moon, but at a highly unusual and variable declination. Perhaps magic explained orbital mechanics that outright waggled their wingtips at the constraints of gravity better than any logical hypothesis could postulate, for Mystic was famously unruly. To Aranya’s annoyance, Fra’anior had commented that it was this very contradictory behaviour which had led him to dub the moon as female!

Most vexing of him.

To her surprise, Aranya opened her eyes to find Ardan shaking his finger beneath her nose. “To the Moons? The Moons! You … words fail me!”

“Aye?”

The Western Isles warrior grunted, “Very well. Tell us about this sixth moon.”

Her jaw tightened at his sarcasm. Undeserved sarcasm. It was Ardan’s way of reacting when his worldview was shaken, as it had been from the beginning by a Shapeshifter Princess. Aranya replied evenly, “It’s another of Dramagon’s clandestine projects. All we know of the Shao’lûkayn is three things: One, their fundamental nature depends upon the power of urzul. Two, they are powerful enough to destroy the planetary shield. Three, their name means ‘demeaners of darkness.’ ”

Zip said, “I take it from your report, His Lightning-Shot Awesomeness is not able to offer aid in time?”

“He is offering help, as in, telling us what he needs us to do,” Aranya scowled – at herself. That did not work very well. “His self-imposed exile from our Island-World was a calculated risk. A one-way trip to the beyond, precluding all possibility of return. However, his kin are wily and magic is ever-evolving, adapting with the tenacity of life itself. In the days of the Dragonfriend, Numistar Winterborn survived a millennia-long journey to our Island-World buried in the heart of a comet. In our time, it appears that Dramagon’s 6,000 year-old plot is about to come to fruition, with the retrieval of the First Egg combined with the ascendancy of an obedient trio of hench-Dragons who possess a unique combination of powers and ambition. Fra’anior said he cannot break in from the outside to help us without attracting attention of the lethal kind, and he cannot teleport in because that route was deliberately cut off. Break the shield, and we expose our world. Even Dramagon’s wrath pales into insignificance before that prospect.”

Not that the Thoralians cared. They would doom all for the sake of winning their ascent.

The Princess continued, “Infurion taught us that urzul, the power that the Thoralians know and the Theadurial use to parasitize Land Dragons, is a corruption of his native Earthen Fires, the fires that rule and are contained in the Rift. Ruzal was a perversion of Sky Fires or our type – uh, your type – of fundamental fires. The Dragonfriend fought the scourge of ruzal in her time and apparently defeated it. But Fra’anior provided a key insight. Dramagon’s ultimate plan hinges upon returning to find this ruzal magic, as it is a living type of magic – in Dragonish, the lost remnant of his spirit.”

“Hualiama didn’t actually defeat ruzal?” Nyahi echoed.

“No. I believe she hid it,” Aranya explained. “Perhaps she lacked the means or the power to defeat even a fraction of Dramagon’s magic outright.”

“Or, it’s deathly to Star Dragonesses,” Iridiana pointed out ruefully.

That was worth a big grimace.

Asturbar said, “We call this ‘remnant’ a remainder portion. Traditionally in Wyldaroon, the word refers to a choice portion from his or her own meal that the host offers to honour a guest. I should clarify, it is a draconic custom, not a Human one.”

Leandrial growled, “So ruzal is a magic sprung from Dramagon’s very own soul? This chills my fires.”

“Aye, that’s what we fight against,” said Aranya. “Can we conclude that Dramagon the Red is somehow weakened by this loss?”

“Little one, is the mountain weakened by the loss of a stone?”

Aranya bit her tongue sharply.

“What then is the Thoralians’ ambition?” asked Asturbar.

Ardan replied, “We alluded to this already. Simply put, by serving Dramagon, the Thoralians hope to be elevated to immortality. I sensed however, that not all of their purpose was revealed to me.”

Zip agreed, “If I were in the Thoralians’ paws, perish the thought, I would not stop at being lackeys.”

“No,” Ardan noted gruffly. Taking Aranya in his powerful arms, he said, “Why stop at being small and immortal? Why not inhabit a far greater vessel, the body of an Ancient Dragon, whilst enjoying the fruits of eternity? Dramagon must know this. He must be using the Thoralians; doubtless and equally, the Thoralians know they are being used. They are none of them fools.”

“Which leaves us needing to fly to the Mystic Moon. Minus breathable air,” said the Remoyan.

“Aye, and we have a bigger problem, too,” Aranya riposted.

Her own mouth groaned, “Which is?”

“If we don’t extract the Academy first –”

“Sodding flying monkeys!” snapped Ardan, while Leandrial’s thunderous reaction shook them all.

“Whatever a monkey is, I agree,” Iridiana said softly. “Hundreds of people, dying up there – we cannot contemplate failure!”

“Tens of thousands, Human, Dragon and Shapeshifter,” Aranya corrected soberly. “According to the lore we were able to uncover at the Dragon Library of Gi’ishior, and Nak and Oyda’s memories, the Academy was the last bastion for thousands of refugees fleeing from a Herimor Marshal and the Nurguz. The Pygmy Dragon performed her own brand of twenty-eighth hour heroics to save everyone. Now we just need to make sure they aren’t stranded on the Mystic Moon instead.”

Her sister’s silver features had never looked so pallid.

“If the Thoralians manage to birth the Egg,” said Asturbar, slipping his huge paw about Nyahi’s slim hand.

“Or, if they retrieve the Pygmy Dragon before we do,” Aranya added. “Oyda’s memories strongly suggested Pip knew the Word of Command – indeed, that she might know far more of its ways than I do! She’s young. If the Thoralians twisted her to their bidding …”

Clenching his fists, Ardan replied, “I’m sure we can imagine a thousand ways everything might end up being crisped in the caldera. What plans do we have? How do we stop these fiends?”

Zip said, “We need to establish priorities. First, we catch that stupid runaway Egg. Then we extract this Onyx Dragoness and the Academy while they still have half a sniff of surviving the experience. Failing that, our next priority is to enlist Infurion’s help. At the worst, we hitch a ride to the Moon in the same way, Aranya, as you created that slingshot effect to escape from the Rift before. Those are the essential elements, right? Eminently doable.”

Aranya rather wished those last two words had not emerged from her own mouth.

* * * *

As Leandrial dipped into and out of the Cloudlands on her mountain-hugging route that led toward Huaricithe’s old stomping ground of the Gladiator Pits, Ardan and Zip debated the merits of various strategies while Aranya attempted to communicate with Hualiama or Fra’anior. Inspiration seemed sorely lacking amidst their company, and gloom in plentiful but unspoken supply.

Ardan gritted his teeth, and kept working with his companions. They had to succeed. Somehow, there must be a chink in the triplicate’s armour. He reviewed every nuance of his memories of how they operated, cudgelling his mind for details. How could they bring him low?

It was Yazina who voiced the obvious, saying, “If Yiisuriel can break through into the Passage of Darkness before we arrive, that would gain us valuable time, wouldn’t it? Then you Dragons should fly ahead. The Air Breathers are too slow.”

Asturbar ruffled her hair. “Good thinking.”

The teen pretended to snap at his hand.

“Aye, well done, Yazina. A fast strike force has to be our best option, if we hope to smuggle the Pygmy Dragoness out of her century-and-a-half’s sleep,” Ardan agreed. “Ah, Aranya? Are you back, sweet-fires?”

She yawned and stretched, smiling before self-consciously covering her cratered cheek. “No news is bad news. Too much interference from the vandanite, I guess. I vote for sleep.”

Ardan saw heartache obfuscate the natural gleam in her eyes before she dipped her gaze.

By daybreak Leandrial had surged far to the North on a sweeping, extended run, first battling contrary currents before she was able to drop into a canyon of three leagues’ depth in order to enter a beneficial air flow. Her huge form twisted languidly as she took nonchalant-seeming, gliding steps along the boulder-strewn floor, using her long, whiplike tail as a rudder to guide her around the bends. She skimmed along like a champion flier. At this depth, the air pressure was so intense, air acted more as a viscous liquid than a gas. Leandrial always calculated the most efficient path. Her spatulate paws moved as if she were part-swimming and part-gliding in surprisingly low gravity, curving and straightening to maximise their aerodynamic shape and drive; Aranya applied additional shielding elements to enhance her scales and body shape to approach frictionless perfection.

Their route meandered beneath the great Gladiator Pits, each effectively a nation state in its own right, and thus mostly avoided an under-Cloudlands layer of small but highly aggressive, snakelike burgundy Borers unique to this area of Wyldaroon. They grew a detachable, explosive headpiece that delivered a jolt of powerful acid that operated on both the physical and magical levels, so highly corrosive that it eclipsed the Acid attack of a Lesser Dragon by an order of magnitude. After a few unsavoury experiences, Aranya and Leandrial worked out the appropriate shielding. That did not stop the semi-intelligent and stupidly tenacious Borers from trying, however, and so for hours at a time their progress was accompanied by a staccato chorus pop-poppa-pop as the burgundy acid pods detonated and were swept harmlessly away in their wash.

After some one hundred and seventy leagues the canyon with its handy airstream petered out upon a vast, flat plain stippled with almighty cylindrical fungal growths sporting a tasteful variety of colours – Zip dubbed them throw-up yellow, the green of ultimate putrescence, and ghastly grey-blue. Here after five hours of running, they cut across the swathe of destruction left by their allies the best part of three days before, a churned-up path nine miles wide.

In keeping with their previous agreement, they conversed with Yiisuriel via coded longwave communication, informing her of their success and Azhukazi’s death. The Air Breather welcomed the news and responded with a report on the ongoing battle at the entrance to the Passage of Darkness. Apparently, it was a tunnel that delved beneath the mountains, which measured a staggering three leagues wide by four and a half tall! Ardan’s mind practically fell over in a quivering heap just to think upon it. Indeed, the tunnel was large enough to accommodate Yiisuriel herself!

Thoralian’s forces had blockaded the entryway to a depth of thirty miles with whatever they could lay their paws on, mostly the debris created by destroying the magical doors which had previously concealed the legendary route from most eyes. Their allies responded by having Land Dragons climb the Air Breathers’ flanks in their thousands to form living batteries of eye cannons, and were blasting the living pith out of anything that did or did not move in that area – the greatest barrage in history, Yiisuriel pointed out proudly. The backing Cognates, Living Springs and Blast-Runners supplied additional services, such as removing molten slag and Drake bones, or blowing up particularly stubborn patches of defence.

“Don’t quote me on this, ever,” said Zip, “but did anyone else get the impression that Yiisuriel was actually having fun over there? Perish the thought!”

“Even the greatest among us might learn new skills,” Ardan said sententiously, before reaching out to smack Aranya sharply upon the backside. “Eh, darling?”

“What?” She jumped. “What does that mean?”

“Oops, mistook you for Zuziana.”

“As if!”

“Random swatting of Remoyans. It’s generally good for the Island-World.”

Aranya glared at him, tapping her right foot and folding her arms tightly across her torso. “You’d better not be making a habit of swatting other men’s wives on the backside, Ardan of Ur-Naphtha – not even in your imagination!”

“Wow, you’re strict,” he complained.

She batted his questing hand away from the region of her hip. “No. Off-limits until you apologise.”

Ardan said, “What are you teaching Yazina?”

“Not to look at Asturbar and Iridiana. They’re terrible,” she quipped. When the pair did not respond, she called more loudly, “When are you two planning on surfacing for air?”

Wow, that’s what I’d say, petal, Zip said admiringly.

Not releasing Iridiana from his grasp, Asturbar called, “Oh, learn to be quiet, woman!”

“Asturbar,” Iridiana protested.

“You too,” he said, returning to kissing her with the air of a bandit handling a strumpet. That did him no favours, for his girlfriend transformed in a flash. He recoiled. “Ouch!”

“Oh, sorry,” Iridiana lamented. “I’m not even sure what this form is … you’re bleeding! Oh, Boots, I’m so sorry!”

“Yes, I am deeply wounded,” Asturbar growled. “Comes from kissing a pretty, draconic … er …”

“Bramble bush?” Zip tried.

“Spike-a-shrub?” said Aranya.

“I’m not sure if those are tentacles or stems,” Ardan pointed out. “They sure look sharp, however.”

Asturbar was still feeling his lower lip with an injured air. “You cut me.”

The mauve bush managed to form its complex, ever-twisting and intertwining vine-like structures into a remarkable pout that stood all of seven feet tall. “Next time, shall I rather allow you to make a public nuisance of yourself, o mighty, muscular, mountainous Azingloriax warrior with a teensy-tiny cut on his lip?”

Laying one hand upon the haft of his colossal battle-axe, Marshal Asturbar sneered, “You’d sure make for a pretty pile of kindling, girl.”

“Stinking fumaroles, a fine blow!” Zip crowed.

Iridiana sidled toward her man, three-inch thorns all a-bristle. “How’s about a nice hug, you great big sap?”

“Suddenly, I’m feeling remarkably skittish,” Asturbar said, twitching away.

The Remoyan gurgled, “I challenge you to extract yourself from this windroc’s breakfast with dignity, Marshal Asturbar.”

Humans silly-funny, Sapphire chortled happily. To her, many Human customs were hilarious, especially kissing. Sapphire was also unimpressed by Human necks, which were lamentably unsuited to nuzzling each other – except Aranya’s neck, which was apparently the exception. Ardan was sure the dragonet would wear calluses upon Aranya’s neck and shoulders, the way she loved to wind herself so close.

The Chaos Shifter waved a needle-edged frond somewhat acrimoniously in his direction. “How’s about I caress your rear end with this, my lovely man?”

“Erm, now –”

“These points look quite poisonous, don’t they?” she continued implacably, growing toward him with a sinuous, coiling movement.

Asturbar almost tripped over his boots as he stumbled backward. “Iridiana!”

“I’ll just – oh!”

Everyone laughed as she snapped into a tiny dragonet form with extremely frilly pink wings and a slender, feminine body that seemed to be comprised of a thorax and a stinger.

Curving her tail overhead, she sprang for his throat with a sharp hiss!

Iridiana! Sharp as ever, Aranya whisked her away with a touch of Storm power, and then corralled her sister with a soft word, Easy, Dragoness. They meant nothing by it.

The little creature snapped at the bounds of her air prison.

Yours is a fierce, tempestuous and altogether magnificent expression of beauty, Aranya coaxed. Come now. Be at peace, and remember who you are. I will release you now.

A half-second later, Iridiana switched through two dracofloral forms before returning, not without an uncertain wobble, to her Human form. She apologised to Boots and then reached out to clasp Aranya’s shoulder. “Thanks. So, what did we learn?”

With a coy glance at Ardan, the Princess of Immadia deadpanned, “In today’s lesson, we learned that kisses are proven to inflame a Dragoness’ emotions. And, their backsides are lethal territory!”

How the men roared with laughter!

* * * *

Aranya and Iridiana fell asleep holding hands.

It seemed the perfect opportunity to try to contact Fra’anior; a balmy evening during which Leandrial had several times climbed long slopes that led into the foothills of the mighty mountain range that separated northern Wyldaroon from the Rift Storm. The Air Breathers had been forced to take a long but uneventful detour westward to bypass the rolling ranges of hills, following a route that Yiisuriel had described as suspiciously smooth. Sailing or rolling – their underlying pods could not be properly described as feet or paws – Yiisuriel’s kin had achieved unprecedented speeds of up to seven and a half leagues per hour. That said, it took them over half a day to decelerate again!

As they zeroed in on Yiisuriel’s position, this latest low mountain range had at last brought Leandrial’s head and shoulders up out of the Cloudlands. The evening was hazy with dust in the air, probably thrown up by the Land Dragon barrage that was still a hundred and fifty miles distant, borne toward them upon an icy breeze that smelled sharply of smelted minerals, like furnace slag. The setting suns sank into the horizon huge and fiercely orange. Dimly, Aranya heard Leandrial instructing Yazina in the optical effects created by volcanic gases and particulate matter thrown into the atmosphere. The scene was indeed breathtaking, with serried ranks of mountains ascending in disorderly ranks out of a dense blanket of billowy clouds as far as the eye could perceive to the North and East, all fired and burnished in the most glorious golds, saffron and vinaceous reds by the suns-set.

Settling her head upon a travel pack, Aranya tried to focus upon inviting Iridiana within. The girl’s mind was as capricious as ever, as far removed from the steady presence of Ri’arion or Ardan as could be imagined. It took a great deal of concentration to keep grappling with its ostensibly infinite number of chaotic manifestations, which in turn kept her from sleep.

I’m frightened, Aranya, her sister breathed.

That did not help either. Fra’anior will adore you, she replied warmly.

What if he treats me as did Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron?

Anger flashed to the surface of her mind. Then I’ll have words with that – oh! He was the creator Dragon, after all. Iridiana chuckled sleepily at her response, yet seemed comforted. The Immadian added, I’ll admit, our relationship was not easy at first, until I realised how similar we appeared in our draconic forms. Then, finally, the brass dral dropped.

You’ll protect me, wing sister?

More than that, I’m a sister-sister. Aranya willed her eyes to shut, and stay that way. Always –

– and forever, Iridiana finished the thought for her. Three breaths later, she was breathing slowly and evenly, and Aranya was left to wonder how people did that. Wave a pillow-roll beneath Ardan’s nose and his brain shut down for the night. He could sleep through an earthquake. She woke if Sapphire snuffled in her sleep, or one of the other dragonets so much as squeaked. Ardan just snored on.

Was life not horribly unfair?

Laughing at herself, she eventually drifted off.

* * * *

“Iridiana!”

Zip cried out with joy as the silver-blue girl appeared in Aranya’s soul space, that desolate yet unaccountably cosy area atop an utterly impossible spire of rock. She had peered down there. It just vanished into nothingness. Vanished!

Nyahi appeared confused. She had managed to bring along clothes in the form of a sky-blue version one of her long belts, as Ri’arion had amusingly disparaged her scandalously brief skirts. In a second, however, her gaze dropped to the petite bump that was just beginning to show on Zuziana’s tummy. Alright, she had pulled her dress a touch tighter to emphasize it. She was inordinately proud of that little bobble. She could not wait to show her family!

“Zuziana!” the other girl gushed. “Holy Fra’anior, I can’t believe – we should have done this before! I’m ashamed to admit, you’re prettier than I had imagined. Small wonder you turned a monk’s head.”

“Where’s Aranya?” asked Zip, holding out her arms to assure Iridiana that the hug she had intended was not only appreciated, it was mandatory.

Nyahi hugged her bashfully. “I feel as if we know each other already. How are the – you know?”

“Fluttering away,” Zip smiled.

“Three?”

“Aranya showed me how to check. Aye. Three little – well, it’s a surprise. I’ve an Thorali, but I’m not telling. Maybe if you ask nicely. Like my bump?” Heavens, Iridiana was just as annoyingly tall as her sister, and fabulous in that exotic Immadian-Ha’athiorian way. Sculpted cheekbones. Lissom legs. A smile that never stopped at the corners of the mouth, but found its way into sparkling eyes that crinkled at the corners, and welcomed her as a friend.

“May I?” Iridiana reached out. “Can you feel them?”

“I think if you use your draconic senses you should be able to. I’m told that Shapeshifters are even able to speak to their egglings in the womb. Oh – Islands’ greetings, best friend!” Zip bit her lip slightly as she emphasized that status. Not a competition, Remoy! “Just introducing the mighty wrigglers to their Aunty Iridiana.”

“Oh!” Nyahi gasped in unabashed delight.

“Bump check?” asked Aranya, in exact synch with her Dragoness twin.

Iridiana stared! “Two – how?”

“Dragoness. Human,” said Zip, pointing out the differences. “I can’t manage this trick yet, but Hualiama Dragonfriend does it. Might be an ability unique to Star Dragonesses.”

The two Aranyas chuckled, before swooping to pop tandem kisses upon Zuziana’s cheeks. “Bump’s looking rainbows over Islands!” said Human Aranya, patting her stomach, while the Dragoness explained to Nyahi, “The Azure loves to have a fuss made of her. She’s shameless, as I’m sure you’ve learned by now. Come on. Let’s all cuddle cutesy Zuzi.”

Ten seconds later, Zip had to wave her hands and yell, “Mercy! This pregnant woman needs her air, and I’ll thank the three of you twins for giving me some – a severe case of brain discombobulation!”

“There’s air here?” asked Human Aranya.

“Three twins?” Iridiana giggled, linking arms with an Aranya to either side. “So, the patterns maketh the Dragoness, I see. Can you manifest in your Dragoness form here as well?”

“Aye.”

“Oh, here comes Fra’anior now,” Zip heard herself say. “Oh. Oh, mercy me, it really is … he’s that inconceivably ginormous? Oh Aranya, help …”

Chapter 24: The Passage of Dark Fires

GOT HER! DRAGONSOUL smiled at Humansoul. They had both caught Zuziana with a fraction of a second to spare.

Fainting again. That Remoyan, said Human Aranya.

I’ll make her comfortable and check her over, said Dragonsoul. You take Iridiana in – oh, wow! Did she just … no, back to Human again … for a second, that is.

Poor Nyahi. She could barely control herself as she tried to stand alongside Aranya. She strained, but her form wobbled continuously. She glanced up at the armada of obsidian clouds racing toward them with unnatural speed, and flickered through five forms before clutching her sister’s arm.

Shh, Nyahi. Now, she held a handful of petals. He’s just a touch awesome, that’s all.

He’s … pop, pant, flicker … really … dragonet, plant, cactus, person … coming! Fra’anior, the Great Onyx …

Our grandfather, aye. Peace, please! She was nonplussed to find herself addressing a striking diamond wristlet which covered her left forearm from the base of her thumb to the point of her elbow. Again? It quivered in terror. Nyahi, pull yourself together.

I am together. Sort of, the diamonds pouted.

He’s going to love you. Fra’anior does rather define the art of the grand entrance, however. As in, generating bands of storm clouds that covered half of the sky, with seething billows of black-upon-black thunderheads laced with pure white lightning stretching from the roots of her soul space to a height ostensibly miles above their vantage point. The thunderheads seemed to exhale before drawing together into frightful solidarity. A fragrant gust buffeted the mountaintop. Then, the watchers beheld the immensity of his onyx-armoured flanks sliding out of atramental canyons, the coiling body and tail that reached way, way back into the storm, and now a septet of immense muzzles mounted upon sinuous necks brought to the fore the unbearably conflagrant fourteen-fold gaze of Fra’anior, the Onyx of Ages and the Storm of Storms, and as Aranya not for the first time fell to one knee and bowed to her ancestor, she both saw and felt him smile.

ARANYA! THOU, THE WHITEST OF MINE FIRES!

Was it just that every word emerged as the sevenfold blast of an earthquake-like trump, that she felt so insignificant before him? Yet his ebullient greeting assuaged her feelings.

She forced herself to rise. Thou, Fra’anior, my hearts’ greatest storm. I have brought a gift for thee.

A gift, saist thou?

Oops. She had not intended to tantalise. Fra’anior’s instant curiosity was a palpable force. His jaws cracked open in surprise. A low rumbling rose from deep within his throats. The tempo and intensity of his all-mantling lightning storm redoubled, sparking in jagged ferocity about and between his heads, across his skull spikes and even skittering across his slightly revealed fangs. The seven heads focussed intensely upon the small group gathered upon her mountaintop.

A … a person, o Fra’anior, she faltered. Privately, she said, Nyahi. Human form, please. Quick wings.

Her Chaos magic appeared to be misfiring rather badly, because the Onyx Dragon’s gaze leaped from the prone form of Zuziana to the bracelet-dragonet-bush-firestorm that raced about Aranya, and his brow ridges drew down slightly.

Iridiana! Behave.

As his fire eyes seethed with rainbow hues of curiosity, Fra’anior rumbled, I should like to meet the Remoyan, but this canst surely not be thine companion, the fearless dragonet called Sapphire?

Sapphire would enjoy that description! No … not quite, said Aranya, attempting in vain to corral her sister.

She might more readily have caught a spray of water with her bare toes.

Two of Fra’anior’s heads swivelled to gaze backward to wherever in time and space he had appeared from. Our time together must perforce be short, I fear. Be quick about producing this most whimsical gift – if thou canst – and accept mine hearts o’er shadowing regrets.

Perhaps it was the humour-love indicators in his Dragonish, that mellow if thou canst, which decided Nyahi. With a soft cry she succeeded in finding her Human form once more. Her hand slipped into Aranya’s. Most diffidently she stepped out of her sister’s shadow. Almost perishing for fear, she gazed up at the legendary Ancient Dragon.

Aranya said, O Fra’anior, I would like you to meet Iridiana.

He gazed upon her with patent puzzlement. She is – you – how? Thou hast … multiplied?

His spluttering was a delight. Four heads jostled robustly, gazing down at Nyahi from various angles with intense interest. Then, the two trailing muzzles whipped about so fast that their lashing tangled up with the fifth, which had been trying to sneak glances past the eager front foursome.

His realisation detonated over them like a volcanic eruption: DOTH MINE FIRES DECEIVE ME?

Aranya braced herself, but still ended up sprawled in a heap with Iridiana atop her. What a pang! Would he disown her due to her nature?

Fire dribbled from at least five jowls as the Great Onyx spluttered, A twin? Another stardrop? None could doubt thy kinship, sensed upon every intricate level that striketh mine cognizance, yet – JOOOOOOOYYYY!!! O JOY! O, MINE SOUL EXALTETH EXCEEDINGLY!

It was wildly exciting to see a storm lose control. Chain lightning erupted from his throats in uncontrolled sprays of bolts hundreds of feet thick and many miles long. Thunder smote the mountain repeatedly, while smoke and cloud, fire and storm billowed around the great Dragon in a frenzied demonstration of his power. Despite her rapid, reflexive shielding, his every exclamation rattled them with shattering sonic exuberance. Fra’anior carolled and laughed and roared and belled his delight to the heavens, before he suddenly cried, To me! Oh, to me – this instant!

Dragonsoul picked up the girls and flew them up to the bridge of one muzzle, where his eyes focussed upon them from a distance yet of several hundred feet, and he said soberly:

Iridiana?

Mighty Fra’anior? she quavered.

Thou knowest we are kin? How came this to be? I must know everything!

Aranya did brief me, o Great Onyx. I – I am just –

Delightful, said he, smiling in a way that seemed to strike terror into a Chaos Shifter’s soul. Of Iosaxxioa’s capricious nature thou art, and only the third of thy kind I have had the privilege ever to meet. Know that Iosaxxioa was never evil, but was driven to a dire fate I lamentably failed to prevent. I owe her memory much; very much indeed. Allow me to manifest to thy cognizance information which shall guide and aid thee. At Fra’anior Cluster, seek thee knowledge of the first Human who was Dragon Librarian there. Seek her personal writings most diligently. There thou shalt find word of thy unique heritage.

Aranya queried, A Human Librarian at Gi’ishior? Surely, that is –

Fra’anior chuckled massively. Indeed. Most mysterious and capable was she, this pure soul called Auli-Ambar Ta’afaya. Seek her!

They spoke for long minutes more. Fra’anior seemed desirous to tarry, asking many detailed questions about Iridiana and her past, and how they had discovered their familial relationship. He confirmed their conclusions about her origins and the nature of her egg, exactly similar to Istariela’s, while peppering the conversation with sundry bugles and roars of gladness, which meant they had to be constantly alert or face being bowled over every time. He encouraged them in their pursuit of the Thoralians. He could not comment upon the future, but departed with a powerful word for Iridiana:

Great deeds shall be thy portion, as I have come to expect from thy sister Aranya. Guard her well. Be her right paw. Keep hoping, for I believe all will turn out well, even the fire life of Zuziana of Remoy, who watches us speechless from yonder. When the sisters laughed, another muzzle dipped above the mountaintop to declare, Mine regard rests also upon thee and thy future progeny , o valiant Remoy – for hast thou not safeguarded mine wayward shell granddaughter from the first?

Zip could only gulp and squeak something unintelligible.

I must fly, Fra’anior said. Iridiana, Aranya, Zuziana, know mine fieriest regard for thee. Fear not the vagaries, depths and bounds of thy natures. All thou hast wrought, winneth mine approval. Thou shalt overcome – LET IT BE!

When the crack of his booming and echoes had faded into the distance, the sisters and Zuziana behind them, bowed deeply.

More gently, he growled, Now, I must fly as the very starlight I have had the unforeseen privilege to sire and to everlasting-adore with all of my hearts! Anon!

With a bellicose roll of belly laughter, the onyx tempest thundered away.

* * * *

Early morning inside of Leandrial’s cheek pocket was usually a time of quiet contemplation for Ardan, who had never mastered the art of sleeping beyond dawn. Warrior instincts.

“Fra’anior!” yelled Iridiana, fizzing through seventeen transformations that he managed to count before she snapped into her bracelet form around Asturbar’s wrist.

His instincts missed that one.

Before his heart rate had quite finished its dash for the Moons, Aranya awoke and said, “Aye, we succeeded, and Fra’anior owned her as kin. Congratulations, Asturbar. You’re related to a legend.”

The big man did not rise to the bait. “Excellent news,” he declared, sitting up. “Morning?”

“Just about,” Zip complained. “Nothing like you bunch of chattering parakeets to spoil a pregnant girl’s sleep. Did anyone mention that I met Fra’anior too? And he called me ‘valiant Remoy’! He’s nice, in an utterly omnipotent kind of way. My poor babies. We were all palpitating together.”

“Zip was speechless,” Iridiana noted.

“Inconceivable! Somebody give me a scroll to record this momentous event,” Ardan crowed.

“Huh. You just try being pregnant, Mister Shadow!” said Zuziana, with the air of the Island-World’s greatest authority on the subject. “Better still, you can borrow a few scroll leaves from our friend Asturbar here, who went where no man –”

Ardan chuckled wickedly. “Who, may I point out, swallowed his babies?”

“Ew, there’s no need – now I’ll never erase that mental image!” screeched the Remoyan. “You are a bad, bad man-Dragon! Slap him, Aranya!”

Aranya had to catch her own hand with alacrity, or she would have done just that.

After this notable start to the morning, the companions conferred rapidly with Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron and their closest allies onboard. They were not best pleased by the plan to sprint ahead, but no-one saw any other recourse. The imperatives were plain to all.

Therefore, they plotted.

Two hours after dawn, Leandrial approached the almighty doorway to the Passage of Darkness, and cracked open her jaw for her passengers to take a stupefying look.

“Large enough for mountains to walk through,” Yazina whispered.

Ardan just let his jaw dangle. It seemed an appropriate reaction, for the tunnel was vast almost beyond comprehension. The Land Dragon barrage had shredded the Cloudlands ahead of Yiisuriel and six of her kin, who flanked her three to either side, revealing the entrance of a great, dark tunnel apparently comprised of matte black meriatonium substrate – the Passage of Darkness. The piceous darkness ahead was strobe-lit every ten seconds by a synchronised light cannon blast operating on multiple wavelengths and harmonic frequencies. Dust and gases spewed out of the upper quarter of the tunnel, obscuring the mountain ranges above the gently downward-sloping tunnel, while legion Runners braved the heat and slag at its base many miles below, shovelling debris out of the tunnel at a rate which Yiisuriel calculated approached ten thousand tonnes per second.

It was the scale of the operation that beggared belief. There was the fact that despite the tunnel being fifteen miles tall, the snow-capped peaks above still topped it by miles more, receding into the distance as though jagged white fangs gnawed hungrily at the sky’s underbelly. Yiisuriel’s flanks seethed with over four thousand Land Dragons, organised into ten distinct batteries. They bombarded, melted and vaporised the debris relentlessly, and were relieved in nine-hour shifts by other allied Land Dragons. Fifteen hours remained before Yiisuriel estimated the tunnel would be clear enough for her to walk through, but she promised that by narrowing their focus and losing perhaps four hours, they would be able to demolish sufficient material for Leandrial to pass overhead of the blockade first.

Nothing survived in there. Nothing.

As the Air Breathers reset their focus, Ardan and Aranya rapidly flew up to her topmost hangar to meet and return with Ri’arion and a minimal load of supplies. They did not want to pause to hunt, so the bulkiest items loaded upon the Shadow Dragon’s back were a quartet of freshly slaughtered orrican and two barrels of water.

Will you let me carry something, Ardan? Dragoness Aranya hissed sidelong at him.

No.

She snarled, Do you have to be such a … male?

I do, aye.

Do you know how infuriating your attitude is?

I hadn’t guessed, Princess, he grinned back, one hundred utterly unrepentant fangs gleaming in his jaw. Tell me more. Tell me how you slaver over my mighty shoulders and love to slip into the lee of my impressive bulk –

And how I’ll Dragoness-slap you for these comments, she chuckled throatily. Tell me –

How I love the gemstone-surpassing lustre of your scales? The sheen of your petite, girly talons? The incandescent purity of thy soul’s whitest fires, o puissant and incomparable Empress of Herimor and Wyldaroon?

Aranya collected her errant jaw with a firm snap. Thou trouble-stirring zephyr of kingly majesty, be silent!

It was his turn to snap at unseen insects. Shadow and Star gazed at each other, then grinned inanely at each other. Fire-love burned bright.

Stretching his wingtip, Ardan tipped her playfully. Thou.

Thou. Ardan, what do you think we’ll find at the other end of this Passage?

He said, Yiisuriel suggested an ancient route across the Rift; a place where the Earthen Fires burn with less intensity due to meriatonium inclusions in the substrate. I can’t imagine that Infurion let passers-by through on a whim, however. There must be a catch.

We know him. He aided us, Aranya said, but the nuances of her Dragonish betrayed her doubts.

Ri’arion said, It is wise to be on our guard.

Aye, said Ardan. We’ll return to Asturbar, Iridiana and Leandrial. Have you had any useful communication out of the Chrysolitic dragonets as yet, Aranya?

Knowing they would have to wait several hours for the projected completion of the bombardment, the companions fell to animatedly discussing the mysterious nature of their tiny companions. Aranya was all for dragging Ardan into the frozen wastes of the North to investigate, a prospect that made a man from hot climates shiver. They debated approaches to Infurion for the umpteenth time, and through Ri’arion to Leandrial, connected with Asturbar and Iridiana to share with them also.

A happy family affair, Ardan said privately to Aranya.

She projected warmth into him, seeming moved by the strength of his response. Aye?

This is my clan, my family, my name! he returned, trying to express through their link all that this meant to him. That they were the foundations of his world, the purpose for which he lived, and the ones he had long since determined to die for.

Not too morbid, she responded warmly. Let’s save thoughts of dying for some inconceivably distant future, alright? When you’re a doddering old wobbler tossing your sticks about like Nak –

Bah. Desist from comparing me to that blackguard, thou – what would he say? Thou blossoming, misted lily of all delights.

Aranya’s soft laughter warmed him. Can’t wait to introduce him to Iridiana. Nak will die.

Blissfully, he agreed.

Returning to the conversation with the others, she said, Come. Work with me on ways to launch ourselves into space. I’m all about backup plans these days, borrowing a leaf from the renowned Dragonfriend’s scrolls. She was a detail Shapeshifter through and through.

Can’t help but think you’re two scales off the same hide, Zip grumbled inside. What happened to improvisation?

The more we know, the better we’ll improvise.

Very good, Leandrial approved.

You would agree, Great One, Zuziana returned cheekily. Alright! Alright, I submit already. Ri’arion dearest, could you just tell us how to defy gravity and the need for oxygen, please?

The ex-monk decided now was the moment to send his wife a mental image fit to make stones blush.

Ri’arion! they all gasped.

Folding his arms crossly, he aped hiding his face behind the Shadow Dragon’s spine spikes. Let’s just pretend I didn’t just accidentally send that to everyone, shall we? My mental discipline is slipping most deplorably these days. It shan’t happen again, I promise.

Zip replied, My fault, dearest. A little change is good for the soul.

A little Chaos, too, Asturbar added. But his image was much more decorous.

Just one shapely silver-blue ankle.

* * * *

Ankles, chaos, pregnancy and the prospect of total annihilation. No wonder she was not as preoccupied with her tiny egglings as she perhaps ought to be, Zuziana thought, chattering fondly to her babies as her friends – old and new – made frivolous conversation. Jittery nerves were on display everywhere, from Iridiana’s incessantly churning psychic suns-flares, as Leandrial had dubbed them, to Ardan’s compulsive knuckle-cracking. In Humans the habit was annoying. In Dragons, it sounded as though someone were splitting rocks with a sledgehammer.

“Don’t worry about those nasty, life-devouring forces of illimitable cosmic evil,” she soothed her babies. “Mommy and Aunty Aranya have the matter in paw.”

Who was she trying to comfort?

Aranya sighed with relief as she heard the assault pause for a brief assessment before Leandrial received word to proceed. Zuziana watched through other eyes and listened with ears not her own as the Dragons swam and flew up toward the roof of the tunnel. The air was as gloopy as the finest of swamp water, thick with minerals, toxins and dust. Visibility was down to a mere fifty feet or less, but this presented no deterrent whatsoever to a grizzled campaigner like Leandrial. She used sound and even longwave-like radio waves to map the terrain ahead, sweeping smoothly through the murk as though it were the brightest of daylight. Fifteen minutes saw them across the base of the debris. Hundreds of Land Dragons dug assiduously down there, like a lizard-swarm seen from so far above. Ten minutes more took them beyond lava fields of orange-hot slag left by the ravaging eye cannons, slowly sliding downward under the force of gravity. They saw countless charred corpses of Drakes and the far larger bones of Land Dragons.

Ri’arion said, “The Thoralians must have abandoned their forces here. All that were left.”

“He had no further use for them,” Asturbar agreed. “Everything was expendable. It means, from what you reported, Ardan, that the Thoralians must have mastered the magic enough to move the First Egg more rapidly than ever before. I’m surprised there’s no tidal wash through this tunnel.”

“An apropos observation, little one,” Leandrial said, making Nyahi fall about laughing in half a dozen different transformations at this description of the powerful Azingloriax warrior.

“Little?” Asturbar hooted.

“Compared to me, you are a gnat – one of those emotional insect things you introduced me to before,” the great Dragoness noted drolly. “My scale mites would gladly breakfast upon you.”

“I’m sure you could find use for him as a tooth polisher, Leandrial,” Zip suggested.

With a mighty guffaw, Leandrial shot back, “What a fine idea! Perhaps Fra’anior’s notion of Human servants might yet find its place in the new order North of the Rift. Now for a little scraping and crawling on my part … Yiisuriel left the margins rather narrow.”

Ardan made a show of looking up and down as he and Aranya sailed easily through the gap.

The Shapeshifter pair drew ahead as Leandrial slowed, grunting and growling irritably as she forced her body through. Her back scraped against the ceiling with a sound like claws upon slate, while her belly-armour made light of the jagged rocks, metal stanchions and even whole Islands beneath. She quarried irritably with her talons and soon deployed her light cannon, driving back the darkness in the tunnel. The meriatonium was a matte-sable colour, absorbing all light – Zuziana realised that without their own source of light, they would see absolutely nothing for hundreds of leagues. The effect was eerie; unlike a proper night sky, even a stormy one.

Then, momentarily through Ardan’s eyes, she saw the Amethyst Dragoness agleam with her inner light. Zip’s heart felt as if it squeezed within her chest. A psychosomatic sensation, she knew, but the feelings were real enough. Finding Iridiana had changed her friend fundamentally. Aranya was so predisposed to frightening levels of focus, she sometimes tied herself up in insoluble knots. Lump upon that her failure to stop the Thoralians – no-one, not even Fra’anior, could be harder on the Immadian Princess than herself. Duty and responsibility loomed like Ancient Dragons in her life, colouring everything. Thus, it was a delight to see her shining. To see the hope that gleamed in her eyes and radiated from her countenance when she gazed upon Ardan or Iridiana. To hear the lilt in her hostess’ voice. To sense even in some small measure the redemption of the evil the Thoralians had inflicted upon her … it was thrilling.

Zip treasured these moments. This was what instilled hope in her own soul. Hope for a brighter, starrier future – she chuckled inaudibly. Feet on the Isle, Remoy! Now, how did Dragonflight defy gravity? Surely to wing fifty tonnes of fire and brimstone through the air required something more than ordinary physics?

Somewhere, there must be a clue.

Fra’anior had no wings, but he could fly in his own storm. Maybe she could encourage Aranya to copy her mighty grand-storm? No air up there, however. How far could they fly without air? Even Shadowed by Ardan’s power they had to live on something, didn’t they?

It felt so heart-warming to have their noses firmly pointed to the North, at long last. Maybe one day soon, she could plan to take Ri’arion to Remoy again. King Lorman and her mothers could hold a few precious bundles between them. Maybe she could dare to imagine a place to call home, far from war and strife and endless death.

That was what she longed for most of all.

* * * *

The Dragon’s share of three days later, Aranya saw what Leandrial had already detected from afar – the literal light at the end of the tunnel. She also saw what she had feared.

“Looks like there used to be a bridge out into the Rift,” Ardan observed.

“Aye,” Aranya sighed. “Leandrial, we’ll scout as agreed and send the data back to Yiisuriel. Above all else, as she comes down this final slope, she mustn’t start sliding. That would be disastrous. How deep do you think it goes?”

“Deep,” the Dragoness rumbled.

The Shadow Dragon hissed, “Thoralian deliberately destroyed this in order to slow us down, correct?”

“Looks that way,” Asturbar noted. “Are those the Rift fires ahead?”

“Aye.”

Aranya’s soft exhalation was made from her Dragon’s back. Mounted up double with Ri’arion, while Asturbar rode with Iridiana, they prepared to fly ahead as Leandrial slowed, for she also was unwilling to take needless risks until they understood the terrain ahead.

The Dragons launched powerfully out of the Land Dragoness’ mouth, beating their wings hard to make headway against the viscid air at this depth, an estimated four and a half leagues beneath Cloudlands level. It was hard to tell, because the Rift fires here were not an unending wall of dark flame as they had encountered before, but rather they seemed to commence ahead and above, where the grey-black base of the Rift sloped upward again. As they flew onward, the scene began to resolve and make sense. Where the sloping tunnel ended was essentially two miles above the Rift’s immediate ‘ground’ level, but the tunnel mouth ended above a canyon of unknowable depth which would need to be bridged if any Air Breather hoped to pass onward. The far side had to be four miles distant.

Very high above, flotillas of floating Islands dotted a pristine afternoon sky. The East-West band of Islands was narrow, however, and ended well before the first signs of the disruptive, black-shot crimson Rift fires. Indeed, to either flank as the Shapeshifters and their Human Riders looked about, the storms appeared to be far stronger than directly ahead of their noses and the depth much greater, so that the overall effect was of gazing out upon an immense archway of fire that met and mingled many miles above a long, curving mid-Rift ridge – meriatonium, no doubt.

The Passage of Dark Fires continued, just not quite as they had expected.

“Interesting,” said Ri’arion.

“Aye,” Zip put in. “It appears that if one simply walks the ridge after crossing the canyon, there’s a measure of protection. I can’t imagine it would be that simple, however. Perhaps Infurion’s creatures guard an inner gateway, or those Storm Elementals wreak havoc across it from time to time.”

Her husband said, “I agree. And any commerce would necessarily be forced to endure great depths, certainly greater than a Dragonship could traverse. It’s a pathway for the Dragonkind alone.”

The Rift’s fires burnished his face into stern planes as he spoke. The roaring out there was like endless waterfalls muted by the distance as the dark flames appeared out of nothingness and thundered upward with incalculable force and persistence, as though wishing to burn the stars above. Aranya shivered. Silly fears. Of the enemy, there was no sign. Nonetheless, she did not enjoy what she sensed out there.

“Come on,” she said quietly.

“I mislike this place,” Ri’arion said. “Look, you can see the remains of bridge pilings on the far side of the canyon.”

“A bridge strong enough for Air Breathers?” Nyahi mused.

“All fashioned for defensive purposes,” Asturbar added. “Leandrial ought to be able to swim across at this depth, unless that canyon hides further surprises.”

“A suspected surprise becomes an unsurprising surprise,” Zuziana joked.

The infantry soldier scratched his head. “I see now why Marshal Huaricithe decided to stay behind. She always had a canny nose for business, that one. When she secures the entrance to the Passage of Darkness with her forces, she will enjoy the pickings of commerce across the Rift. Dressing it up as ‘securing the southern route’ is pure ragion gas as far as I’m concerned.”

“Business and position,” Ri’arion agreed. “I had expected her motives to be – well, less blatantly mercenary.”

“She is representing Aranya in the Lost Isles leadership,” Ardan pointed out. “But I too am surprised she chose not to fly ahead with us. I thought she’d pursue the adventure with Gangurtharr rather than be content to play at politics. Why step back now?”

“She acted thus to free me,” said Aranya. “Between you, me and the Dragon’s scratching post, she was the only one acceptable to Yiisuriel because she’s a relative. I think it’s all for show.”

“You’re suggesting noble motives?” Ri’arion quirked an eyebrow.

“Amongst others,” Aranya said ruefully.

“You’ve been played.”

“Partly, Ri’arion. I guess I just struggle to feel too bitter after someone has helped us so much. I do feel naïve and less inclined to trust our allies as a result.”

“Aye. Has she relinquished her purchase rights or whatever that was?” he asked.

Aranya grinned. “She can try!”

“Aren’t we still convicted criminals in Sylakia?” Zuziana interjected sweetly. “Iridiana, did you know that your sister was once sentenced to death for burning the Emperor’s admittedly despicable louse of a son? She has a shady past.”

“And a shadowy present,” Ardan chuckled.

Iridiana made a face at Aranya that she hoped was meant for the rascally Remoyan. “We were both exiled. I can’t wait to meet this pirate we call King and father. And our Shapeshifter mother. Obviously, criminality runs in the family.”

“Oh, obviously!” Zip agreed fervently.

“Just you jolly well come out here so I can swat you, Remoy,” Aranya demanded.

“No.”

“Don’t disobey your Empress, whippersnapper! Disobedience being a Remoyan cultural norm –”

“Hey!”

“Be silent. I can tell you all about Remoyans, Asturbar and Iridiana.”

“Fascinating as this conversation is,” Asturbar broke in, “I suggest we dodge. Now!”

With that, the Dragons broke apart, beating their wings hard to beat Leandrial’s charge. Aranya was sure that she meant the gesture as a joke, but having a Dragoness of that size bearing down upon one like a runaway juggernaut did rather spur one on. Iridiana performed one of her sparkly chaotic escapes, leaving the Shadow Dragon to be buffeted about in her wake as Leandrial leaped from the tunnel mouth and into space. With a guttural, bone-quaking rumbling in the depths, fire blossomed throughout the canyon.

Shields! Leandrial cried almost joyously as she chased a mauve blur out into space, and then the grim, disruptive fires of the Rift surrounded them with a plethora of blasts and buffets.

Rocking, side-slipping and Shadowing, Ardan chased manfully after. He growled, Annoying. What’s the point?

That! Aranya melded with him as an unseen predator’s black tentacles lashed by below, missing the Shadow by a matter of feet. They chased away skittishly, checking that Leandrial was unhindered, but she too had perhaps taken the creature by surprise, and the great Dragoness was cheating in all sorts of ways to speed her glide across the divide.

That was big, came Asturbar’s quiet voice.

Certainly big enough to crunch my bones, Leandrial fluted cheerfully. Come on, little ones. Race you to the far side.

Whatever the beast was, it did not take kindly to intruders in its domain, but it failed to swat the shadowy force even once as Ardan worked with Leandrial to keep them safe. The last they saw of it, a sooty black body the size of Immadia Island or thereabouts crowned with a quintet of crimson eyes glared balefully at them as the Rift creature slithered back into the depths, waiting to ambush the next unwary traveller.

Leandrial punched a message through the waning fires meant for Yiisuriel’s psychic-aural nodes.

Then they were up and running once more.

The mounded path through the Rift curved gently into the distance, lit by the baleful fires to either side and above. That curvature meant that they could not see more than twenty-five to thirty miles ahead at any given time, despite the path’s six-mile width. The terrain rose and fell periodically as if crossing gently rising hills, all lit by a flaming suns-set. The magic that had so disrupted them before was indeed subdued by the strange path, so that only minimal shielding was required to maintain their own integrity. Iridiana in particular struggled with the effects on her chaotic magic, however, and was forced to take refuge in Leandrial’s cheek pocket in her apparently impervious cactus-rock form.

For the remainder of that day and most of the night following, the companions traversed the Rift path by the light of the gloomy, flickering flames. Soon it turned upward, snaking back and forth as the edges drew in. The Land Dragoness growled about the footing becoming more crumbly; the basal rock belonged to a geologically more ancient stratum. The heated winds driving through this section became spiteful and insistent, forcing Leandrial to dig her talons into the broad surface as she forged onward, mile upon mile, until they had climbed fifteen vertical miles from their starting point. The mighty storm fires closed in overhead until they knew that Yiisuriel and her kind would struggle to brave this route unless their shielding was able to cope with Dark Fires; indeed, the path had narrowed enough that all but the smallest of Yiisuriel’s kin would be unable to enjoy passage.

At length the fires drew back and Leandrial stepped into barrenness; a gigantic circle of the dark metal similar to that they had seen the Foam-Riders ride upon. Her head twizzled first side to side, then upward. “Look!” cried the Dragoness, pointing upward with her fore-talon.

“The Egg!” Ardan shouted at once.

Hellish winds whistled across the bleak, dull grey surface. Leandrial dug in and hunkered down, her entire body shuddering as she gazed skyward and opened her jaw slightly to allow her small Riders to see better, too.

Familiar, towering red walls of Rift fire, laced with black edges and screaming of disruptive magic, greeted their awed gazes. It was akin to standing within a moving well and gazing at a tiny patch of sky, only this patch was leagues above and the well’s shaft was the vortex of a fiery tornado. As the eye rose, the fires swirled like an uncontrolled centrifuge, faster and faster, attaining speeds of such unnatural magnitude that a Dragoness’ eyes could not reliably estimate them. A shining spot in that star-speckled portal of sky was the Egg. Great, whirling columns of rufous fire bore it aloft at a tremendous speed, buoyed by the tornado winds that battered them so relentlessly below. Leandrial’s talons screeched as she clung on with will, might and magic.

If the Thoralians were present, she assumed they must be above the Egg. Dragoness Aranya narrowed her eyes. Something struck her as familiar about this scene, yet strange. What was this sentient, brooding quality in the fire? The presence she sensed all around …

Infurion, she realised aloud.

They stood within Infurion’s body. He was the one lifting the Egg!

Ardan swore luridly. He’s betrayed us!

Ri’arion’s teeth ground audibly. Doesn’t look good. Stay alert, my friends.

Aloft! Leandrial cried at once. Chase the Egg lest the enemy escape once more!

This was a scenario they had not anticipated – here, in the middle of the Rift, Infurion was helping the Thoralians launch the Egg to the Mystic Moon! In a flurry of confusion, Ardan snaffled up Ri’arion and Asturbar, who had been looking for his Dragoness only for her to flop over the Amethyst Dragoness’ paw in one of her vine forms before springing into a protective diamond bracelet. As she sensed the motion clasping about the wrist of her forepaw, Aranya inanely found herself imagining a line in draconic jewellery. Dragonesses would go wild for this. Or was that Zip’s thoughts slipping into her own as they melded, ready for battle?

Remoy! Focus.

Here, Immadia. With you.

She sprang vengefully aloft but immediately slewed to her right flank as the winds pummelled her wings, bending the sensitive struts almost to breaking point. Up! Up, Ardan, she snarled, adjusting. Sapphire, where –

Safe, Ari, squeaked the mite from her left forepaw.

Oh! Aranya did not even remember grabbing her, but Sapphire was nothing if not resourceful. She had her brood gathered tightly about her flanks, and her tiny fire eyes burned fiercely. The dragonet was ready for anything.

Ri’arion linked in with Ardan as they had done many times before. Go, Shadow! Take us high and fast!

Infurion must be against them. What honourable reason could he possibly have for helping the Thoralians abscond with the First Egg? Aranya set her jaw. This was one race they had to win. The Academy was already in mortal danger.

Chapter 25: Paw Slap, Reprised

ARDAN MATCHED ARANYA wingbeat for wingbeat. For all her lack of size, the Amethyst had matured into a fantastic flyer. A bigger Dragon should have left her in his dust. As it was, he almost had to bust a wing to keep up with her as they spiralled upward, slung about by the swirling winds but using bone, muscle and magic to wrest the blast to their advantage.

One league. Two. It was already obvious that they were not catching up. The Egg was rocketing toward low orbit and they would be left gasping in its wake.

Then, he sensed a shift in Aranya’s mood. The fury that blazed within. Umbrage linked with her unique form of resilience.

Aranya –

I will not be treated like this! I am the Storm!

Her powers flooded out, seizing Infurion’s winds like a Dragon seizing a hapless ralti sheep by the scruff of the neck.

Twisting the tempest to her beck and call, she snarled at Ardan, Furl and brace!

The Shadow snapped his wings to his sides as with a terrible roar, her windstorm struck them from beneath. The screaming sound was like a feral Ancient Dragon belling her majestic wrath. The stress, insane. Had he kept his wings outstretched, they would have been ripped off. As it was, he could not even hear himself think. All he knew was the need to keep stable and hold tight as they hurtled upward, aimed like an arrow at the First Egg.

ARANYA!

Infurion’s bellow struck them amidships, but the Immadian Shapeshifter was in an implacable temper. Their speed shovelled the Ancient Dragon’s roaring right back at him; the Shapeshifter pair rocked violently but continued to accelerate to greater speeds.

The vast fiery face of Infurion peered out of the Rift flames now, jaw agape in fury or wonder, they did not know, but when he spoke his mental and physical voice was not unfriendly. Uncompromising, aye, but not averse.

Aranya. Stand down. In this battle, thou canst not prevail.

The Egg! What is within –

It is thee they desire! The Thoralian triplicate covets thy powers and fires to twist thee, far above! Infurion’s miles-long muzzle lifted to indicate the skies. When they avail themselves of Star Dragoness magic, all shall be lost. Stand down, I adjure thee! Mine plans are formed, and sound of conception.

We cannot stand down, Infurion – with all respect.

Show me.

Aranya shot him a mental representation of the Pygmy Dragon shut away inside of the Egg. She provided the best data they had on the Academy and its inhabitants.

Ah, thundered Infurion, as his fires rippled up the miles-tall height of his body. Moving to what Ardan belatedly realised was a private form of communication, he said, Deal with me. None can resist the Thoralians here. Thou hast failed in the charge established that first time thou entered mine domain, Star Dragoness. Does the triplicate not roam free? What of the Egg?

The Amethyst gritted her fangs. Mighty Infurion –

Thou art Storm and mighty amongst thine tiny kind, but no Ancient Dragon art thou. Now is the hour for those greater than thee to take up this battle. Stand down!

We … cannot.

Almost, she pleaded with him. Desperate. Ashamed.

Infurion was furiously unimpressed. His mind lashed out, but Aranya combined with Ri’arion and Zuziana to protect them from the psychic lashing. Then, he blasted them with speech laced with derision-honour-imperative indicators:

FOOLS! HEED MINE COMMANDS! SHALL I TEACH THEE THINE PLACE, THOU MITE?

Aranya just set her jaw as she rode her storm, and Ardan loved her for never compromising. She did what was right, no matter what. She replied, I know mine charge, which comes from Fra’anior’s own mouth, great one. Can I deny the progenitor of mine own flesh and blood?

Join me and see, said he. I have infiltrated the Egg to locus-lock upon she whom thou desirest, this Pygmy creature.

They gasped!

Speak with her, and know mine fires incline toward thy cause.

* * * *

How could they trust Infurion?

How could they not?

At the speed of thought, Zuziana batted the odds about with Aranya and Ri’arion. If there was half a chance he could show them a way to the Pygmy Dragon and hopefully thereafter, the Academy, they had to seize it.

She watched curiously as Aranya followed Infurion’s proffered thought monad, subsumed it into herself, and then reached mentally for the Egg with a tiny, wormlike penetrative tendril based on Earthen Fires magical constructs. Immediately, a hazy picture formed in her mind. Dark limbs. An elfin chin not dissimilar to her own. A child, sleeping!

This was the famous Pygmy Dragoness? Saviour of the North?

She’s nothing but a child! Zip blurted out.

* * * *

The Pygmy was real! Alive!

Time to waken, Pip, Aranya whispered. We are friends. Do you hear me? Wake up.

Torn between watching Infurion’s expression, keeping a draconic eye on the Egg and the distraction of their long-coveted goal appearing in Aranya’s mind, Ardan could not help but steal glances. The Pygmy girl! As the image resolved, he saw the perfect innocence of a child in repose, yet he knew that one of her race could be much older than she appeared. Nak and Oyda’s memories had suggested she had been but a young teen when she had stood against a Herimor Marshal and his vile Nurguz, before spiriting victory away into the dusty annals of history.

Here she was: a tiny, dusky beauty. Breathing. Suspended, apparently, in a lake of seething draconic white fires as though she were a dark jewel nestled in a great field of the finest white Helyon silk.

Her eyelashes fluttered.

Good, Pip. Wake up now, Aranya murmured. We need you, please. The danger has never been greater.

Black eyes slid open reluctantly and regarded them without comprehension. An interrogative chirp escaped her slack lips.

Zip chirped back.

* * * *

She’s speaking Ancient Southern? Aranya guessed. What’s she saying, Zip?

YOU HAVE HER? Infurion boomed.

The Amethyst Dragoness glanced up from her inner world to regard the self-proclaimed Lord of the Earthen Fires. Do you travel aloft, Great One? What of the Rift?

Thou shalt Balance this mine demesne for the good of all, Aranya. That task shall fall to thee and thine.

To me? She failed to understand Infurion’s motives.

Aye. Only mine legacy shall remain. Now, o daughter of Fra’anior, all that I have promised I have delivered thee, despite a lamentable lack of reciprocation. Thou hast thine key and when the Egg shalt crack, this Academy shalt at last be thine – and know this, o Star Dragoness: Mine life would be forfeit shouldst I allow Fra’anior’s precious stardrop to be subsumed by this vile triplicate. I cannot allow it. Now, in full cognizance of mine will in this matter, wilt thou not stand down?

The Princess hesitated. Fatally.

UNGRATEFUL HATCHLING! BE BANISHED FROM MINE SIGHT!

* * * *

Softly cajoling, Zuziana spoke to the Pygmy girl. Pip was confused. She did not understand where the danger was or what had happened. Her mental processes seemed fragmented and sluggish. The girl kept wanting to lapse back into sleep, or hibernation – perfectly understandable after one hundred and fifty years or so, Zip supposed. There would be mental degradation. She kept chirping, ‘Silver? Where’s silver?’ Zip had no idea what she meant. She was just grateful the girl was still alive. That gave them a slim but definite chance.

Come join us family-friends, she said, wincing at her poor enunciation.

Cannot-cannot – magic-impossible, slurred Pip.

Impossible? Had she been properly alive, Zip knew her heart would be pounding its way out of her chest with excitement.

Construct – this? Why … spirit-girl? puzzled the Pygmy.

I’m sort of … stuck here, inside a Princess.

Prisoner?

N –

Infurion’s roar thundered over them, drowning out her reply. Ardan bellowed and Aranya yelled orders … her best friend’s magic flowered to sweep them away, again at an unbelievable speed. The Amethyst had deployed her slingshot magic. Zip observed events unfolding simultaneously with the superhuman clarity she had experienced that fateful day when Aranya had saved her and her babies from being daimonised.

She saw the way Pip had trapped herself within the Egg.

She saw the jaw-dropping vastness of Infurion’s many paws lashing toward them in an attempt to protect the Star Dragoness from – so he claimed – a terrible fate. Ardan’s powers gathered like a seething lake of darkness.

She saw that there was no answer save one.

With a sob, Zuziana prepared herself. Ri’arion, I’m so sorry.

Her life for all.

* * * *

Aranya only heard Zip’s trailing ‘sorry’ as Infurion launched a devastating attack. The Ancient Dragon’s fiery, black-rimmed paws seemed to erupt from everywhere at once, flying toward her and even overlapping along every conceivable vector. She reacted instantaneously, reeling in her slingshot line in an attempt to fling herself and her Riders up and over a seething armada of paws.

Somewhere already far below her, Ri’arion howled, Zuziana!

KAABOOM!!

A sonic shock rattled her bones. Zip? Zip!

Ardan attempted to Shadow, but Infurion’s disruptive attack somehow negated his magic just as the Chrysolitic dragonets had held him. She had a millisecond to wonder how the Ancient Dragon possessed that particular knowledge when Ardan and his Riders all cried out together as Infurion swept them away like specks of chaff trapped in the pyre of his wrath. The conflagration did not so much detonate against them as behind the group, she suspected, supplying a bone-jarring flash of acceleration that usurped the bounds of any physical laws she knew.

In a blink, Ardan, Asturbar, Ri’arion and even Leandrial vanished beyond the ambit of her perception – struck back the way they had come, she realised, so flat and fast that they would smash against the mountains a hundred leagues away.

Her fate was not so.

Aranya blinked as she saw Zip now framed against that white space of inner perception, while at the same instant a hard nub of a body crashed against her chest. She clutched the gift instinctively, her heart zinging toward the very stars as she cried, Zip, you’re alive – not – oh no!

She held a girl even smaller than the diminutive Remoyan.

Hope, crushed.

Then she saw another of Infurion’s paws, its fiery thousand-foot talons curving with vindictive intent above the lifeline that connected her with the First Egg. She stretched a despairing forepaw toward the prize, just a couple of leagues away. So close, she could at last taste the wash of its magic even here in Infurion’s realm. Zip where are you? Don’t, Infurion! Nooooo …

The white line ignited with Infurion’s Earthen Fires. Faster than the flap of a hummingbird’s wings, she sensed many, many layers of complex magic drawing together about her body, trapping her more surely than any ant beneath a Dragon’s paw. With a devious smile, the majestic Ancient Dragon boomed, Fly well and live long down below, o Star Dragoness. No power of thine can stop me now, for I intend to live forever!

His eye fires flared triumphantly.

Aranya could not breathe for horror. All that escaped her twisting throat was a rasp. Traitor!

His paw flicked them away.

* * * *

Once, gazing over her broken Island-World, Aranya of Immadia had wept inconsolably. Now her grief turned to fire. Incandescent fire.

Cocooned in Infurion’s gravity- and friction-defying ovoid of Earthen Fires magic, which protected them as surely as it held them prisoner, Aranya clasped her sister, Sapphire, Pip and the dragonets to her bosom, and watched the Islands fly by to the tune of a mind-numbing roaring of wind without that demonstrated the velocity they achieved. She waited.

For Zip’s sacrifice, she had only admiration.

From the suns’ position seen through the shifting veils of anathematic magic, like sooty strands juxtaposed against the white fires threads she had come to understand represented magic, the Amethyst Dragoness knew they soared Northward on a heading that approximated a line drawn between the Rift and Jeradia Island, ending at Fra’anior Cluster. Doubtless this was a planned gesture. The traitor Infurion, in hot pursuit of the ultimate prize, delivered Fra’anior’s daughter to his symbolic doorstep, safe and sound. Or did Infurion indeed believe he was doing right by Fra’anior’s will? Could his concluding statement be interpreted another way – perhaps the thinking was that he destroyed the Thoralians, subsumed their powers, birthed the Egg safely and lived forever? No. Infurion saw her power opposed to his, and she stood with Fra’anior.

His actions said: interfere one jot more, pesky Star Dragoness, and we shall become mortal enemies. He saw his purposes as greater than theirs even as the suns shone brighter than the faraway stars.

Iridiana whispered, We’ve left the Rift behind, Aranya?

Aye, we’re already hundreds of leagues beyond its northernmost border. Are you alright, Nyahi? The Rift Storm –

I’m injured in some way I don’t quite understand, said the Chaos Shifter. Magically, I think.

I’ll try to help you –

Thanks.

– return to your naturally anarchic state of being.

Iridiana chuckled appreciatively. So, your invisible friend swapped with the Pygmy?

Aye. Aranya eyed her unconscious passenger with a jaundiced eye. Despite knowing Zip’s purpose, she still felt the substitution left her the poorer. Zip sent a sort of flash of insight, last I could detect, anyways. Without a Word of Command being physically spoken from without the Egg – which we did not know anyway – there was only one way to satisfy the magical laws governing the constructs Pip had created to protect herself and the Academy. Seeing Infurion’s behaviour, she exchanged herself and her egglings for Pip, in the hope that the Pygmy girl could return for the Egg – oh, Iridiana! She sacrificed herself for them all. For the entire Academy, and for our future.

How brave is she? Iridiana whispered, sounding awed.

She’s quality.

What Zippy say, Ari? Sapphire piped.

She sighed heavily. She said, ‘It’s one life for thousands, Aranyi. You’d do the same. Come find us, alright? Don’t dilly-dally.’

Dilly-dally? What does that mean?

Delay, Nyahi. Well, it’s sort of four lives for forty or fifty thousand, if we’re bothering to keep score …

What did it matter? How could she be comforted now, even if it was by a sister masquerading as a tasteful piece of jewellery that managed to move in a comforting, hide-stroking way to express her empathy? Or when Iridiana, in a blatant attempt at cheering her up, timorously suggested that Zip would tell her not to be morbid?

Aranya suppressed a wild urge to slap her sister.

Failure no longer rankled. It nauseated her. She was past being done with fiasco and disaster and malfunction! And here she sailed along like an overgrown purple prekki-fruit with wings waiting for Infurion’s insidious magic to relent and release them from this unbreakable prison before they ended up somewhere North of Immadia. Worse, before they arrived at Fra’anior Cluster and she had to explain to King Beran, Nak and Oyda, and worst of all, her precious Aunt Va’assia, how thoroughly she had been duped and then paw-slapped by the last Ancient Dragon on their planet as he absconded with the fate of the Island-World in his paws.

Maybe.

Had Beran’s drilling over the years been for nought? Take stock, Princess. Think! They were hurtling toward daddy dearest at a ridiculous clip, and that meant toward the famous Dragon Library, too. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Had Fra’anior seen this betrayal coming? It seemed too fine a coincidence that Infurion would smack her like an errant hatchling in the precise direction of her shell grandfather’s enigmatic parting clue. Nak and Oyda knew the Pygmy girl. She must prepare Pip for the distress, however, of seeing the famous Dragon Rider pair a hundred and fifty summers older than she would remember them.

Usefully, she was alive and in possession of a healthy proportion of her wits. Allegedly. She had Iridiana, Pip, Sapphire and a clutch of dragonets by way of allies. Her best guess was that the men and Leandrial were several thousand leagues away, stuck on the far side of the Rift. Flexing her neck until she looked backward over her shoulder, Aranya sucked in a breath. A black line rose into the sky above the Rift, which had been reduced to a thick black smudge on the rearward horizon, pointing like an accusing finger at … nothing? No, at the place where the Mystic Moon would be in a few days’ or perhaps several weeks’ time, depending on how long the journey might take. There was still time. Not much, but there had to be a window of opportunity if they could work out a strategy.

A strategy that actually worked for a change, her inner Human suggested with lashings of extra snark. Zuziana would have declared it was time for an all-girls-in war.

Her attention snapped to the Iridium-diamond wristlet. “Hey, lavender twinkle toes?”

“Aranya?”

“Can’t you just shake a little Chaos about the place?”

The wristlet grew a tiny muzzle and sparkling eyes. “Do I hear the dulcet tones of Remoy?”

“Unfortunately not. You hear the charming voice of your cherished sister.”

“Uh-oh.”

Throwing back her muzzle, Aranya chuckled heartily. There. Much better. “Right, listen up, Iridiana. Here’s a riddle. What do three girls and a clutch of brave dragonets do when an Ancient Power rises up to belt the stuffing out of them?”

“Belt him back?”

“Try to be serious, petal.”

“Why do I sense that the very last answer you’d accept would be, ‘give up?’ ”

“Ooh, nasty words! Did Asturbar teach you to swear like that?” As the bracelet broke into a somewhat forced round of giggles, Aranya said, “Aye, exactly. I am not about to bow my wings and meekly accept defeat. We need to break out, preferably in time to make our landing at Fra’anior Cluster. So, I’m thinking that if Infurion’s fires affected you so badly, we have to assume you can influence them in return, correct?”

The bracelet pursed its very pretty and undoubtedly razor-sharp lips. The fangs were pure diamond, of course. Sharper than sharp.

“Fine. It’s a stretch, I confess.”

Nyahi’s brilliant fangs flashed into a smile of the sort that threatened to shorten errant fingertips should someone dare to try and stroke her. “I see now how you take after our father, the Immadian Fox, Aranya, in mastery of strategy.”

“Er … how’s that?”

“Do I recognise the virtuoso technique called, ‘I have no other ideas so we’ll try this one?’ ”

Aranya gave her a mock-glare. “What say you we find a disreputable jeweller to assess your market value, Sparkles?”

“Oh no, please let me rather battle Infurion and the Thoralians simultaneously! I’ll do anything you desire – I’m grovelling upon my knees, o iron-pawed dictator of the skies!”

“Very good. I’m glad we have an understanding. To work, minion.”

* * * *

Ardan came to in a discontented tangle of legs, wings and Human body parts. He felt as if Leandrial herself had spent a night dancing upon his ribs. Something was definitely broken in there – still, why didn’t he feel worse? He was in a room that could have been anywhere in the old Lost Isles, aboard one of the Air Breathers.

“Good morning, Ardan,” Dhazziala said cheerfully.

He flinched. “Ouch.”

“No, I no longer harbour romantic notions toward your person.”

“Ouch.” He hated being read so easily.

“Besides, with all due respect, I’ve replaced you with a far more toothsome prospect.”

“Ouch! Enough with these insults.” She grinned. Belligerently, he said, “I’m marrying a star. Beat that if you can.”

“I don’t intend to try,” said the First Hand, still looking as dreamy-eyed as a displaced rainbow. “Anyhow, I didn’t come to exchange pleasantries with a mere shadow. We need to talk, Ardan. Are you ready to re-enter the communal mind?”

He checked himself over. By rights he should probably be dead. “All in all, I feel remarkably well considering we were slapped by an Ancient Dragon before flying headlong into a mountainside.”

“You’ve Bane and Lurax to thank for saving your scrawny neck. Briefing. Receive data.”

For a woman who had frankly speaking scared him to begin with, Dhazziala seemed in an ebullient mood. He assumed her new man must be at fault. Leaning back against his bed furs, he closed his eyes and accepted the briefing package.

Asturbar, broken right arm. Apparently for an Azingloriax warrior, only a shattering impact could achieve that. Ri’arion was heavily bruised but otherwise fortunate. Leandrial, severely injured with multiple lacerations and broken bones, also had life-threatening internal injuries. She had dozens of healer Dragons working upon her as they spoke. Aside from that, the data summarised events as shared by Ri’arion which Ardan simply did not remember – Genholme the Metallic Fortress Dragoness had been scouting ahead, over the canyon, as the Air Breathers tried to determine what to do, when Bane and Lurax ‘felt’ Ardan’s approach. They had alerted Genholme, who in turn warned Yiisuriel, who had deployed a kinetic-psychic rescue net barely in time. Leandrial’s injuries resulted from a miscalculation relating to her overall momentum – she had struck the cliff side heavily but been caught before she tumbled away into the canyon.

Ardan caught his breath. “They mean to sacrifice an Air Breather to bridge the canyon?”

Dhazziala nodded, her golden face set like a graven statue. “Yes. Samgandural’s injuries are mortal given his venerable age. Air Breathers heal slowly at the best of times. His flanks will be trimmed and adjusted before he is lowered with dignity into the place of his final rest using the Star Dragoness’ flotation techniques. He has chosen a path of great honour.”

He could barely speak past the lump in his throat. “Aye, that he has.”

After that, the Air Breathers planned to fill in the bridge part over the canyon using sunken Islands and ragion cement which they were already bringing through the tunnel, together with sunken Islands by the hundreds and ragions in their tens of millions. They would construct protective barriers either side of the path to try to mitigate the impact of the Rift fires and Storm Elementals. Their plan was no less ambitious than to entirely open the Rift path to commerce in the future.

This was engineering backed by the power of thousands of Land Dragons.

Yiisuriel’s voice intruded. So, will the Star approve of these plans, noble Ardan? Are you recovering well?

Aye on both counts, Great One, he replied respectfully.

Good. Then we must urgently consider how we may serve you to get aid to the Star Dragoness in time. Our dealings with the treacherous Infurion are far from done and I, for one, trust in a Dragoness’ cunning – particularly that one!

Indeed, he laughed, especially at the double meaning explicit in her statement. I suspect Aranya will require aid at Jeradia when she returns in triumph with the Academy in tow, the Thoralians beaten, Infurion thwarted and the Egg’s mighty denizen succoured.

He breathed out shallowly, touching his ribs. Laughing hurt. Was it the bone or his sternum which had been injured?

She chortled, What could be simpler?

Yiisuriel, your humour is sounding positively Human these days.

Huh. Always something to learn, even from you hasty ones. She added, I trust you noted the data regarding Aranya’s trajectory and condition?

Aye. I am as relieved by that news as I am staggered by Infurion’s deviousness. We should have known all along that he played solo upon his own drum, as we’d say in the Western Isles. Everything of his dealings with us was couched so as to frame the possibility of this course-reversal. We were foolish not to see it before.

Perhaps. Or simply too trusting – as I was trusting of Aranya before she brought that pernicious Chaos Shifter to my very portals!

Ardan bit his lip. Huaricithe will lead the strike force?

Yes. You will be in no fit shape to fly for several days, noble Shadow, said she. I persuaded the Shapeshifter that commerce across the Rift might become a moot point should the Island-World be annihilated by these Shao’lûkayn. Huaricithe accepted my point graciously.

And negotiated for …

Yiisuriel’s laughter came booming down the tunnel from what Ardan belatedly realised must be a great distance. Where exactly was he, he wondered? She replied, Huaricithe sought reassurances few were willing to grant at this juncture. There is a time and a place for seeking advantage. That is not now. So, Shadow, ready to pick your strike force?

He shifted uncomfortably. May I speak in the Star Dragoness’ name? As in, cut through all the ridiculous politics and hurry this along?

That would be wise indeed, Yiisuriel approved.

Could a mountain smile? She might.

Chapter 26: Reunited, I Depart

CHAOS HAD AN interesting method of working on problems. Aranya would have gone about systematically examining the vectors and testing them in a logical fashion. As best she could tell, her sister was fighting Infurion’s trap sixteen different ways at once, as her frustration-fuelled Chaotic manifestations filled their prison with dracofauna, dracoflora and more esoteric fire- based forms, never mind those she simply did not recognise at all. Iridiana exploded, attacked, fizzed, flapped, slapped, spat, head-butted, gnawed, sawed and tore at their prison, thus far without any visible effect.

She took multitasking to the extreme, even for a woman.

Must run in the family.

Finally, Aranya sought to calm her down. “Iridiana. Iridiana, look. That’s Fra’anior Cluster ahead.”

She turned into a panting dragonet with six glistening insectoid wings. “Is that … oh, wow! Now there’s a volcano worthy of the name.” Nyahi peered ahead hungrily. “You told me about its size and all, but words just don’t do it justice. Aranya, do you think our father will be there?”

“Almost certainly.”

“And this man Nak, and Oyda, who helped you –”

“Nak? Sent him –” The Pygmy girl moaned in Aranya’s paw, before her voice unexpectedly rose to a shriek, “Nak! No! Where’s – who – what is this? Let me go!”

In a flash she transformed into a tiny but feisty Dragoness-beauty of Fra’anior’s exact colouration. Aranya had never seen her like. Pure onyx. Deep and gleaming and beautiful, like a night sky condensed into draconic form.

“Pip? It is Pip, isn’t it?”

Madness inflamed her eyes as the Dragoness instinctively tried to wing away but found herself constrained by their prison. Her slender neck thrashed from side to side. “Why are you holding me? Who are you? Where’s Nak?”

Aranya said, “Calm down, Pip –”

“Calm? Why?” she spat. “Where is everyone? Who – where are we? What’s that noise?”

“You’ve been inside the Egg for a hundred and fifty years, Pip. You need to understand – he’s old and –”

The Dragoness’ eyes bulged. “Liar!”

“Me? I’m telling the truth. I’m Aranya, Princess of Immadia, and this is –”

“Liar! You’re one of Re’akka’s stooges! Where’s my Silver? Where is he? How dare – how – w-what is this p-place?” Fire dribbled from her lower lip as the Pygmy Dragoness flicked her eyes this way and that. “Let me go – let me go!”

“Pip, please –”

FIENDS!! roared Pip.

They scrambled about in the small space afforded them by Infurion’s construct. Aranya was trying to explain what had happened, but Pip kept interrupting, roaring and champing as she backed up against the far side of their fire bubble, which kept her no more than ten feet from Aranya. She was clearly on the verge of going feral. Abruptly the Onyx Dragoness pounced upon the Immadian with a low snarl, but Iridiana sizzled across her muzzle in an attempt to divert the attack. Pip jinked and drove in hard, punching Aranya in the flank multiple times before the Star managed to wrestle her off, trying to infuse healing power into the Dragoness simultaneously. Bad idea.

“Stop it! We’re friends, you idiot.”

GNARRR!

She didn’t want to hurt Pip. Aranya shouted, “Nak and Oyda are our – holy Fra’anior!”

She clutched her left eye in disbelief. Pip had punched her so hard and fast, she had not even seen the blow coming – but it was like being struck by Fra’anior himself. Her strength! Her head rang like a gong.

Dazed, Aranya was still busy blinking and trying to see out of that eye when Iridiana and the Pygmy tangled in a blur of fangs, snapping and snarling and pummelling each other furiously. Sister to the rescue! Afraid that the Pygmy would tear Iridiana apart with her extraordinary strength, she waded in too and clobbered Pip across their fiery bubble repeatedly with left-right fist combinations until the Dragoness rattled back and forth like a pebble in a gourd shaker. Even though she had clearly been weakened by her long incarceration, Pip rammed them both backward and belted Iridiana across the lip, splitting it open like a ripe prekki-fruit.

She was cute, even when she was in a foul mood. Nothing like waking with a headache one hundred and fifty years in the making, she supposed – worst migraine ever!

“Where’s Nak?” roared the Pygmy, bruising Aranya’s ribs.

“He’s at Fra’anior Cluster, you prize ralti sheep!” the Amethyst Dragoness yelled back, clouting her open-pawed across the ear canals so hard that the Pygmy Dragoness spun about four times and landed in a heap on the bottom of their flying ovoid.

The scorching of Earthen Fires against her scales galvanised Pip. She came back swinging madly, still dribbling the fire with which she was trying to immolate Aranya and Iridiana, crying, “Nak – is – not – old!”

“He’s ancient but alive!” Aranya defended herself with compact attention. “It’s been years, Pip! Decades. The Egg was lost far, far under the Cloudlands.”

“I’m not – I can’t –”

“Ouch! You little harridan!” Nyahi squealed as Pip ripped at her flower stems. “Take that!”

The Pygmy Dragoness vanished inside what appeared to be a metal ball.

Aranya wiped her forehead with the back of her paw, forgetting that Dragons did not actually sweat. “Great leaping Islands, she’s a lively one. I’m going to have such a black eye.”

Clang! Dong! resounded inside the ball. Aranya did not want Iridiana to be dented from the inside, because she had first-paw experience of what that little spit-fire could do. Pip would take on Gangurtharr or Asturbar in a wrestling match, of that she had no doubt.

Magic flared. Be free!

A Word of Command! Aranya saw Iridiana snap into being outside the fire bubble before the raging wind ripped her away. What?

* * * *

Pip stared at Aranya. Aranya stared at Pip.

Then, the Onyx Dragoness seemed to slump in slow motion. To her shock, Sapphire stood on Pip’s back! With a triumphant trill and a gurgling laugh, she said, Dragon finished greeting my Ari? Nice Ari! Nice Pip! Be friends, yes-yes? So funny.

Pip just looked shocked. “That was supposed to – to –”

“Iridiana’s chaotic. She’s pure Chaos magic,” Aranya panted, keyed up and ready for the Pygmy to start swinging again. “What did you do to her?”

“I … Nak’s alive?”

“Aye.”

“Oyda?”

“Aye, Pip. But they are old. I’m sorry. I tell you no falsehoods – you’ve no idea where the First Egg has been, or where it is now.” Aranya sighed, gentling her voice. “Look, in my time you’re a legend. I’m sorry, but that’s the way the rainbows intersect. We need you, Pip. We are friends – we can be friends, if you want. We’re definitely allies! The same Marshal you faced in those days is still alive now – aye! I can explain, if you’d just stop hitting me.”

Simmering with battle nerves, the Dragonesses circled the bubble slowly, each watching the other narrowly. Aranya felt her wingtips flick humorously as she began to see the amusing side of their altercation. Didn’t her best friendships always start like this? For her part, Pip appeared to be fighting a twitch that kept tweaking the corners of her mouth upward. But she still had a feisty glint in her eye Aranya recognised from a mirror, when she was fired up. Aye.

Gruffly, the much smaller Dragoness said, “Do you yield, Aranya?”

“Yield? Not a chance. You?”

“Never.”

“Keep fighting?”

The twitch was winning the battle. “Seems somewhat … silly.”

“Like a pair of felines squabbling over meat scraps silly?” Aranya suggested, also failing to fight off a smile.

Pip whispered, “Well, if Nak will vouch for you … leaping lizards. Did you say you were a Princess? I’m a girl from a jungle. How are we ever supposed to be friends?” The Onyx Dragoness was wilting visibly now, her speech coming slower and fainter. “I … I just …”

“Let me help you,” Aranya offered, extending her forepaws in a peaceable gesture. “I’m not a complete icicle from the North, and I’m not a whole lot older than you, I don’t think.”

“You’re the amenable sort of royalty?”

“You’re always this contrary? Now, new friend –” she grinned at Pip, trying to hide her annoyance at her throbbing eye “– we’ve a great deal to accomplish in a short space of time.”

“I’m not finished yet. What about that spirit girl – did she take my place?”

“That’s Zuziana. Long story. Aye, my best friend took your place, and that’s why you’re going to help us, or so help me, jungle girl alias cutesy pestiferous back-chatter, I shall summon Fra’anior himself to belt some common Isles sense into your stubborn little head!”

Pip scowled. “I am not cute!”

“You so are.”

“Besides, Fra’anior called me the child of his spirit, so, Miss Snooty, you can just shove all your galumphing high-and-mightiness back up your left nostril!”

“Well, I’m his actual granddaughter. And so you can just – whatever – with your stinky … attitude!”

Aargh, she was so terrible with insults!

They were back to spitting dagger-fangs at each other when Aranya spied in the corner of her eye a mauve blur incoming from astern. She crowed, “Iridiana! Look, she’s coming back.”

Pip chuckled, “That crazy – say, do you know how much you two look alike as Dragonesses?”

“She’s my twin –”

Three words were all Aranya could manage before a sparkling, purple comet of fury plucked up Infurion’s fiery prison bubble and seared across the late afternoon skies toward the towering ramparts of Fra’anior Cluster. The great cliffs, tufted with green like a boy’s unruly hairstyle upon waking, appeared to crawl skyward from their perspective, for they were making an even greater speed than before under Iridiana’s impetus.

As they arrowed toward Fra’anior Cluster, the shimmering river of silver-lilac motes that collectively described this current form of hers attacked Infurion’s magic with monomaniacal purpose. Clearly, Iridiana had chosen a manifestation which was impervious or at least highly resistant to disruption, for her attacks at last began to make headway. To Aranya’s heightened perception, her sister’s magic was like an army of tiny, ravening maws that slipped in and around the smoky veils of Earthen Fires magic and began to unravel them at the most fundamental level. The constructs could not recover in time. Iridiana chewed up dozens of threads and isolated nodes at a furious rate, seeming to spit and seethe to rid herself of some taint or influence before she continued unabated. The gnashing maws rent holes in the fabric of Infurion’s power like silverfish decimating clothing left too long unprotected in a drawer. The structures weakened. Frayed. Ripped!

A wall of wind greeted the group within, but Aranya was prepared. Popping up an impeccably designed aerodynamic shield, she chuckled in wonder as their extreme speed caused the front edge to start glowing orange.

Iridiana!

Aranya!

They would have wing-slapped, but had to settle for lilac, sparkling motes bobbing eagerly around Aranya’s wingtip. Nice work, sister. Look, Pip’s recovered!

Nyahi said, She’s unconscious, Aranya.

Oh. That’s awkward.

* * * *

Zuziana supposed the decent thing to do would be to actually die, for a change. She was so bored that death was a sore temptation, but fate apparently had other plans for stray Remoyan Princesses. She had tried. Death simply would not have her.

Was she too snarky? Too disobedient? Too rash?

Her father King Lorman used to say it was unwise to tempt fate too often. She had better stop counting the occasions, just in case.

She looked about for the umpteenth time. Nothing had changed. She floated in an upright position in an apparently endless place that consisted of white, cloudlike fluff – as best she could describe clouds that were at once somewhat cloudy without being cloudy enough. Her surrounds were featureless, odourless, yielded slightly to her movements, allowed visibility up to perhaps a dozen feet, and were a billion leagues more boring than the most tedious of Leandrial’s stories. Nothing happened. Nothing! There was no sound. No movement. And apparently – most peculiar of all – there was no sense of magic despite her indwelling the most powerful magical treasure ever known.

Fate of the Island-World? All-disrupting, illimitable font of magical energy? She would die of boredom first. The problem was that the rest of the planet would perish shortly after. That bothered her to action. Any action was better than none.

Was she being watched?

Zip turned a full circle – at least, what she thought was a full circle. Since the terrain was unchanging, she could not exactly tell save for her Dragon senses. She saw nothing.

Well, there was nothing for it. She would walk or float or swim. Whatever it took. Somewhere in this place there must be something, hopefully of the size and nature of an inhabited volcano and its denizens, or an Ancient Dragon … eggling? She was not certain. Surely she would have detected another draconic presence, especially one so humongously, mind-bendingly powerful as even a baby Fra’anior? Even if she walked in circles, she had nothing better to do. Scholars believed that these Eggs slowed down time within, allowing Dragons to travel between the stars. If so, she had approximately an eternity at her disposal.

Her babies needed their daddy.

These lost people and Dragons needed to be rebirthed. That said, giving birth to a volcano was not an image on which a pregnant woman might wish to dwell.

Zuziana made a silly face to cheer herself up. “Ew.”

She drifted further into the endless clouds, searching for answers.

* * * *

Fra’anior Cluster seemed to swell with increasing speed the nearer they drew to the famous volcano. The velocity was insane. Aranya had only ever approached Islands at a fraction of this speed. Iridiana was laughing as she played around inside the burning shield, which left a vapour and smoke trail in their wake as they hurtled toward a rim-wall gap. That was the only safe approach, Aranya deduced. She did not want to risk slowing too fast or changing their heading by more than fractions of a compass point at a time.

Sapphire chirped, Dragons come.

Aye! said Aranya. Indeed, there was a Dragon watch around the Cluster now. What would they make of this brazen assault?

This evening the Cloudlands surrounding the league-tall basaltic ramparts glowed golden in the setting suns, and the usually dark cliffs were burnished to a fine cupric sheen, making the rock resemble metals smelting in a furnace. The particle- and pollen-rich air caused the ambient light to diffract and diffuse spectacularly, creating a many-splendoured coronet over the inhabited rim Islands, especially over Ha’athior where a localised thunderstorm exhibited both stormy darkness and cheerful rainbows at its edges. Aranya pointed out and named the major Islands for Iridiana. The dragonets were also all awake now in her paw, and were making a suitably sage-sounding background chorus of chirrups and draconic purrs as she described the wonders of Fra’anior. They would not slow in time to visit the Palace, where she suspected King Beran might be located, but there also might be precedent for him having taken up residence at Gi’ishior’s Halls of the Dragons – if he had not already departed for Immadia.

Would he have brought Silha and the boys here?

A Dragonwing of a dozen Reds and Greens powered aloft from Ha’athior Island at the south-westerly corner of the Cluster, approaching diagonally from their left flank to intercept the intruders. Perhaps they misjudged the speed of approach. Aranya thought she might recognise a few of their number from amongst those Shapeshifters they had rescued from the caverns beneath Yorbik Island.

“I hope they don’t get into our airspace,” Iridiana worried as she pitched her voice over the low rumbling of their flight, voicing Aranya’s thoughts. “Shouldn’t we slow down?”

“I plan to find Dad – fast.”

“Can we talk about this?” Her sister flickered nervously through four forms as the Dragonwing fanned out.

“Tell you what, we’ll wave nicely as we rocket by.”

A frilly-winged pink dragonet with tourmaline edging on her scales peered suspiciously at the Amethyst Dragoness. “Exactly who am I speaking to? Aranya is always modelling the best behaviour. Aranya does not do mischief. Sapphire?”

Me? squeaked the other dragonet in affronted surprise. Not me, Iri!

“We have already decelerated considerably,” Aranya pointed out, “which is the reason for my heat suppression constructs. Now, may I elucidate –”

Iridiana’s head twizzled about. Four miles and closing. “How speedily we’re hurtling toward a deadly collision?”

“Not so.”

“Aranya!”

“Watch and learn.”

“Ooh, I’m not sure you’re my favourite sister anymore.”

“I’m your only sister. Hence, my favourite status is assured.”

Despite the banter, Aranya was observing the incoming Dragonwing closely. At this velocity the sonic shockwave would be phenomenal. If her calculations were correct, they had to be travelling in excess of 450 leagues per hour, or – her brain sizzled as she arrived at the figure – 2,200 feet per second! She could not even cry out to warn them. How fast was telepathy?

No time. Warning the Dragonwing on the mental level, Aranya reached out to cushion them with her Storm as she adjusted their flight path to pass between the Dragons. Jink! She shot between two Greens so speedily that the Dragons clearly lost sight of their quarry; all they saw a second later as they spun multiple times on their horizontal axes was the unrepentant wriggle of an Amethyst tail. Jaws dropped. Wings flared and snapped in consternation. Nothing and no-one treated Lesser Dragons with such impunity!

Aranya crowed, “How about that, Iri –”

“Island!”

She reacted before the word had fully formed in her sister’s larynx. Draconic prescience, perhaps, or the power of twin-ship of which they were barely beginning to scratch the surface. Multiple layers of air dampened their near-impact against Ha’athior’s flank; so closely did they approach the tip of the large Island, her wings brushed the foliage violently flattened by the winds of their passage. She had to correct twice more, once for a flight of dragonets and the second time to propel them into the rim-wall gap between Ha’athior and its neighbour.

A mauve-amethyst comet streaked over Fra’anior’s caldera, decelerating so hard that Aranya, Iridiana and Pip were mashed against the leading edge of their pneumatic shield. Orange sparks hissed past them, mere inches from noses and muzzles. The dragonets raised a chorus of protests.

Aranya twizzled her aching neck. “Whiplash.”

“Another massage, sister?”

“Let’s survive the landing first, shall we? Then you can mangle my bones.”

Never had a Dragon crossed the caldera in under ten minutes. Aranya understood that the speed record for flying from Gi’ishior to Ha’athior was owned by none other than Hualiama’s Grandion, the fabled Tourmaline Dragon, at fourteen minutes flat. She managed the crossing in less than two. She was forced to plumb the uncomfortable depths of her Storm powers to discover how to condense air into hailstones to help protect even Dragonkind from the ferocious friction-generated heat within their shield. Tan and grey volcanic gases swirled up from the simmering caldera floor, interspersed with nose-tingling whiffs of sulphur and acrid, scorched-mineral tangs. Iridiana’s dragonet muzzle seemed to want to twist itself into knots for all the gazing about she did, drinking in the smudge of the Human city and Palace to the East, the Dragonflights of guardian Lesser Dragons and Dragonships coursing between the Islands, and the colourful flocks of birds seeming to spring from every bush about the lush fringes overhanging the smouldering caldera. The slim cone of Gi’ishior’s volcano seemed almost to leap for the skies ahead of them, before settling as the Amethyst chose her preferred route of ingress – the cone, from above.

Nyahi chuckled, “You’re so wicked when you set your mind to it, aren’t you, Aranya! I can smell what you’re planning.”

“Me?”

“Yes. A sonic boom inside the volcano?”

“Would I?”

“Arrive in style. Princess to the core.”

“And, a calculated reminder to all those older Dragons whom I take after,” she added quietly. “Who we take after, sorry.” Aranya blinked as first the Pygmy girl and then Iridiana transformed once more; Pip into her Human form, and Iridiana into a long, snakelike dragonet that did not appear to have a mouth. Pip was still unconscious, but showing signs of stirring.

Gnrrr, her sister commented, clearly narked. How does this one eat?

Aranya said, A mystery for another day. I need to get this turn exactly right … she quickly touched Pip with her healing power. Strength to you, Pip. Hope this isn’t too much of a shock after all you’ve been through.

The girl moaned, Nak …

The watch Dragons atop Gi’ishior’s cone were bugling and roaring as Aranya brought them down at a sharp angle, performing another swerve that left her light-headed, and then the Dragons ducked as one as the sound wave struck them. BOOM!!

Somebody’s eager to see her daddy, Nyahi chortled inside her mind.

Aren’t you, petal?

Yes! Terrified, thrilled, overwhelmed … it’s all a great big muddle. The usual chaos.

The trio of Shapeshifters plus dragonets plunged past the orderly ranks of Dragon roosts in the upper parts of the volcano, rattling their gleaming crysglass windows and shivering the huge extrusions of gemstones that lent the light inside the volcano such extraordinary radiance, toward the pristine turquoise lake below. Aranya was determined to make this both an elegant entrance, and an occasion to remember. She braked smoothly yet powerfully, flaring out their shields to exponentially increase the friction while drawing heat away from their core.

The watchers must have thought it was a meteorite strike, perhaps, or an unknown form of attack. Dragons were still racing down from above or belatedly taking off from their perches all around as Aranya held her brood fast, and slammed to a halt mere feet above the lake. Curtains of foaming white water exploded hundreds of feet in every direction, thoroughly drenching what appeared to be a Human delegation just emerging from the great Meeting Hall doors. The disbelief writ on their faces was hilarious.

Suddenly, Aranya thought her behaviour reckless and rather silly. She missed Zuziana desperately. Maybe that was the reason. She would have said –

Nonsense, petal, Iridiana snorted. That’s what she’d tell you. Dragon drivel and ragion outgassing! Head high, shoulders back, and behave like you own the Island-World. Her tirade ended in a self-conscious giggle. At least, that’s what the ballads say Dragons are supposed to – oops – do.

Aranya eyed her new wrist decoration. This really is your defensive mode, isn’t it?

Sorry. Hard to control.

Suddenly, all three of Aranya’s hearts trout-flopped inside of her body. There! A familiar, bearded face appeared behind the posse of sodden dignitaries, moving past the shadows cast by the immense jalkwood doors into the intense afternoon suns-light.

She raised a fore-talon. “There, Iridiana. That’s our father.”

Her sister would have known – either by the look of relieved amazement on his face, or by the fact that the King of Immadia, casting aside any semblance of dignity, shouldered through the dignitaries and came sprinting down the stone path toward the lake yelling, “Aranya! Oh, my petal, Aranya!” at the top of his lungs. Madman! Only, that he was mad for love, that his father heart could not stand to be apart from her a second longer.

With a flick of her wings, Aranya darted toward him. She caught her father in her free forepaw and held him so close. Squeezed him. Sucked his fatherly scent deep into her nostrils. “Dad!”

“Hey, Sparky. Welcome back.”

“What’s it been, a week? Anyone would think you’d missed me.”

He laughed gruffly. “Ah, not so much. You just caught me by surprise, that’s all. Say, here’s Sapphire. And you’ve collected a few more dragonets. Swish jewellery, too – is that a Herimor piece? Is it changing shades to match your amethyst colouration?”

Iridiana could not speak.

“Dad, I –”

“Aranya!”

She turned with a laugh. “Nak! How are you? Do I ever have a surprise for you! And you, Dad.”

Nak came rattling down from the lower entrance to the Dragon Library, swinging his canes and stumping along at a startling speed for a man closing in on the eve of his second century of life. Click-clack! went the canes. Thwack! “Out of the way, whippersnapper!” Thud! “Make way for your elders and betters, thou odious guttersnipe! That’s my Dragoness!”

A Blue Dragoness reached out a helping paw. “Noble Dragon Rider, please be careful –”

“Fie, release mine appendage, thou crusty excuse for a daughter of sky and wind!”

Oh, Nak! Beran just stroked his neatly trimmed beard with an air of longsuffering. Aranya could only imagine; his eyes sparkled with good humour as he met her gaze.

The Dragoness huffed in consternation as she set Nak upon his feet. “Strength to thy paw, noble Rider Nak.”

“That I am, that I am,” he boasted gleefully, tottering and weaving rather alarmingly on down the path. The Dragoness tried to follow him discreetly, but he waved her back. “No, I’m fine. Let’s not make a song and a dance of it, o resplendent fire-snorter! I must hasty on, for my Princess awaits.”

Pip shifted in Aranya’s paw. “Nak?” she moaned.

From Nak’s perspective, as the Amethyst Dragoness raised her forepaw, it must have been as if Pip popped out of nowhere. His eyes bulged. Nak’s neck and throat writhed as though he had swallowed a live snake before he screamed, “Pip!” and promptly collapsed in a heap.

Aranya thought she had just slain him.

What a kerfuffle! The Dragoness’ nimble reactions caught him a talon’s-width from a potentially fatal concussion, every Human and Dragon in the vicinity started shouting and exclaiming in alarm, and after an excruciating thirty seconds or so, by which time a crowd of dozens had gathered around and over the venerable Dragon Rider, he sat up, griping, “Give a man some air! I’m fine, I said! Just a smidge tangled up in my canes, that’s all.” He patted himself all over before clearly remembering what had felled him. “Pip! Pipper-squeaker … my Pipsicle!”

She breathed again.

Pip just beamed as if she dared to split her own face apart for joy.

Then, Nak’s lips trembled. He quavered, “Thou, mine dusky love; o thou that wast lost and hath been found, o joy; thou precious treasure fresh liberated from Fra’anior’s own hoard! Can this be? Doth mine aged oculars deceive me? Surely ’tis but a dream, yet one so blindingly fair, I cannot believe its truth. Pip, is it thee?”

“It is I, Pip’úrth’l-iòlall-Yò’oótha,” trilled the girl.

Nak tried to rise, but his knees failed him. Instead, he just held out his arms, weeping piteously. “Thou, thou, thou …”

Pip leaped out to run to him, but her long-disused legs failed to bear her slight weight. Bracing the girl with a curved talon, Aranya whisked her over to Nak. She fell upon him making a strange, ululating cry as they embraced amidst a great flurry of jubilant shouts and bugles from the onlookers.

What a reunion! Aranya’s Dragon hearts had never felt fuller of joy that bubbled like a clear mountain brook in Immadia’s springtime. For this, she could have travelled to Herimor and back ten times over. Yet was Nak’s joy somehow fragile? He had never been able to hide his feelings. Aranya searched his eyes and his behaviour as he fussed over the Pygmy girl, wondering.

The Pygmy girl kept touching his face, crying, “Nak! I can’t believe … it’s been so long … dear Nak.”

He sniffled, “Thou, mine peerless flower, t’was the fullest agony of waiting.”

“You look … well,” she faltered.

“Aye, and you’re a pint-sized liar,” he laughed, rubbing fiercely at his eyes, before a sly grin twisted his lips. “Not every day I clasp a nude beauty in my arms, saith the Nak. What a perfectly delectable little pair of nates, I do declare –”

“Nak!” she slapped his hand sharply as it swooped with lascivious intent. “Behave yourself, you old reprobate. I am just … recovering. Where’s Oyda?”

His face fell. “Abed. Ill, my Pip.”

She searched his anguished, watering eyes. “How ill?”

“Dying. She’s –” Nak choked up helplessly, shaking his head and pawing at his throat.

Aranya reached out, feeling as if she were falling. “Nak …”

He mouthed, “Petal …”

“Can we see Oyda? Is she –” He nodded at once. “But, what’s wrong with her?”

An elderly draconic voice rasped, “She has an incurable condition, noble Star Dragoness. Pyrosanguinox consumption, it is called. Some claim it is the curse of Dragon Riders.”

“Nay, it is the ultimate honour for venerable Dragon Riders; Fra’anior’s holy seal upon their lives,” argued another Dragon, but Aranya barely heard the bickering that quickly consumed the Dragonkind. Rallying her little group, forgetting all else, she rushed to the infirmary where Oyda had been resting almost since Aranya had departed Fra’anior, Nak informed her. He did not complain about being carried this time.

They found Oyda propped up abed on a treble-thick pillow-roll in a bay sized to receive visitors of both the two-legged and the four-pawed kind. By the bright lamplight, her smile was serenity itself as she regarded the hubbub which briefly snarled up her doorway. Then, her eyes ignited. “Pip? Oh, Pip!”

“Aye, it is I.”

Elation shivered in both voices.

Aranya deposited the Pygmy girl at Oyda’s beside, shocked by the change in her friend. She looked wasted away; burning up from within. Her sunken cheeks were far too flushed. So hot was she, the sheets smouldered gently around her body. Yet her smooth, shining face belied her age. Although she appeared diminished, her skin displayed not a single wrinkle despite her pure white hair and emaciated limbs. Consumption. A pyretic fire of the blood? She had never heard of such an illness, perhaps because so few Dragon Riders reached Oyda and Nak’s grand age. Interestingly, Sapphire and her dragonets tucked in at the foot of the bed beneath a mound of extra blankets. Seven pairs of fire eyes looked on with alert interest.

“This is what I tarried for,” Oyda whispered, blinking back tears. Even her eyelids appeared too thin, rendered almost translucent by the magical flames lambent within her flesh. “For you, Pip, and Aranya; my two petals.”

Pip wailed, “What is this? She’s so … Aranya, you have the power – cure her, please! Oh please …”

“Don’t touch me! Not like that.” Oyda’s dry croak arrested them. “Any breath of magic would send me … beyond. I must … I want to hold you … both. A moment. Please, everyone … just … Pip … and my petal … Nak? Just my girls … understand?”

Her request was as good as a command. Shortly, with Nak having herded everyone out of the room and with the door slid to behind them, Aranya transformed, dislodging Nyahi without so much of a squeak of compliant, and then she, Pip and Sapphire climbed up onto the bed and lay beside their friend as Oyda, in broken sentences, spoke to them and over them. She assured them of her love and her peace at departing the Island-World. Her sickness was related to the magical bond between Dragons and their Riders, she said, as best Nak had been able to discover in the Dragon Library. She had unknowingly been affected by it for several decades as the magic burned brighter and her body slowly ran hotter and hotter.

“It doesn’t hurt at all, petal,” Oyda said, caressing Aranya’s cheek. “It’s like you used to tell me about how the fires rose inside of you, do you remember? These are Fra’anior’s own fires. I believe I’ll be called beyond to the place of Dragons – to the eternal fires – a belief which riles up some of those sticky-pawed philosophers out there like you would not believe. They say no Human should thus be honoured.” To Pip, she said, “I waited. I knew in my spirit that you would come to me at last, my precious Pip, and I wanted to say, I’m sorry for all the times I believed you never would. You two are my ultimate gift, the two faces I could not bear to depart without seeing one last time. I raised you both, my Shapeshifter daughters. And you, Sapphire, are the truest of friends. Fra’anior will reward you richly.”

Aranya feared to wet Oyda with her tears, but Pip had no such compunction. She was in floods. The old Dragon Rider shut her eyes again, breathing shallowly. Her pulse flickered urgently in her throat.

At length, Aranya whispered, “Could you stand one more gift, Oyda? A small surprise? I don’t mean to cause any anxiety.”

Nyahi breathed, Noooo, Aranya …

Oyda’s ever-bright eyes flicked open at once. “Who’s that?” Who spoke? Who are you, stranger?

Not … so much a stranger, the Chaos Shifter whispered bravely, trying to shift back into her Human form and failing.

Still, a grin briefly creased Oyda’s white-rimmed lips as she eyed the tall posy of dracofloral finery bending over her bed. Intriguing.

Nyahi sighed in irritation. Pop. Dragonet. Fizz! A beam of sparkling motes rebounded off the ceiling and landed in a glowing, mushroom-shaped heap on the far side of the bed. Honestly, can I not … in a flash, she was Human.

Iridiana regarded the Dragon Rider shyly askance. Oyda’s eyes danced upon her, before her throat bobbed with a sharp inhale. “Fra’anior’s holy beard hairs!” Then, a trill of pure joy escaped her lips. “Petal, who is this?”

Aranya could not resist. “A dusty old relic I dug up in Herimor.”

“Love you too,” Nyahi chuckled.

“She’s …” Oyda made an imperious gesture with her chin, clearly inviting the comparison between the two girls. “She’s … isn’t she?”

“Oyda, I’d like you to meet Iridiana, my twin sister.”

Never had she seen contentment to rival Oyda’s expression. A delighted frisson tingled up and down Arnya’s spine. Gift, accepted.

Chapter 27: Departing, We Ascend

ZUZIANA HAD IMAGINED that going walkabout inside the First Egg would cure her of all boredom. Not so. She was unimaginably fed up of nothingness. Even her sleep did not seem like real sleep. Closing her eyes, she watched endless cloudscapes until she slumbered, but woke again not feeling fully rested. She could not feel her babies.

She drifted forever, feeling nothing beneath her feet.

Aranya would have thought her way out of this, but Zip was having trouble coming up with something clever. She was struggling to think at all. Was this what it must have been like for the Pygmy Dragon – for one hundred and fifty years, a slow erosion of self-awareness and cognitive function? Frankly, the prospect terrified her.

Zip tried to push down the welling sense of panic, but she was just too concerned about her babies to think rationally. Hey! Hey, somebody – I need to see something in here! I’m going to go mad otherwise.

She turned slowly, looking in every direction, even up and down. Nothing.

I’m lonely and frightened, and I don’t want to die here.

Oppressive worlds of silence.

Look, if you are an Ancient Dragon – if you are alive inside this eggshell in some sense that I truly cannot understand – then you are a baby like these three babies in my womb. Aye! They are egglings, like you, as yet unformed and …

Zip caught her breath. Something had changed. Indefinably ineffably, she felt a presence coalescing about her – well, she could not rightly say how she knew. The sensation was neither physical, nor magical, nor psychic, as far as she could tell. It was akin to that inexplicable realisation which flashed across a chamber when one knew one was being watched. Aranya had her oath knowledge connection with Ardan which transcended ordinary, known laws. The best the lore scrolls could manage by way of description of oath magic was ‘magic more unfathomable than all other identified types.’ In other words, they had no clue.

She said softly, I am a Dragoness mother and I care deeply for my egglings, as your shell mother must have once cared for you. She – could she even assume that much of the Ancient Dragons? – cared so deeply about you, she launched you across time and space to a place of safety. This place is now threatened.

Stillness brooded about her, immeasurably profound.

Did they understand each other? Or did the creature sense something in her tone?

Swallowing hard, Zip ventured, If I could be in any measure a surrogate shell mother to thee, Great One – the mists quivered! Her words jumbled and knotted into a hopeless mess as an almighty presence burned briefly against her mind, but the fire was not consuming, but overpowering and feminine and fiery sweet in a curiously infantile yet fearsome way. Only before Fra’anior himself had Zuziana felt smaller; yet it did not seem menacing. Curious, perhaps. Certainly intelligent.

Before she could think upon it, the awareness of a presence vanished. Zip saw the mists shiver again, before they began to dissolve around her. High in the dissipating whiteness but dead ahead, she saw the unmistakable conical silhouette of a large volcano; before it, the hazy impression of a barren plain dotted with boulders. Boulders? Surely too spiky … as the scene resolved before her eyes, a choked-off sob ripped from her throat.

Zuziana slumped to her knees. No!

* * * *

Ardan addressed his impromptu council of war. “Alright. So we have six Cognates welded to the Rift path –”

“Double vacuum-sealed, sah, with additional magical binding elements,” Asturbar noted briskly.

“– right, vacuum sealed so that they cannot move an inch, with all the rest of us nicely hunkered down inside, taking shelter from Fra’anior knows how many Storm Elementals out there, and you’re telling me our strategy is to sit tight and hope they lose interest?”

His glare dared anyone to reply.

Gang snorted, “They are Elementals which feed on their own fury. Their very beings are fury. Who wants to wait a hundred years?”

“We are less than halfway across,” Ri’arion hissed.

The small chamber inside of Shin’tuy’tuy the Alabaster Cognate was a strange affair, a natural grotto inside the Land Dragon, which was shaped like a flat ovoid half a mile long by a quarter-mile wide. Three concentric, lower fringes protected its forty parallel rows of feet and provided structural integrity for the ultra-powerful vacuum seals. Locked down, nothing short of an earthquake could move a Cognate. All six sheltered the smaller Runner allies beneath their fringes, including the Thunderous Thirty, who had vanquished four Storm Elementals before the semi-intelligent creatures had struck back as a vengeful mob, ripping away dozens of allies and carrying them off into the Rift Storm, tossing them higher and higher with playful, cruel and ultimately lethal abandon.

Despite the cladding of Dragonhide within the chamber and the three hundred-foot thickness of armour without, the shrieking and bellowing chorus of the Elementals carried clearly to every ear. Wind and fire poured over the Cognates, but their allies – selected for precisely this purpose – stood firm.

Gritting his teeth, the Shadow said, “How do we escape this mess, people?”

Huari said, “Until they depart, we have to remain in lockdown. Otherwise, they could overturn even one of the Cognates.”

Not easily given our low, sleek body forms, fluted Shin’tuy’tuy, but the scenario is conceivable. Nay, o Shadow Dragon, our analysis points to one shining possibility. An opportunity. We must strike a bargain with the creatures that Infurion abandoned, the so-called Foam Riders.

“Ah, interesting,” Ardan replied.

The Cognate said, By my hive-brain and their subordinates, it is so. They must have experience with these Elementals, and moreover, we posit that his desertion leaves them vulnerable. Shadow, you are the only one who can depart our shells in our locked-down state. We understand that you can take some limited numbers with you?

“Aye.”

Our secondary strategy suggests, according to the data formerly calculated relating to your Shadow-abilities, that we might be able to formulate an offensive Shadow shield about a Cognate and thereby move one of our brethren at a time to the end of the Rift path.

“Earthen Fires disrupt my ability to Shadow,” Ardan noted.

Not if we Shadow the Elementals first, the Cognate suggested slyly.

“Clever!” Ardan said feelingly, a sentiment echoed by everyone within the chamber. “But, how do we propose to negate the disruptive elements?”

By disrupting the disruptors, naturally. Now, the mental prodigy just sounded smug. Ardan scowled. He also could not get used to calling it an ‘it,’ but since Cognates were genderless, that was the best way to refer to them. We have used this period to extensively analyse the structural magic behind both the Rift Storm and the beings of these Elementals. All magic, even that inimical to our kind, obeys certain laws, harmonies and interactions at the atomic level when interacting with matter –

Save the Star Dragoness’ inimitable fires, another Cognate put in deftly.

The other continued smoothly, Excellent point. All save Star Fires, obey these laws in order that magic, fire, storm or other physical vectors may even operate upon the fabric of our existence. By isolating the cause and effect factors, we have arrived at this analysis – it presented a simplified dataset to their minds, pausing for the Humans, Shapeshifters and Land Dragons to grasp its import – and while the underlying science is unproven, we believe the technique features great promise.

Huari said, “Can you imagine the implications for cross-Rift commerce? This is wonderful!”

“To the Pit middens with talk of commerce at this time,” Gang growled. “Dearly as I regard your fires, noble Huaricithe, unworthy speech itches my scales – my hide, whatever you call this Human … softness!”

She laughed gruffly. “Is that so, Gangurtharr?”

“Yes!”

Apparently his roar did little more than make her eyes sparkle. “Then, I accede.”

Tenting his fingers beneath his chin, Ri’arion said, “I say we do both, noble Shin’tuy’tuy. Synthesize this approach: we do not approach the metalloids out of pity, but out of desire to ally ourselves with their cause. We offer this new technique – a way of combating their mortal enemies forever after – as the cost of their protection now and in the future. It’s an elegant solution, I do believe.”

Unbelievable! hooted Shin’tuy’tuy.

The Cognates clamoured, How did we not synthesize this possibility? How did a mere Human outthink us? It is impossible! We are chastened. Aghast. We abase our fires, noble allies. We are unworthy.

Ri’arion shot back, “Now that is a faulty analysis, noble Dragons! I would never have arrived at your conclusions regarding this Earthen Fires magic. I merely extrapolated from your invaluable groundwork, without which I would have had nothing. This is a skill in which I had much training as the Nameless Man of Fra’anior.”

We … respectfully accept this reproof, the Cognates chorused.

Ardan clapped his hands together sharply. “Excellent! Sounds like we have the beginnings of a plan. Let’s flesh this out and get ourselves moving again. The Star needs us!”

* * * *

They spoke for as long as Oyda had strength, deep into the evening, with only the briefest of messages relayed without to palliate the curiosity of Gi’ishior’s denizens. The moment Nak poked his head in to see how ‘his girls’ were doing, Iridiana snapped into a dragonet form. Then King Beran pushed his way inside too, demanding a hug or three more from his girl, which had Nak grumbling about the youth of today who thought having a beard accorded them wisdom.

Pip softly bade them pull the door to again. Aranya agreed. These moments were far too precious to allow disturbance. Oyda, however, commanded that they show Beran his surprise; Aranya had him send for two of her outfits, much to her father’s vocal bemusement. They chatted and laughed like the old friends they were, and new, but she noticed how very soon Nak tired and made himself comfortable at Oyda’s side. He found her hand automatically. The aged Dragon Riders lay upon the heaped-up, soft pillow-rolls with their shoulders touching, heads nodding in unison as they reminisced despite their faulty memories and told hilarious stories about Aranya and Pip in equal measure – these seemed all too accurate, making both girls squirm.

Aranya’s heart felt full yet empty at the same time. Could it be? She knew what must come.

Pip was a delight, feisty and funny and deeply thoughtful all at once. She certainly had Nak’s measure! She had a habit of shaking her curls and the benefit of a pointy little Zuziana-chin that just made her look incredibly cute, given as she was barely a whisker shy of four feet tall as compared to Aranya’s six-foot-plus height, and she had to keep reminding herself that this Shapeshifter was not only no child, but a powerful Dragoness and a heroine.

With the arrival of the necessary clothing, Oyda flicked her head imperiously. “There’s the screen, youngling. Use it.”

“Yes, Oyda,” Aranya said meekly, and winked at Pip. “Hasn’t changed a bit, has she?”

“Rascal! Be off with you,” Oyda snorted.

“What’s she doing behind there with that dragonet?” Beran inquired as Aranya picked Nyahi up and slipped behind a dark jalkwood privacy screen at the end of the room.

Pip said, “Do you want to sit down, o King?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met formally, my lady,” said Beran, with a rustle of clothing that signalled a bow. “King Beran of Immadia. Longsuffering father of a Star Dragoness.”

“Dad!” Aranya smiled at Iridiana, who had finally managed to find her Human form again. She was so nervous! Do you like him?

Like him? Her sister wrinkled her nose humorously, but her pulse was flickering so fast in her throat, she was reminded of the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. Our father seems amazing and funny and I do love his smile, but, uh … will he –

Die? Hopefully not.

Iridiana burst into peals of laughter, making Beran call, “What’s so funny back there, Sparky?”

He doesn’t even know it’s you laughing, Nyahi.

Meantime, the Pygmy girl said, “I am Pip’úrth’l-iòlall-Yò’oótha of the Crescent Isles. Just call me Pip, o King. It’s easier. I’m an Onyx Shapeshifter, and Aranya tells me I’ve lived inside the First Egg for one hundred and fifty years. I am honoured to meet you.”

Beran said, “By the mountains of Immadia, is everyone around here older than me?” Over Nak’s hooting, he added, “The honour is mine. My daughter crossed the Island-World for you and those you love, but I understand there is unfinished business. We will overcome these tyrants, Pip. For you and for your Academy, you have this King’s word that we will move the heavens and this Island-World, and all five moons if necessary, to rescue those you and Nak and Oyda loved.”

“Thank you, o King.”

“And if ever you need a home, my door is open. It’s fiercely cold up North, Pip, but for you – always open.”

“My King.” Pip’s voice quavered.

Iridiana was examining the offerings of underwear. What’s with the length of these? Very nice material, however. Is this the famous Helyon silk?

It is. We’re conservative in Immadia, and the climate is cold. Come on. Not silky enough for Asturbar, are you thinking?

For that, she earned a funny look. Why, what does Ardan think of your taste in undies, darling sister?

Iridiana!

What?

You are so inappropriate.

With that, Aranya laced up the back of the floor-length, lavender and royal purple dress with relish and a firm hand, making Iridiana squirm and complain. She certainly filled out her dress much better than her scrawny sister, Aranya thought with a twinge of jealousy. Iridiana then returned the favour, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar fastenings while the silence on the other side of the screen, and the anticipation, deepened. Tie the face veil? No. Her father must see the resemblance right away. Aranya set it aside with a small sigh. Would this ever become easier?

Slippers, Iridiana.

How do I look? Will he – what will he say?

Nyahi’s telepathic tone pulsated erratically. Panicked. Aranya imagined waking her mother again. She would be unnerved, too! You’ll blow him away, she declared. “Everybody ready in there?” Taking her sister by the hand, Aranya looked her straight in the eye. You are a Princess of Immadia. You are about to make a King weep for joy. You will treasure this moment forever.

“Where’s my surprise, petal? Why the mystery?” Beran called.

“Ever since he met our mother, Dad’s been struggling to catch up with his Dragonesses,” Aranya breathed into her sister’s ear, and then she tugged Iridiana impulsively around the screen’s edge, saying, “Hey, Dad, what do you think of … this?”

Beran’s smile froze. His eyes flicked between the two girls, standing holding hands, and then traipsed somewhat frantically back and forth again, his features a study in bewilderment. The silence lengthened unbearably; how Nyahi held her composure, she had no idea. Aranya wished he would say something, anything; but suddenly framed within his welling eyes bloomed such an outpouring of fresh and fragile wonder, it was too much. Too much for either of them. Beran knew for certain what he beheld, and his conviction shone, but the mind simply baulked.

“Sparky …” he croaked at last, his lips quirking into a smile so vulnerable, it arrested her heart and carried it off to an Isle of unalloyed exultation. “Sparky, what on the Islands …”

“D-D-D –” Aranya stammered, overcome. “Dad. Uh – I …”

Iridiana squeezed her fingers gently, as if Aranya were the one who needed comfort. Perhaps she did.

Beran’s hand rose. “You – and this duplicate – girl, how?”

Tears clouded her vision. Aranya tried to choke through a few words, but her emotions were a hopeless mess, too hot and heavy to express. It was Oyda who said, “King Beran, this is Iridiana. She is your daughter – another daughter. It is a long tale, but what you see is the truth.” Poor man, he was rubbing his eyes as though suns-struck; as though this apparition must surely evaporate into the dawn mists. “Fra’anior himself has attested to the fact that Iridiana and Aranya are indeed twins. She is your long-lost daughter.”

“What?” he rasped. “I see the likeness, aye – who couldn’t! But …”

Nak echoed, “Your daughter – your who-so-what … huh? Aranya, my petal! How – this – this beauteous … goddess …” His voice trailed off into reverential awe. Nak was clearly smitten.

“A daughter? My daughter?”

Oyda whispered, “Just hold her, you silly man. Know her; love her …”

The King of Immadia seemed to have lost control of his limbs, for his body jerked as though seeking to step forward, but his immobile boots flouted his heart’s desire. A great, ragged shout broke unexpectedly from his throat, and he began to guffaw in a wild, half-sobbing half-exultant welter of jubilation, punching the air like a madman and capering about in – well, not the most elegant of dances, but certainly the most eloquent.

Beran flung out his arms and staggered toward his daughters, sputtering, “I’m just the happiest man – I don’t understand a jot – but – doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Oh, Dad!” Aranya exhaled.

“Dad!” Iridiana wailed.

Then he clasped them both, his daughters identically taller than he, and the King of Immadia buried his face between their shoulders, and time ceased to have meaning.

* * * *

Softly settled the night upon Gi’ishior’s cone, cloaking the inner cliffs and Dragon roosts with a starlit mantle, but this evening, its incipient tranquillity was rather rudely interrupted. Lights shone. Dragons babbled. Humans dashed hither and thither. The Dragon Library was a chaotic hubbub of voices, far removed from its usual musty reticence. The Star Dragoness had come! The need was urgent!

As yet, Aranya had communicated only that they needed to find out everything possible about the first Human Dragon Librarian in history, Auli-Ambar Ta’afaya. To say the Dragonkind were nonplussed by this request was akin to claiming the Moons were made of green Jeradian cheese. Despite the guidance that she had been a contemporary of Hualiama Dragonfriend herself, and indeed the holder of one of the most prestigious titles in Dragondom – the post of Dragon Librarian was no minor affair, being lesser in status to the Dragon Elders alone, besides demanding crucial talents in the political and diplomatic spheres – they could not bring themselves, stubborn, fiery pride and all, to believe it was even possible that a Human had ever held such an honour.

Aranya knew her name was being gnashed between many fangs this night. To her surprise, however, it was her Aunt Va’assia who had been her most vocal support, whipping and browbeating the Dragons into obedience.

“Have you forgotten who salvaged your mangy hides from the ravages of scale fungus and mould in those caves?” she bellowed. “To work! Slothful paws are Dramagon’s paws!”

Leaping Islands! Or did Va’assia secretly wish she would fall spectacularly on her scarred nose?

Right now, she had other concerns. Charging into Oyda’s sickbay, she skidded to a halt on her heels, panting, “Oyda! You’re standing up?”

Oyda held out her arms. “Petal. It is my time.”

Thunder crashed inside the volcano. “No!”

“Petal …”

“Oyda, no!” Aranya glanced frantically at Nak, who simply beckoned. He – the fire had infected him, too! “Nak, no, oh please, you can’t let her leave now.”

Nak’s eyes were too bright, radiant with a light Aranya both recognised and hated for what it would cost her. She groaned and shook, refusing for an unbearable second to accept that these dear friends, too, she must lose.

It was as if she heard Fra’anior whisper, These are mine. Let them depart, Aranya. Let them fly.

I know, but it hurts! Oh, Fra’anior, it hurts!

She ran to them now, trying her utmost to smile and be happy for them, but all that emerged from her throat was an inchoate whimpering sound. Nak held her as shocking gasps of grief wracked her person, and whispered his final farewell into her ear. Then she stooped to embrace Oyda too, bent with great age but never diminished, and breathed in the inimitable, complex redolence of Fra’anior’s own fires rising within her dear friend’s flesh. How impossible to relinquish those who had guided her from the very beginning, but she must.

Aranya stepped back, finding at last within her being a smile of peace so lucid, it transcended understanding. She ushered the others with her arms, whispering, Back, back. And then she cried in a great voice, O FRA’ANIOR, RECEIVE THOU THE SOULS OF THY SERVANTS!

Was it her that thundered, or her ancestor’s almighty larynxes?

Beran and Iridiana beside her, and Pip before them, retreated in step with Aranya toward the doorway as the room began to grow more and more brilliant, and she dimly heard exclamations in the receiving and service area behind the row of bays. She could not tear her eyes off the Dragon Rider couple. Oyda was smiling and waving gently, while Nak called:

“Love you, Pip, Aranya, Iridiana … tell that Remoyan she is the splendour of her Isle, and should I have had the chance, I would have smooched her breathless …”

Nak’s voice disappeared as a crackling and roaring as of a bonfire filled the room, yet it burned nothing; their faces were so suffused with draconic white fires, Aranya had to shade her eyes even as she reflexively drew up a shield to protect the onlookers. There was no heat, just the unbearable brilliance, but she could not stand to look away, for it seemed now that Nak and Oyda, embracing, looked through her and beyond her into eternity. Elation ignited their visages.

Shimmerith, o my Shimmerith! cried Nak.

Oyda crooned, Emblazon, you came when I called, noble wing brother!

Aranya swung around to look as a sound like the wuthering of wind over Dragon wings rushed overhead from behind her. Nothing? Yet as she swivelled again to the fore it was to be greeted by a perfect storm of laughter, deep belling notes that thrilled the soul mingled with soft chuckles like glissades of notes played upon tubular bells, and the old people were caught up in a breathless tangle of paws and tails and hands stroking ethereal scales. Tourmaline and deeper blue notes played amidst the brilliance. Then, a gathering vortex of white fires caught them up into the air. They rose as if her shield was not present. Indeed, by their light Aranya saw right through the infirmary’s rock ceiling and the many layers of tunnels and roosts above, all the way to the skies.

The foursome of Dragons and Riders seared into the sky in an Iridiana-like comet that left a silvery smear across Aranya’s retinae.

She dug her knuckles into her aching eyes. The room was dark, the bedclothes apparently undisturbed. The scent that rose to her nostrils was charred cinnamon mingled with lilies and fireflower. Of Nak and Oyda, there was no sign.

Aranya found that she was on her knees. “Fra’anior? Do I now believe in an afterlife?”

Beran’s hand clasped her shoulder warmly. “Aye, Sparky.”

Chapter 28: In Storage

THE CONFLICT SCORCHED the Rift for hundreds of leagues about as Ardan and his group took the battle to the Storm Elementals with a vengeance. The Foam Riders were more resourceful than Ardan had imagined, and certainly more exercised in terms of seeking revenge for what, within the limitations of their shared language, they understood had been Infurion’s tactic of sacrificing the Foam Riders’ life force in order to placate the Storm Elementals so that they did not club together and overwhelm him.

Rebellion had been simmering for many decades. With the departure of their de facto god, the Foam Riders were released into a killing frenzy.

Turbulent thunderheads of dark-rimmed fire surged and assembled at every point of the compass around Ardan’s group of brave Cognates as they sprinted at four leagues per hour along the Rift walkway. The Storm Elementals were roused, and they flung themselves upon the invaders in successive waves of thrashing, fiery protodraconic muzzles, limbs and talons, creating a thundering and a roaring like tens of thousands of waterfalls all crashing down at once. In response hundreds of the great molten metallic plates hurtled high through the fires, each casting a disruptive force – or an anti-disruptive force, Ri’arion had to point out – that cleaved clear channels through the Storm Elementals. If they could disrupt one being enough, that was sufficient to dispel their life force, the Foam Riders had declared. The Elementals reformed only slowly. Ardan understood that their future plan was to regularly patrol their environs in an attempt to subdue the bourgeoning population of Storm Elementals.

The Storm Elementals fought back in fast-moving packs of leagues-tall billows of crimson fury, their voices shattering the air again and again with the rallying cry of their fury. Waves of fire beat down upon the Cognates, sheeting off their low carapaces and rocking them violently side-to-side. Ri’arion, sitting cross-legged with his eyes shut and his hands resting in his lap, had been obliged to add kinetic stabilising elements to their anti-disruptive shielding, which so far had held firm. Mostly. Relaxed as he appeared, the ex-monk was streaked with sweat, groaning and twitching from time to time as he singlehandedly held their mental alliance together.

Ardan pursed his lips. Clearly, warriors could fight with more than merely physical weapons.

Across from him in the small Dragonhide chamber, Asturbar was marching up and down, clearly itching to sink his oversized battle-axe into someone or something. He knew that feeling.

Walking over, Ardan clasped the man’s massive forearm. “Come on. Let’s see if you have mental muscles to match that frame.”

Asturbar’s brow drew down. “What do you mean by that, Shadow?”

“Well, not the insult you seem wont to take,” he replied. “If I were to condescend, I’d say, ‘All you need to understand inside that armoured Azingloriax cranium is that this is how we reach Iridiana faster.’ Eh?”

A slow smile broke across that broad visage. “Yes. And I know I’m talking to a man of literally no substance. How does that sit with you?”

“Badly!” Ardan laughed, and said, “Although, you could stand to change those soldier socks at least once a year. Iridiana will be extremely grateful that I’ve appraised you of the situation. It’s when the fungus starts oozing out of the tops of your boots –”

“Huh. Did you barbarians never discover the revolutionary notion that is bathing? You can tell by the way insects keel over and perish as they buzz past your armpits …”

Both men guffawed, buffeted each other upon the shoulder and said simultaneously, “To work!”

* * * *

Aranya gazed around the tiny chamber curiously. The girl – if girl she had been, which seemed plausible given the Human-sized dimensions of this servant’s chamber – had been remarkably difficult to track down. Suspiciously remarkably, Head Librarian Sizmatizara, a Corundum-Topaz scholar Dragoness originally hailing from a small roost-Isle East of Helyon, had joked in her dry, ravaged whisper resulting from a throat wound delivered by none other than Garthion himself. Almost as if Auli-Ambar had deliberately elided certain key records, such as any hints pertaining to her actual existence.

Why?

Naturally, a royal of her unquestionable integrity had immediately resorted to cheating – cough, splutter – make that, using her connections and skills to shortcut her way to a solution. Hualiama had also been remarkably-suspiciously economical with answers, but she had her reasons, she claimed.

“A girl, aye, but one of most unusual heritage,” Aranya repeated to herself, trying not to grow any further steamed at the paucity of the Dragonfriend’s helpfulness. “Fra’aniorian father and Pykolese mother. Pykolese? Where on the Islands is that from? Blind from birth. Outstandingly gifted in the scholarly arts, responsible for keeping none other than my dear Aunt alive in her infancy – a useful service indeed – and possessed of a brand of magic no-one has ever heard of before or since, her two most notable skills being, firstly, the ability to sing and play musical magic and secondly, the curse of making everyone around her summarily forget her very existence.”

Magic that modified physical records created and overseen by the most meticulous Dragon scholars and administrators? Aranya sniffed unhappily. Not that they had a shred of evidence or proof to support this accusation, save that Fra’anior and Hualiama both claimed she had existed and the records simply did not.

Guilty by reason of absentia?

She muttered, “Still, our Auli-Ambar was bonded with a certain Arkurion the Mercury Blue of Tanstoy Dragon Roost in the South. That argues Shapeshifter, doesn’t it? And now I’m supposed to locate the non-existent Scrolls of Fire somewhere in the internecine, secretive Halls of the Dragons, which will recount Miss Invisible’s story and hopefully give us a clue as to how to fly to the Mystic Moon. Quite the scholar, if that’s a trick she’s been hiding up her little sleeve.”

Aranya gazed around the chamber, wondering what she was missing or where they were supposed to search. Mostly, she chafed at her relatives’ obfuscations. ‘Prophetic necessity, gnarr gnarr,’ she chuntered dolefully, drawing a low chuckle from the doorway – Iridiana had returned. “A blind Librarian – Fra’anior’s beard! What enigmas does he have me chasing now?”

“Talking to ourselves, sister?” Iridiana teased.

“Talking to you is like talking to me.”

“Just have to colour my hair crazy, right?”

Aranya puffed out her cheeks. “Help me case the place, would you?”

“Case? Is that Immadian for, ‘Rifle through someone’s private belongings?’ ”

“Gaah! And I thought Zuziana was the only one who played the tit-for-tat question game. Aye! Put those hands and your magic to work.”

An hour later, the twins were convinced they had absolutely zero chance of finding anything useful in Auli-Ambar’s old, very empty chamber. They had checked under the small built-in bed, examined the frame meticulously, turned the plain wooden dresser inside out and upside down, and even spent rather more quality time with the bathroom plumbing than might have been expected from a pair of Princesses. The room was bare, slightly dusty and entirely devoid of items, magical or otherwise. It looked exactly as a room unoccupied for the last five hundred years ought to look.

Eventually, Iridiana settled back on her heels, addressing Aranya over the toilet bowl. “We’re hunting for dragonets on the wrong Isle. Tell me everything Hualiama said, again.”

“Again?”

So she did. Verbatim. With extra vigour, given as the hour was by now very late, and she felt wrung out after the high emotions surrounding Nak and Oyda’s departure.

“Hold on.” Iridiana touched her arm. “Auli was musical, right?

“Dragonharp.”

“Right. Are you thinking what I am –”

“Aye. Music is a key component of her magic – and who taught her?”

“There’s a harp –”

“In the Concert Cavern – is it big?”

“Sister, are Dragons big?” Iridiana chuckled richly. “Pollen head. No Human could possibly play that instrument down there. I mean, even the foot pedals are Dragon-sized.”

“So she had a smaller one.”

“Hualiama said Auli-Ambar played for her at the Palace, which implies transportability.”

Aranya clapped her hands excitedly. “The Hall storage?”

“And the music records!”

Va’assia! Ja’arrion! Aranya called mentally. Summon the music historians – uh, if we have any left, that is.

Iridiana put in, And have the scholars check the records for any notable musicians who might have taught Auli-Ambar around the time of Head Librarian Sazutharr –

Aranya added, Also, let’s check the length of his tenure against –

– his death date –

– and have them cross-check everything.

The girls glanced at each other as Ja’arrion said dryly, Mental twins, eh? It’s like talking to the same person, despite the differences in your auras. Right. Leave it with me.

From their location, Aranya and Iridiana had a long walk, traversing a good two-fifths of the volcano’s circumference and descending all the way down from the prestigious roost levels to the below-ground Concert Cavern. Lanterns lit the stone-carved corridors at regular intervals. By following the embossed metal plaques at major junctions, they could easily tell which level, segment and corridor number they were in despite being relative newcomers to the Halls.

Iridiana touched one. “Look at how the text is raised, Aranya.”

“Almost as if –”

“Yes. We know the Halls had a major redesign around that time. They wouldn’t add these features for just any blind girl, would they?”

“How would she read ink on scrolleaf, Iridiana?”

“Ooh … must be magic,” her sister replied in a sepulchral tone, prodding Aranya in the ribs.

“Don’t tickle me.”

“Say, urgent clarification. Does being a Princess come with a decent shopping budget?”

“Uh … aye? We can ask Dad. Why, what do you need?”

“Oh no, it’s a you-need issue. Tell me, does the capital possess any boutiques that might sell underwear rated as less than ‘my ancient granny’s best?’ ”

“Iridiana!”

“Poor Ardan!” Iridiana pouted, shaking her head with mock-gravity. “Seriously, Miss ice-britches, have some pity on the man –”

Blushing, Aranya spluttered, “I am not icy – you are so mean!”

Nyahi said innocently, “Oh, no ice? Then what do you have down there, sister?” Miming an explosion with her hands, she mouthed, ‘Fire!’

“Iridiana!” Aranya’s blush did exactly that. It had been many months since she had ignited whirlwinds of fire around her, but her twin’s teasing slipped right through her vaunted self-control and fanned her every flame.

The Halls were neatly arranged in a slightly irregular heptagon around the central lake, with a logical structure of connecting passages designed for draconic or Human traffic, or both, running in both the vertical and horizontal dimensions. Accustomed to multitasking, Aranya had the scholars checking the plans meantime for Auli-Ambar’s fingerprint. They immediately replied that the layout improvements were attributed to a certain Arkurion the Mercury Blue, who was not otherwise reputed to have an architectural bone in his body.

“Hmm,” said Iridiana, miming stroking a beard.

“Indeed,” Aranya agreed.

Meeting up with Beran on level twelve, who avowed an inability to sleep due to the excitement, the trio rapidly descended through the levels to the lower working areas of the Halls, and then took a major spoke around to the Concert Cavern’s entrance. Here the newly appointed Human Chief Scrollkeeper of Gi’ishior, a direct seventeenth-generation descendant of Master Chamzu who had held the post at the time of Hualiama Dragonfriend, met them with his special keyring of magical master keys – such a variety, Iridiana’s eyes popped and Beran gave a snort of appreciation.

The King said, “A king’s ransom in gemstones and rare metals there, Master Abazan.”

“Aye,” said Abazan in his stuffy, cultured bass, selecting a ruby key from the keyring. It measured almost three feet long, a perfectly sculpted piece of draconic artwork in the form of flaming talon. “This is a place I most especially love.”

“Girls, Master Abazan is also a renowned singer and more than a decent hand upon the Franxxian ten-stringed Sykamîti zither.”

“Prince Ta’armion is my superior in matters of voice,” demurred the Master, essaying an obsequious bow with a mere four hand twirls – pithy, by Fra’aniorian standards. Nyahi’s eyebrows peaked.

“Ta’armion! Lyriela – we have a cousin I haven’t told you about!” Aranya exclaimed. “She’s also a Shapeshifter, Iridiana, and –”

“And she’s winging over with the noble Prince as we speak,” Beran said dryly. “Lyriela is a master harpist worthy of the title, Iridiana. She’s utterly agog to meet you, I understand from Va’assia’s partial relayed message – conditions over the caldera being poor tonight given as someone apparently called in a thunderstorm.”

“Ah,” said Aranya, colouring. “Dad, are Silha and the boys here? What about Leanya? Is she well?”

“They’re two days away by Dragonship, with a Dragon escort,” he replied. “The family’s well, last I heard.”

“Escort?”

“Times are not easy, despite the camaraderie we enjoy around these Halls, Aranya,” her father said gravely, and she knew she must question him on the subject when she had a chance.

“Dissenters scrambling for power after Sylakia’s fall, Dad, or rogue Shapeshifters?”

“Both, petal,” he said curtly. Something in his tone made her glance at the Chief Scrollkeeper, whose spine appeared to have been instantly petrified by the tone or content of her question. Strange. Here were threads of politics she did not begin to grasp. Why was her father playing this role around the Chief Scrollkeeper, unless a young rogue of a King might have had dealings with him in the past? Interesting.

Father’s anger is not directed at us, she reassured Iridiana.

The dark locks bobbed. How is it that you read me so well already, sister heart?

Could be something to do with you being both my sister and my heart? Aranya suggested. Look at how proudly Dad watches you; how he cannot –

“Sparky, are you two jabbering behind an old king’s back?”

“Uh … sorry, Father.”

Beran’s hearty chuckle echoed in the Concert Cavern’s wide entryway. “When Aranya knows she’s been naughty, Iridiana, she still calls me Father.” Aranya let out an exasperated hiss, and another when he swatted her backside fondly. “Aye, I’m still your Dad and I can still reach despite you growing so confounded tall. Right, Iridiana?”

She yelped as he did the same to her. “What –”

“First time for everything,” he returned boldly, with a rakish grin that Aranya imagined might just have been the one which swept her mother off the Isle.

Iridiana’s silvery-blue cheeks developed a distinct hint of rose.

With that, the key turned soundlessly in the lock and tall Abazan, impeccably clad in his formal turquoise robes of office despite the late hour, pressed the immense jalkwood panels apart. They moved soundlessly upon runners, fifty feet tall and two feet thick, but were so perfectly balanced that a touch of the hand was enough. The gap that eventually opened was over two hundred feet wide.

The hall within was a substantial, large oval with one wall to their left hand cut straight, while to their right hand, tiers of seating rose many ranks tall toward the back of the space. Even their breathing echoed, but Aranya understood that both the architecture and innate magic in the surrounding stone rendered the space acoustically perfect once a performer took the stage. She scanned the hall curiously. Odd. Was there a tracery of horiatite in the walls? Without thinking, she raised her hands.

“Star Dragoness!” the Chief Scrollkeeper hissed. “Magic is forbidden in this space.”

“Oh.”

“It would disturb the balance of the ancient runes and wards used during its construction. Understood?” When she nodded pensively, the severity of his frown lifted a fraction. “Upon the stage is the main Dragonharp, commissioned by none other than Zanthrillior himself, upon which only the most celebrated Dragon musicians play.”

Indeed, the towering X-shaped instrument was as large as Zuziana’s Dragoness, and appeared to have no less than a thousand strings. It was clearly meant to be played by a Dragon standing in the unusual position of upright on their hind legs, while the forepaws worked the strings in tandem. The whole Dragonharp was carved from a single, monolithic hunk of highly polished ooliti wood, set with garnets, carnelians and emeralds in patterns symbolising the scales of Estathya the Pearlescent, younger shell sister to Fra’anior himself, who was famously the Dragoness of Many Colours, Abazan explained in resonant, reverential tones as they approached, sounding as if he were quoting from a lore scroll. Clearly, no girl could have played this instrument. Ten girls furnished with ladders might have stood a chance.

The Master, however, led them right around the stage area and on to a similar door set at the far side of the chamber – the main store of musical instruments at Gi’ishior, he pontificated, producing yet another magnificent specimen of a key.

Naughty, naughty, Iridiana goaded her sister meantime.

I … just … I don’t know what I was thinking, Nyahi.

Obviously – I mean, hold that thought, petal. Aranya blinked. You need to learn to trust your instincts more and not bow so easily to some pompous fusty-head.

Iridiana!

Can’t help it. Pure Chaos runs in my bloodstream. Now, if you were embarrassed before …

What?

As these doors creaked open rather more reluctantly than the previous pair, Aranya’s eyes roamed down a passageway that led between racks of musical instruments to her left hand and to her right, a wide space holding harps, tubular bells, Dragon horns and other historic instruments. Slap in the middle of that space, her eyes lit upon a familiar coterie of snoozing dragonet rascals!

The Chief Scrollkeeper spat, “What is this?”

* * * *

Zuziana wandered the battlefield wishing that she dreamed. In all the conflict she had witnessed while fighting at Aranya’s side or as her Dragon Rider, she had never seen the aftermath as close and visceral as this. Dragons torn limb from limb. Golden Dragon blood, dry yet as vivid as the day it spilled from throats and flanks, had run in rivers across a dusty plain. As far as the eye could see, Dragon and Human fallen littered the landscape.

So brutal was the scene, she had slumped to her knees clutching her belly, fearing that the pangs she felt must mean premature labour. Not so. Here she was, sole living witness to a battle frozen in time.

Nothing moved.

There were no windrocs nor any other carrion birds to pick over the spoils, nor indeed a sign that anything had endured so much as a day’s decay since that fateful moment the Pygmy Dragoness had drawn them inside the Egg, and trapped herself too.

Her feet stumbled through the ashes of draconic fires. She meandered past legion Lesser Dragons of an unfamiliar sooty black-crimson hue, their spine and skull spikes sticking up garishly, almost obscenely, as though a vile force of magic had wrenched them into a different, thornier and altogether more malevolent aspect. There was no charnel smell. No stench of rotting flesh. Every Dragon lay unmoving where he or she had fallen, as though slain by a single, all-encompassing heart attack.

Hibernating, or dead?

Zuziana might not be alive as most people understood it, but she could cry. As she walked slowly around a knot of Night-Red Dragons and Greens, lying as if casually tossed in a heap, she had to keep rubbing blurriness out of her vision. Ahead lay the volcano which housed the famous Dragon Rider Academy of Jeradia, its black slopes littered with the tiny specks of Human bodies and the larger blobs of Dragons and other creatures she did not recognise. The battle appeared to have a pattern; she realised that she had instinctively set out for its epicentre.

Suddenly, Zip yelped as she almost lost her balance. A paw print! Wow, it had to be ten feet deep – driven into solid stone! That would have been a nasty fall.

Leandrial had been here. Of course.

Skirting the immense print, she began to pay closer attention to the scattered Dragons. Not all were dead, were they? It was more as if they had been frozen by the magic; cast into a strange state of hibernation that slowed physical and biological processes to an amazing degree. Even a bombardier beetle she saw next to a dusty red stone had been ossified mid-step – well, some process similar to ossification, she supposed. If the Pygmy Dragoness had come out alive then there must be others – not that Dragon, its neck skewed at an impossible angle – but many seemed to have taken little significant damage, and a few appeared unhurt at all.

Where would Pip’s allies have been? Would she find this Silver, who she guessed must be a Dragon?

Zip pursed her lips. Could she hope to raise even some of these in time to take the battle to the Thoralians when the time came? Now, there was a bold thought. She had a whole army in storage here, and Aranya had once dared to call her General Zuziana.

The title had a nice ring to it.

The kind of ring with which to wring a Yellow-White Shapeshifter’s neck!

* * * *

Took Ari longest time, Sapphire explained apologetically.

Ari is not cross – she drew a mental breath – but that man is. How did you know we were coming here?

Sapphire has ways, the dragonet said archly. Sapphire clever-wings, aye?

“Well?” sniffed Abazan.

“Frankly, I have no idea,” Aranya responded evenly. “Dragonets know a great deal more than we give them credit for.”

The Chief Scrollkeeper’s expression suggested that young women should not be pert.

Struggling to keep her cool, Aranya said, “Chief Scrollkeeper, I would like you to direct us to all the Human-sized Dragonharps, please. One of these must have belonged to Auli-Ambar, the –”

“The non-existent Dragon Librarian?” he interrupted.

“Aye. That’s who we –”

“And what shall we do about these creatures who you allow to roam unattended –”

ABAZAN!!

The man stumbled backward in shock. So did her father. Iridiana snapped through three form changes before managing to reinsert herself perfectly into her clothing before it had time to crumple to the ground. Aranya wished she knew that trick!

Through gritted teeth, she said, “Much as it pains your sensibilities, Chief Scrollkeeper, I am more concerned with the fate of the Island-World than with the doings of dragonets or the nuances of whatever protocol I appear to have flouted in your eyes. Can we please get to the harps? Now?”

“King Beran …” the man began.

Beran’s eyes were as flinty as she had ever seen them. “I’m with Aranya, Master Abazan. Stop wasting our time!”

Phew. Her Dad could snap like a Dragon when it suited!

Abazan was clearly not used to being treated in this manner. Aranya realised that he most likely did not believe half of their story; his role was largely focussed on the preservation of tradition around these Halls, but only over the last couple of months had he been required to deal with the previously unthinkable return of the Dragons, and all the politics, hassle, fiery tempers, demands and suchlike that entailed.

With a pained jerk, he turned away. “This way. They are not many.”

Aranya stayed him with a hand upon his sleeve. “Master Abazan. Much has changed here of late. When you have time, I would like to hear your thoughts on how best to organise these Halls. I hope to usher in an influx of many, many more Dragons. That will upset the balance of power again, and I can only imagine how hard these last months have been on you and your staff. Partly, that’s my fault.”

He glanced back at her in surprise.

“I’m young, stuffed to the ear canals with power, and all these Dragons have to listen to me. I can make your life very much easier – in fact, I’m offering to do so by way of apology. Just as soon as we finish spoiling Dramagon’s plans.”

Evidently not daring to make any reply save a curt nod, the Master led them at a smart clip past the dragonets, who immediately mobbed Aranya with little chirrups of joy, down past the towering full-size Dragonharps to a section much deeper in the stores. Here, they came to a quintet of vault doors recessed into the solid stone, each round metal portal a markedly different colour – ruby, amethyst, white chalcedony, peridot and mellow azure, she saw.

Abazan said, “There is only one one-eighth size instrument which Zanthrillior restored by his own paw in the purported time of the Dragonfriend, and that is held in this vault here. Tradition holds that this is the selfsame instrument which once graced the chamber of Sankira the Grey, who even as a hatchling displayed an unparalleled affinity for music.” Touching a selection of small keys to the vault door in a clearly rehearsed sequence, he added, “The instrument is now in excess of 1,700 years old. I trust –”

“You have my word,” said Aranya.

“Thank you.”

With that, the vault door shimmered and vanished, revealing a low, deep chamber lit by draconic mage lights. A puff of stale air struck their nostrils. Standard hand harps, great harps and small-scale Dragonharps lined either wall in exacting order, perhaps eighty to a hundred instruments in all, with plenty of room to spare. All were in perfect repair.

Pointing ahead to their left, Iridiana said, “It’s that one.”

“Aye, you can feel it!” enthused the Master. “The magic, the touch … we know not how it was done, but this instrument exhibits a brand of magic which has defeated every Loremaster or scholar who has ever studied it.”

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.

Three of the mites promptly fell asleep right there in the palm of her hand. With her fingernail, Aranya scratched absently behind their tiny skull ruffs where dragonets liked it best. Suddenly, her other hand jerked and she spilled her half-drunk goblet of cordial across the table.

“Ardan? Ardan!”

Everyone turned to stare.

Aranya did not care that she had cried out aloud. Using prearranged code words, she conversed quickly with him as best the distance allowed, which was poorly indeed, trying to brief him on their progress. She had just begun to allude to Zuziana’s perilous situation when the communication broke off as though an invisible door had been slammed shut. Foul play? Was that faint, fading signature Infurion’s cunning intervention? Opening her eyes, Aranya relayed what she had learned to the table – that Ardan, Asturbar and Ri’arion safely crossed the Rift with damaging losses to their allies; most particularly, Leandrial had been severely injured.

Tines dropped and appetites faded in the light of her report. Ta’armion led the charge back to the Concert Cavern for a full run-through.

* * * *

The Remoyan Princess threaded her way across the battlefield with purpose. Somewhere amidst this snarl must be a few Dragon Riders. They would be allies from the Academy. Several times she had to skirt the mighty paw prints left by the Land Dragons who had fought here, Leandrial and the traitor Shurgal. More than one imprint had become a grave for a flattened Lesser Dragon or two. She averted her eyes from the most gruesome sights, such as where it seemed one of the behemoths must have rolled over hundreds of Dragons and Human troops locked in battle on the ground.

At one point as she looked behind her, she saw a floating Island that looked just like one from Herimor – Eridoon, she realised, the Marshal’s stronghold from which he had staged his devastation of the North. The ragions beneath had been severely fire-blasted, but the Island still floated in the apparent ‘sky’, if the white blankness surrounding this scene, lending it a dreamlike cast, could be called such. Only Zuziana knew this was real. All too real. And it was up to her, who had not the slightest breath of healing power, to start reviving these people and Dragons.

“Oho!” Zip crowed softly as she spotted a Dragon Rider pair. “Excellent.”

She walked past Dragons and Riders now, dozens who had been surrounded by these Night-Reds before everyone simply lay down together, until she found several for whom Leandrial and Nak’s faulty memories had nonetheless supplied names.

Here lay the unmistakable Kassik the Brown, a thickset Brown Shapeshifter and Master of the Academy, and to Nak’s risqué amusement, his student beloved, Casitha, clasped in his forepaw. Nak had delighted in pointing out how entirely inappropriate their relationship was. And here must be Emmaraz the Red and his Eastern Rider, Maylin! Aye! Half covered by Emmaraz’s outspread wing lay the Jade hatchling, Chymasion, who Nak had recalled had unique Catalytic powers – the cause of much speculation since. Now where was his Rider, Arosia, who had been Pip’s closest friend since she had lived in the zoo? There, a dozen yards further on, lay a young beauty with honey-brown hair splayed about her like a misplaced blanket. She could simply have been asleep, her serene face upturned to the sky.

“Arosia,” Zip whispered. “And here is Yaethi of Helyon. Must be. Ah …”

A refulgent lump of silver resting several tens of paces away arrested her gaze; a striking yet misshapen ingot, slumped in a way that made her hand flutter instantly to her throat. Pip’s question – Silver? There could be no mistaking such a singular colouration. Yet, the young Dragon lay so crumpled, folded up like a ghastly replica of a spiced pretzel cake so beloved of her native Remoy …

Silver! Oh no. Oh great Fra’anior, please – no!

Zip lurched into a run.

Chapter 30: Ascending, We Shine

Aranya frowned at Abazan, who frowned at Lyriela, who frowned at her husband. Frustration etched every forehead.

Prince Ta’armion scratched his beard thoughtfully. “ ’Twas boldly and ably sung, but I sense a lamentable lack of reaction in this hall. Excellent descant work by the dragonets, close to note perfect on the Dragonharps, and the vocal section held together – mostly.”

Iridiana winced. “My fault.”

The Chief Scrollkeeper crooked a finger at Aranya. “Young lady. Come play this harp.”

“Me? But my hands –”

Beran said, “Sparky, Sparkles, both pairs of hands to the well crank. We’ll take any advantage we can get. Dad’s orders!” When they turned identically quirky looks upon him, he added, “Couldn’t resist.”

Shortly, the haunting opening passages of the Flame Cycle were once again underway, with Aranya picking out a line of music – having to use two hands to reach the long, spidering chords due to her gnarled fingers. Iridiana stood behind her, resting one hand upon her shoulder and the other upon the harp’s frame. Abazan coached from the side, mouthing, ‘G-sharp is here. E-major. Watch out for the diminished chord coming up …’ He also played the foot pedals because Aranya was preoccupied enough with trying to find the right strings as she followed along. Maybe she should be more thankful, to use Beran’s words, for her ‘proper royal tutelage’ in the musical arts. How she had once chafed at her mother’s instruction!

When you wake, Mom, I’ll thank you properly for putting up with a stroppy, ungrateful daughter.

How time changed one’s perspectives, growing up.

Her emotions seemed to gush from her soul into her fingers, enabling them to find greater touch and deftness than before. Deep into the second movement, however, her neck began to prickle with unfamiliar magic. Her crow of delight instantly chased it away. Nodding encouragement at the others, she bent to her task, trying by any means possible to elicit a response.

Auli. Auli-Ambar Ta’afaya. Even her family name had been impossible to pinpoint. Won’t you come –

Pip whispered, BE REVEALED!

Despite the softness of her interjection, power shivered the chamber. Magic flared along the walls as the horiatite ignited like magnesium tossed into a fire, first highlighting the existing score and then shifting and morphing to something altogether new.

Abazan cried, “Start there! All together, on my mark!”

His wild conducting smacked Aranya across the back of the head, but she did not care. She focussed on the new music as Sapphire carolled upon her shoulder and the Chrysolitic dragonets found their way to the smaller harp’s strings, plucking them with their wingtips as they danced with joyous abandon. Why did dragonets always respond to music in this way? Behind her, Dragoness Lyriela sight-read the score with aplomb, but Aranya was having trouble following even a couple of notes at a time. When her stiff fingers fumbled, the strange magic seemed to shy away, but when she succeeded the tumbling runs and arpeggios evoked playful runnels of water and dancing fountains and the tinkling miniature waterfalls of Immadia as the winter snows began to melt. The impression was clear; the emotions, intense. Winter storms passing. Water flooding, flowing, nourishing. The suns’ warmth infusing the streams to create wholesome environments for fish to play … yet, she kept erring.

Sucking in her lower lip, Aranya reached deeper. Strings could be plucked not just by fingers. Instinctually, she deployed her telekinetic power. No master musician was she, but she had enough control – as fast and accurately as she could read the score, now she could play as if she had ten fingers that actually wanted to behave themselves. The smaller harp’s music swelled. The prickling sensation switched to trickles of bizarrely cooling liquid fire.

Without warning, the room plunged into darkness. Iridiana yelped; Aranya caught her hand with her own, and found herself clutching a dragonet’s paw.

On the smooth, curved wall behind the stage, a backlit image appeared. A masked girl!

Gasps greeted this appearance, as if the denizens of the Concert Cavern had beheld a ghost. The girl pictured was petite and slender, with a mass of tumbling brown hair shot with gold and azure tumbling over her shoulders and down past her waist – Shapeshifter hair, or Aranya was a chattering parakeet. She wore an exquisite Fra’aniorian lace gown of antiquated cut in a vibrant turquoise that deepened toward sapphire in the train. Her eyes were concealed by a dainty, bejewelled mask featuring no apparent eye holes, and her elfin chin had a very slightly malformed appearance, as though her jaw had been badly broken, once.

The glowing apparition walked straight out of the wall until she came to stand right in front of Aranya’s Dragonharp. In a young-sounding, musical voice she addressed the air:

“I am Auli-Ambar Ta’afaya, the Dragon Librarian. Most cordially do I greet thee, blessed seeker, who has discovered in the hour of their greatest need, this resource I created for the future in accordance with a prophetic imperative bequeathed me by Amaryllion Fireborn, the Ancient Dragon who once dwelled beneath Ha’athior Island.” Her speech was quaint, almost archaic in its cadence. “By his soul name, I declare the veracity of my words, and upon my speaking his soul name, my own unique magic shall verify the purposes of your hearts. Should any within this chamber fail my test, they shall be instantaneously slain. When you are ready to proceed, say, ‘We are ready.’ ”

Aranya inhaled sharply. “Anyone want to leave now?”

“No,” said Beran. Other voices in the hall echoed the same.

She studied the apparition in silence, aware of Pip and Iridiana’s breathing nearby, obliquely observing how the hatchling dragonets gathered beneath Sapphire’s outspread, mothering wings. She had to assume that Auli-Ambar had recorded this speaking image while she was yet alive, but the magical constructs used to create this effect had no parallel in her experience. She could not even begin to parse their nature. She needed to trust the Dragon Librarian – a hard ask given her enigmatic personality!

She said, “We are ready.”

The glowing girl said, Declare thy name and heritage, o seeker.

I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia, daughter of King Beran and Queen Izariela, who was daughter of Istariela the Star Dragoness and Fra’anior the Onyx Ancient Dragon, and these are my friends. I am a Star Dragoness.

Auli-Ambar began to sing in a language Aranya had never heard before, in a voice of such resonance and extraordinary clarity it seemed to have no place emanating from such a slight frame. The skirling melody wove its own magic. In a moment, glowing, wavering lights appeared above each person and Dragon’s head, right down to the smallest of the Chrysolitic dragonets. They burned with a rippling quality, like light transmitted through a clear lake to a sandy bottom, but again without apparent heat.

Magic coalesced from her voice, feeding the light constructs until Aranya felt constrained to speak a word of warning. “Be ready.”

The apparition sang with piercing sweetness, VERIFY, BEZALDIOR!

A torrent of blankness plunged into her mind.

Aranya came to with a wild start, realising that her inmost thoughts and motives had just been plumbed and she had no idea how it had been accomplished. Abazan lay at her feet, stone dead. The stool crashed behind her as she leaped to her feet with an inchoate cry. Dad! Iridiana … Pip … the dragonets, they were all fine. So were Lyriela and Ta’armion, but a commotion at the Concert Cavern’s doorway appraised her of the fact that three of the Under-Scrollkeepers, three of the council of seven who ruled Human affairs at Gi’ishior, had also summarily perished.

Be judge and executioner both? A soul must shudder!

The apparition raised its hand in a beckoning gesture. Follow me, Aranya of Immadia.

* * * *

With a backward glance at her companions and father, Aranya followed the apparition as Auli-Ambar returned the way she had come. Straight into the wall. She raised a hand by way of protection, but found herself passing through the undulating coolness of a barrier again unlike anything she had experienced before – not only teleportation, she realised, but perhaps a temporal shift, too.

She was underwater.

Underwater!

Maybe. All around her was a world of frosted blues, more shades and hues and nuances of blue than she could ever have imagined; all was product of a magic utterly alien to her experience. What kind of fire was this – Water Fire? She chuckled at the notion.

“Indeed,” chuckled another.

Aranya whirled. “Auli – Auli-Ambar Ta’afaya?”

How were they even speaking? In this place the girl stood – floated – unmasked, her huge brown-golden eyes aglow with magic. Her outfit made Iridiana’s standards look positively puritanical. The material was iridescent turquoise in keeping with the highlights in her hair, but consisted of the briefest of briefs and a pair of shapely shell-like coverings moulded to her torso. Her body had an aquatic appearance, with fin-like fringes apparent upon her arms and legs. She seemed to experience no trouble breathing underwater. Just like herself. Aranya touched her mouth. A clever, obviously semipermeable membrane protected her mouth and nose.

With a winsome smile, Auli said, “Welcome to the realm beyond the third sun, o Aranya.”

“The – uh, third sun? Are you alive? Am I – what is this place?” Her hands waved languidly before her face. “And tell me, by Fra’anior’s own flame, why do you have to be so blasted mysterious and difficult to find? Roaring rajals, that came out badly. You are Auli-Ambar, the Dragon Librarian?”

“So many questions.” The brown eyes did not exactly look at her. Aranya wondered if she saw by magic, or if the girl was truly blind. “This is a peculiar realm with its own, distinct laws, Aranya, so I have twisted its magic and gravitation in permissible ways to allow us this brief space. Aye, I am alive. Aye, we are speaking in person. Here is my Arkurion the Mercury Blue.”

A lithe, piscine Dragon swooped by with a welcoming flexion of his wing fins, his mercury-like scales gleaming more splendidly than a fish’s finest raiment. He called, Sulphurous greetings, noble Star Dragoness!

Hail, noble Arkurion! Aranya said, bowing formally. The Dragon flashed away, apparently playing in the powerful currents of his environment. He’s beautiful, Auli-Ambar.

I think he’s beautiful, too, she said diffidently.

I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving my Aunt Hualiama when she was an infant.

Thank you, Auli returned. “If you wish to learn about my secret realm and my story, ask the Dragons to show you to the forbidden vaults beneath the Dragon Library. In chamber seventeen, you must sing this song.”

Whatever be mine for the day,

Whatever must be revealed,

Wilt thou not rise to mine paw,

Be thou scroll or book or leaf?

“There you shall find way to the Scrolls of Fire, which are located in the second-greatest Library of Dragon lore in the Island-World. Another puzzle within a puzzle. My apologies for all this subterfuge – I’m inordinately fond of riddles, and Amaryllion Fireborn was very specific about how I ought to protect particular secrets. Indeed, Hualiama Dragonfriend also knows this Library’s location, and you are Star kin. You could learn it from her, perhaps.”

“Hualiama?” Aranya considered her words, meantime watching Arkurion dancing behind Auli. This whole place was a magical construct! Something was profoundly askew with the way the waters flowed and even gravity misbehaved. At length, she said, “If you mean that you located these Scrolls of Fire at the Dragon Academy, fetching them might pose a small problem.”

Auli’s left eyebrow peaked. “Oh?”

For the first time, the Dragon Librarian appeared discomfited. Aranya knew she had guessed correctly; she also knew that this mysterious personage knew a great deal more than she was revealing. The awareness of great knowledge practically seeped out of her pores. Perhaps she should not feel so self-satisfied at having set Auli-Ambar off balance, but then, this was a girl who hid her secrets incredibly well.

The Princess chose to reply with her best pithy Immadian air of understatement, “Aye. Right now, the entire Academy is trapped inside a First Egg of the Ancient Dragons and headed into orbit of our planet. Did you anticipate this outcome, noble Dragon Librarian?”

“So magnificent and fierce, these Star Fires burning within you,” Auli replied tenderly, reaching out to caress Aranya’s cheek. “May wholeness be made manifest – within your person, as in our Island-World.”

She shivered. “Don’t.”

The Mercury-Blue Dragon fluted, O Star Dragoness, my Auli-Ambar understands your pain as few do. Read her Scrolls of Fire, once you have leisure following this mission which consumes your thoughts. Speak your need.

She searched the girl’s mien. Mercy! Her empathy was as piercing as starlight; almost unbearably exquisite.

Trying to conceal the powerful feelings that this simple touch had churned up, Aranya shrugged and explained, “Basically, we need to fly to the Mystic Moon minus oxygen to rescue the First Egg either from Infurion or a tyrannical trio of Shapeshifters from Herimor, or both. Failing which we unleash Dramagon’s creatures and the nightmare of his wrath upon our world.”

The girl’s eyelids blinked in ultra-slow motion, emphasizing the strangeness of her orbs before she tilted her head skyward – where Aranya thought the sky might be, anyways. It was nigh impossible to tell in this realm. The girl seemed to be gazing across ten thousand leagues. Despite her peculiarities, Aranya sensed that she was inclined to help. Perhaps she was just an incredibly private person? Make that, insanely private?

“I see them ascending on course for intercepting the Mystic Moon in eleven days’ time, approximately,” said Auli-Ambar. “They are well advanced in their schemes, these our enemies.”

“Vile spawn of Dramagon’s nostrils!” Arkurion roared behind her, churning the waters into a frenzy.

Aranya wanted to heave a sigh of relief, but the watery environs rather prevented that. This really was the strangest place. She wished she could work out where it was or how this was possible, but Auli-Ambar seemed to be reading her thoughts effortlessly.

The girl said, “Dear Aranya, prophetic necessity has a way of interfering. You know that imperative as well as I do, and it has and does frustrate me as much as it frustrates you, trust me. I wish to know you well, one day. Even as a friend.” Twirling her hands in front of her, she produced a burning scroll out of – well, mid-water, Aranya decided – with impressive sleight of hand. This unreality was most unnerving. She was not sure if it was water, at least as she understood it! The liquid seemed rife with unfamiliar, conflicting forces. “Here is a key snippet of lore I have prepared especially for you. A Scroll of Fire, if you would. With this, you shall fly higher than ever before.”

A million questions burned upon her tongue, but this place seemed to have scrambled her mental processes. She reached out to clasp the cool scroll, burning with its azure non-fire. It immediately disappeared into her flesh.

“Huh?”

“It’s a psychic scroll. You summon it with your mind. Hence, Scroll of Fire.”

Aranya bit her lip. Really?

“I know that this is hard to understand,” Auli-Ambar smiled. “Draconic fires perish in this realm, but you as a Star Dragoness could learn to flourish here. Go now and save us all, Star Dragoness. I bid thee, as said the Dragonfriend, ‘Go burn the heavens!’ ”

The magic was drawing her away, causing the fluid scene to fade.

The girl raised her hands in a gesture of blessed-sending. “Greet your twin Iridiana for me. Tell her that her Chaos is an integral part of this realm; that it is birthed and venerated here …”

On that note, Aranya stepped backward only to fall farther into space than she had allowed for. Thump! She landed on her tailbone. Or on a dracotortoise’s bone-hard shell, or something to that effect.

“Thanks, Iridiana.”

“Sorry. I was trying for a cosy posy of flowers,” she laughed. “Find anything interesting in the six hours you’ve been driving us insane by your absence?”

“I found fine seating for the royal rump.”

“If you desire a spiky cactus for a throne, Your Highness, that’s one way to ask for it.”

* * * *

Aranya kissed her father upon the cheek. She loved doing this as a Dragoness, because Beran always made a fuss. “Sulphur breath!” he snorted, waving his hands energetically in the air. “Nasty case of halitosis, my petal.”

Dragoness Iridiana kissed him from the other side. “And this?”

“Sweeter than a Fra’aniorian flower garden,” he averred, casting a sly glance at Aranya.

She unsheathed a talon and mimed gutting random Kings with it.

“Pip, are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, for the sixth time.

The Pygmy said, “No, but only a foolish warrior waits for the jungle to grow. I will be ready by the time we reach the Mystic Moon. It is not a question.”

To Aranya’s surprise, he reached out to pet Sapphire, who had taken up residence in Pip’s arms in preparation for the imminent take-off. “You’ll take care of this band of rascals for me, alright, Sapphire? I’m relying on you.”

Sapphire purred happily. “Kingy clever. Kingy noble. Kingy … nice?”

“And I thought Zip was the shameless one,” Aranya lamented. “Mount up, Pip plus rascals!”

With Pip and the dragonets aboard, the sisters sprang skyward, passing by roost ledges packed with the growing Halls population, despite the very early hour. The merest blush of rose tinted the eastern horizon. Overhead all was deep purple sprinkled with white. She worked her wings powerfully, enjoying the initial sense of stretching and warming as she worked the tiredness out of much-abused muscles. Despite a full night’s rest and solid meals for both her Human and her Dragoness, Aranya felt edgy and, if she were honest, far crankier than a Nak woken before noon. High to the southern aspect was a pearly speck of white which was out of place in this auroral sky; the First Egg. There was one shining reason for her nerves.

Suddenly, they passed Ja’arrion and Va’assia standing shoulder to shoulder upon the broad balcony outside of their roost. The Shapeshifter Dragons raised a great bugling and roaring which seemed to ignite the volcano; suddenly a wave of sound buoyed them upward, and the Amethyst Dragoness opened her throat to unleash a sonorous bugle of her own in response.

Iridiana shuddered, but managed to hold her form.

Then they were winging up above the rim. The panorama of Fra’anior Cluster spread out around them. A deep crimson glow emanated from the ever-active caldera, illuminating the many verdant Islands from beneath, edging them in red-golden foliage while the interiors as yet remained dark and mysterious. Lightning flashed away to the south, over Ha’athior. Outside the rough oval of the volcano, the Cloudlands had just picked up their first hint of dawn’s breath, delicately gilding endless fields of clouds until they touched the horizon. Blue was high and Yellow almost hidden, while Mystic could not as yet be seen.

The Iridium Dragoness matching her wingbeat for wingbeat vented a long, hearts-felt sigh. “Fra’anior made all this?”

“Aye. Big, big paws to fill,” Aranya smiled.

Pip patted the Amethyst Dragoness’ back. “My first Dragonride was upon the back of a crusty old Red Shapeshifter called Zardon. He flattened my cage and winged me away to the Academy. I still remember it so clearly … he gave his life for mine.”

Her voice hitched upon that memory.

Aranya deadpanned, “Seems he had passably good taste in Pygmies, eh?”

Pip’s laughter trilled into the gathering dawn. Then, she said softly, “Would you like me to share a snippet of Zardon’s poetry with you?” When they enthusiastically agreed, she declaimed:

The blazing wings of dawn spirited me away,

Dragon-swift above the suns-rise,

Flying to my destiny beyond the clouds.

After that, for a long time the only sounds that broke the silence were the leathery flapping of wings and the slight creaking of wing struts responding to the changing pressures. At last they ascended into the first vermilion rays of suns-light, having left the great volcano five miles in their wake. How small it seemed now; the Island-World, brooding and immense.

They were underway.

* * * *

Ardan turned to his companions. “Well, we have officially been jilted, gentlemen.”

“What do you mean, jilted?” growled Asturbar.

“I mean our ladies have flown for the heavens and left us men to tidy up down below. They are just now departing Fra’anior Cluster and from Aranya’s coded speech I understand they do not intend to travel to any horizontal point of the compass.”

“Success!” Ri’arion crowed.

The Shadow shook his head slowly. “Success is complex, my friend. Take a deep breath.”

His tan face drained of all colour with magical speed as he leaped to the right conclusion. “Zuziana? Tell me it isn’t true!”

“That bit isn’t – she’s alive. We think.” Ardan cursed his thick Dragon neck that would not allow him to look properly at Ri’arion, seated upon his back as they scouted above the Cloudlands level here in the far South. “Zuziana swapped her place with the Pygmy Dragoness.”

“She what?”

When Ardan explained what little he knew, the Fra’aniorian seemed to calm down. At least, his death grip on Ardan’s spine spike eased, and the pallor eased. Ardan finished in a low growl, “I’m not sure whether to call her stupid, or brave, or stupidly brave. She has heroism in her blood, Ri’arion. You know what her sacrifice means – we all do.”

“Aye.”

Asturbar clasped Ri’arion’s shoulders from behind. “Man, are those three kids of yours ever going to fly rings around you!”

The ex-monk’s laughter sounded at first as if it had been extracted from his throat by red-hot tongs, but it soon mellowed as his companions encouraged him and pledged themselves to her rescue. They scouted the barrens south even of the Southern Archipelago, before dipping below again to help the Runners work out the best route for the long run up past Mejia and Elidia, which were ancient Dragon strongholds now left desolate, to Jeradia Island. There they must find the correct location to replace the famous Academy. The Cognates, of course, had a few ideas about how to achieve this goal. They intended to use their flying and running brethren in order to create a perfect topological map of the Island and thereby reverse-engineer the most probable location for the volcano.

And then? All they had to do was catch it.

“Simple as that,” Ardan explained.

“Hope they don’t throw like most girls I’ve seen,” Asturbar snorted.

“Chauvinist.” Ri’arion turned around and clouted him. “Have a present from Iridiana.”

* * * *

Zuziana wished she could tell who was alive and who was dead in these parts. After listening at Silver’s flank for the better part of an estimated hour, she had still not detected a hearts-beat as such, but her best Human-Dragoness combined senses coupled with a healthy dose of intuition told her that these Dragons must still be alive in some sense of the word. A fire life hibernation, perhaps? Just like her.

So, Silver or Kassik? Pip would want Silver woken first; a shell son of Thoralian would likely boast a tinker’s miscellany of useful powers. He might also be a traitor and summarily obliterate her. Silver also looked rather more battered – ahem, make that deceased – than she was entirely comfortable with. Waking him in this state might just kill him for certain. Kassik the Brown had taken a decent pasting, but displayed no obvious mortal wounds, at least to one with her limited knowledge of draconic medicine. He would know if any of his forces possessed the ultra-rare power of healing.

Oh to have Aranya here! She had tried and failed to communicate with her best friend. The Ancient Dragon appeared to be ignoring her would-be dust-particle-sized mother.

Righto. To work.

Zip paused beside the Brown Dragon’s immense forepaw. What about waking Casitha? No, she had a nasty-looking burn upon her right knee and calf. Arosia! Well, pretty as she was, she did look a touch Sylakian, and she had rather bad memories of that people. Oops. Horrible prejudice. Making a face meant for herself, Zip vacillated. Back to Casitha. She would have Master Kassik’s ear, and besides, she looked Remoyan – the soundest possible recommendation, in her books!

“Double prejudice with lashings of sauce on top, anyone?” Zip growled. “Casitha. Casitha! I’m really, really sorry about this, but you need to wake up and it’s going to hurt something awful.” She patted the girl’s cheek gently, but she remained utterly limp. Her eyelids did not even flutter. “Casitha, petal. Kassik needs you.”

Sitting down beside the girl, she began to massage the pulse points at her wrists. Zip reached out with her mind and heart. Casitha, darling. Time to waken. The Island-World needs you.

However long it took. She had time. Oodles of time.

* * * *

“We’ll make two stores, both based on gravitational manipulation,” Aranya explained. “Store one is for oxygen extracted from the atmosphere and liquefied under high pressure. Store two is for plain old water. As much water as we can carry inside of our vacuum-sealed shield, which will be a great deal since our friend is so fiendishly adept at manipulating gravitational forces at the subatomic level – and no, don’t ask me to explain the underlying science. I’m not even going to pretend to understand. Then, we produce our oxygen either by electrolysis or thermal decomposition, whichever works best. Another ridiculous overload of knowledge compressed into Auli-Ambar’s Scroll of Fire.”

“Water decomposes?” Iridiana asked.

“As I just learned, thermolysis is the splitting of water into its component oxygen and hydrogen parts, in various combinations,” she explained. “At 3,000-plus degrees, over half of water molecules will decompose. My starlight power can produce significantly higher temperatures, but the real trick is capturing the right end product. And, of course, we will need to remove and purify our waste.”

“That would be Iridiana’s job,” Pip said without missing a beat.

“Sounds technical, Sparky,” Iridiana said.

“Ferociously so, Sparkles – hey, we should think up a pet name for Pip, don’t you think?”

“Pet? You’re speaking to someone who spent seven years in a zoo being a pet!”

Aranya growled, “Excuse me while I just go gnaw off my tongue in a corner. Sorry, Pip. That could have been slightly more thoughtful.”

To her surprise, Pip stood up, walked up Aranya’s back and over her skull ruff, and seated herself upon her muzzle right where they could look at each other eyeball to eyeball. “I think I’m being the sparky one around here,” she said, essaying a wry grin. “Might a touch of forgiveness be found in that fiery Dragoness’ heart of yours?”

“Always.”

Iridiana said, “I say, make a snack of the rascal, sister –” she paused dramatically “– if she doesn’t tell us her story.”

Pip stuck out her tongue. “You first, Sparkles.”

“Well, for my part I boast one year locked up in my father’s own dungeon with extra torture thrown in free of charge, followed by seven years in solitary exile sanctioned by my loving family, so I reckon we’re around even on that score, Pipsqueak.”

“Hey! How did you –” Pip bit her tongue. “Scabby rats!”

Iridiana crowed in delight, “Found her nickname already! I’m so good at this.”

The pair regarded each other as if each lingered upon what the other had suffered, before Aranya’s amethyst nose became the setting for a huge, heartfelt hug.

Nyahi ruffled Pip’s curls. “A zoo? So cruel.”

“Your own father’s dungeon? I thought – King Beran … Aranya?”

“The man she thought was her father,” Aranya clarified.

Pip said lightly, “So, before a very necessary story time, Aranya, how can we help you with the next phase of our ascension?”

Affecting a pompous air and high dudgeon, Aranya declaimed, “I cannot concentrate whilst a pair of morsels chatter away seated upon my nasion – if a Dragon indeed possesses such an anatomical part. Correction. Vacate the nasal bridge, varmints! Actually, I’d rather appreciate some help working out and holding together all the different layers that we need to build up. In true draconic style, subterfuge and complexity underpin the entire design.”

Nyahi asked, “Did you even work out if Auli-Ambar was a Shapeshifter?”

“Like you, my dear personification of fundamental unruliness, I could not work out what exactly Auli-Ambar was. She did state, however, that Chaos was an integral part of her realm; that it was birthed and venerated there. Sorry, I forgot to explain – uh, Iridiana!”

Iridiana’s wings froze mid-flap. Suddenly multiple iridium flares super-heated the air and half-blinded every eye. Fifty-odd Chaos Beast maws snarled furiously at nothingness for the briefest instant before Nyahi collapsed into a dracofloral form, quite unconscious.

Aranya scooped her limp stem-bundle up in her paw, and grimaced at Pip. “Mercy.”

“You could have broken the tidings of her heritage a little more gently,” the Pygmy admonished, with a strange tongue-clicking noise. “Come. We need to start.”

Seething with self-directed anger, Aranya produced the Scroll of Fire from her mind – another Auli-Ambar talent which she marvelled at – and ran through its details with Pip. By then Iridiana had recovered, planted a pawful of dragonet kisses upon her sister’s ocular membranes, and dived into the work with aplomb.

Aranya blinked. This Chaos business took whole Islands-full of getting used to.

Great streamers of golden light irradiated Fra’anior Cluster, reduced now to a green-rimmed crimson eyelet far below. The partially eclipsed suns provided welcome warmth as the Dragons ascended beyond the three-league mark. The thinner air made for much harder going. Aranya passed the moisture extraction routines over to Pip, while she initiated the gravity inclusion which would compress oxygen for storage. Iridiana had meantime set up the basic structures for the eventual full-vacuum shield which they would require higher up. Climbing into the everlasting blue dome of the sky, she remembered flying above the Rift where she had communed with her mother’s spirit. Her re-entry had been aided by Wisp Dragons, the ultimate high-flyers of the Dragonkind – but now she understood that there were Dragonkind living as deep as the core fires of the Island-World, as high as the stars, and perhaps protodraconic or non-draconic creatures which called the darkest abysses of outer space, home.

From below, the pair of Dragon Astronomers would be watching through the Celestial Stargazer and hopefully should be attempting to issue course information at intervals using the powerful light-producing properties of the magical scopes.

Aranya wondered again at how blind Auli-Ambar had seemed to scan the sky before commenting upon their enemies’ progress. That girl!

Suddenly, a Nak phrase popped into her mind. Not so many months before, when they had been trying to work out what under the suns had become of the Academy volcano, in a moment of frustration, Nak had cried out, ‘Am I speaking the ancient language of stars?’ What a fiery frisson played down her spine at this memory!

“Aranya, are you alright?” Pip’s voice intruded.

“I’m just thinking that Nak wasn’t so senile after all. Can I fly something past your muzzles, both of you? I also wanted to ask you about that phrase you used, Pipsqueak – ‘child of his spirit.’ Does that mean Fra’anior has adopted you?”

The Pygmy girl growled something unintelligible.

Aranya chuckled merrily, making Pip growl more loudly still. She said, “Pip, I’d be over the Moons if that were true. Don’t you see? I’d be discovering random sisters every other week at this rate! Nothing in Fra’anior’s own hoard could compare to the treasure you would be! Ah, silly magic. I’ve got this piece upside down, now … let me see …”

After distracting herself quite thoroughly with conundrums related not only to Auli’s backwards-logic ways of implementing magic, but her complex and scholarly use of Island Standard besides, Aranya peered back over her shoulder as a tiny sniffle registered in her awareness.

“Pip?”

“Push off – you nosy – why do you have to be so confounded nice?”

Aranya opened her jaw, and decided that closing it again was the flight of wisdom.

Iridiana blurted out, “We can be totally awful if you’d prefer?”

“No!”

The twins glanced at each other, somewhat at a loss to explain this outburst. With an almost imperceptible lurch, the gravitational poles of their world switched places and they began to fall upwards, as best Aranya could tell. “Ooh!” all three chorused as their stomachs protested. The feeling went against everything they had ever known. Solid ground was meant to be down there. They were falling away from safety!

“Gentle hands catch the butterfly dragonet,” Iridiana counselled Aranya, who was trying to bring their bubble back under control.

“Oh, because Chaos girl is in her natural element here?”

“Naturally.”

“Liar.”

Aranya did ease up, however, as they checked and rechecked the gravity-bending magic that would keep them alive. No-one knew if Mystic would have any kind of atmosphere. Moisture steadily seeped into their slightly glistening holding tank, while the liquid oxygen built up a decent head of pressure.

“Needs a couple of hours,” Pip confirmed. “So, who brought the games?”

“You promised a bedtime story,” Iridiana pouted.

When Pip just hooted, Iridiana managed to switch into a six foot-tall, glowering amethyst-throated maw fringed with flaming purple tentacles. The Pygmy yelped in horror as she flashed into her Dragoness form; Aranya admonished the ‘children’ and bade them perk up their wings and do the impossible.

Privately, she wondered about Pip – gusty, spark-a-minute, vivacious Pip. The Pygmy girl had not suggested as much, but she could deduce the implications of Fra’anior’s spiritual adoption. In the draconic sense, the notion of kindred spirits was far more profound and wide-reaching than the Human idea of special connection or understanding.

Fra’anior could not make a Star Dragoness by fiat, could he?

That remained to be seen.

Maybe he whose Word had raised Islands could do far more. He had created the magnificent spectacle now almost four leagues beneath them, the lush Islands that dotted the cloudscapes, the dark patch of the Spits, and the low toothy ridge of the Spine Islands sawing through the southern horizon. Life abounded everywhere she looked. All this was her grandsire’s paw-labour, and she was tasked with being its guardian.

Mighty Fra’anior, she whispered, we’ll need your fires beneath our wings.

So it was that as they rose on dawn’s inaudible exhalation, that her soul exulted even as her undivided attention turned to Pip’s tale; how she was born amidst the mighty jungles of the Crescent Isles, Named with a mighty warrior name tattooed upon her calf, and taught the ways of the jungle. Then, destiny swept her into seven years of repulsive captivity as a zoo exhibit. Iridiana wept. Aranya choked up as Pip described her first Dragonflight to the Academy.

In listening intentionally, a soul expanded her boundaries.

A Dragoness learned to soar.

Chapter 31: Mystical Mayhem

AFter a week spent rising into orbit, three Dragonesses confined to a very small space might have been forgiven a few testy moments. However, there were no more black eyes. No split lips. No arguing over how to divide the meagre rations.

Instead, there was wonder.

The planet curved beneath them, infinitely greater than they had ever imagined; more varied and wonderful than Fra’anior had ever hinted at. It was an immensity of blue – a sparkling cerulean palette sprinkled with green and white Islands no bigger than fine grains of sand seen from this height, and dappled with cotton-puff clouds and ominously grey, ribbed storm fronts. A great, ridged grey ring carved into the midst of these oceans, framing the giant crater created by the impact of the First Eggs, its belly replete with the tan-grey Cloudlands they knew so well. The ever-black contour of the Rift cut through this ring well above midway, like a painter’s bold brush stroke.

Within, larger Isles and Archipelagos were easy to pick out, such as Yorbik, the Western Isles and the sprawling arc of the Southern Archipelago. What they had known was only an isolated biome in a far greater world. Their realm was cut off from, as best they could tell, unending leagues of water broken up by threadlike bracelets and spiders’ webs of Islands. Tens of thousands strong. Perhaps millions, arranged into distinct areas bounded by what had to be uncrossable tracts of water.

What mysterious creatures dwelled there? What wonders?

At the top and bottom of their planet were vast caps of white. Permanent ice, Aranya noted, which clasped the Rim over a thousand leagues North of Immadia in frigid arms. That was the reason for the cold climate of her home. As for a third sun, they saw no sign of it anywhere, but there was a vast region South of Wyldaroon which appeared to be obscured by an unending grey-white spiral storm the size of Wyldaroon itself. That was a tempest worthy of the name!

Iridiana thrilled to look upon that hurricane. One could only imagine the windstorm within.

When the suns rose over the glistening curve of their planet, or Jade loomed closer and brighter than ever before, Aranya grew faint with awe.

When she returned, she would paint this. Every image. The incomparable geography of her Island-World. The water – such an incredible reach of water! She could not imagine the waves storms might create there. She thrilled to the spectacle of the suns chasing away the night over tens of thousands of leagues; the way the stars gleamed unadulterated by the atmosphere which they had now left behind. They traversed that narrow, shortening link between their world and the Mystic Moon. All around was the unfathomable darkness of space, broken only by the gleaming jewel they called home.

Pip said, “So, what we call our Island-World is only a great crater blasted in the side of our planet, protected by the Rim-wall mountains. All else is this – this word you call ‘ocean.’ You say it is meant to be salty water?” She wrinkled her nose. “Yuck. How can anything survive in brackish water?”

“How can anyone live where it snows?” Iridiana echoed.

“Not taking the bait,” said Aranya.

“Oh, come on,” said her twin.

“Very well. How can anyone decorate only in ruby? Great leaping Islands, look there! I’ve spotted Immadia!”

“Where?” chorused her companions.

“There! Do you see where the Cloudlands are bluest? Just beneath the long band of white where the suns-light is moving, there’s a gleaming white Island … do you see it? Right at the top.”

“I think so, yes,” Iridiana said doubtfully.

“It’s tiny,” said Pip.

Taking in Aranya’s expression, the pair babbled, “But, so beautiful!” “Oh yes, disproportionately beautiful to its size.” “Couldn’t imagine a more beautiful Island.” “It positively shines, doesn’t it, Pip?” “Jewel is what I’m thinking.” “Aye, a wondrous jewel.”

Aranya folded her paws and scowled at them. “Just you wait, you scoundrels!”

Sapphire said, Why Ari angry?

Ari is homesick, petal, she realised. I wish my shell mother were well again.

The dragonet embraced her neck with her wings. Ari see. All good. Sapphire know.

“What I like is the way that neither the Thoralians nor Infurion have bothered to turn back and swat us all the way over to Immadia,” Pip said brightly. “We must be so obvious, travelling all this way with tonnes of water, now and again dropping the odd bit of waste from orbit to splatter upon an unsuspecting head –”

“You are truly disgusting,” Iridiana observed dutifully.

“The point is,” Aranya said, “they just don’t care. We aren’t seen as a threat. Infurion and the Thoralians are either working together, or we’re going to see a spectacular showdown in a day or two. Infurion’s definitely catching up.”

She pointed to where the pearlescent Egg floated serenely, almost like a miniature moon, out above nothingness. Bearing down upon it was a shadowy, soot-grey cloud at least ten times its size. Occasionally, the cloud took on the rough form of a colossal Dragon. By the calculations received via light-beam code from the astronomers the night before, they should intersect the orbit of the slow-moving Mystic Moon in just under fifty hours. They were already under its gravitational influence. The question was whether the Thoralians would reach the Moon before Infurion reached the First Egg.

They had debated strategy until it was oozing out of their ears, Pip complained half-heartedly when Iridiana began to wonder aloud that if by identifying Pip within the First Egg, Infurion had demonstrated his ability to penetrate it too.

Did the Moon have an atmosphere? It was very difficult to tell without some magical ocular shading trickery, but the threesome had agreed that it definitely seemed plausible. The faint haziness around the edge of the great, blindingly white sphere argued as much – but that much horiatite in one location was definitely starting to play havoc with their draconic senses.

How could the creatures of darkness not see its glorious, enchanted radiance from without the planetary shield? Good question. Fra’anior had answers, and he was not talking.

The closer they drew to the Mystic Moon, however, the more often the Amethyst Dragoness’ white fires perception began to play up. It started with gleaming streaks of light appearing in the corners of her vision. Then, an awareness of glowing dust particles that would not seem to fade no matter how much she rubbed her eyes. After a couple of days, Aranya was able to fine-focus her sight to behold an incredible netting seemingly made of gossamer threads of onyx upon which hung nodes that gleamed like starlight, only it was a substance or perhaps, a magical effect with no parallel in her experience. Seven distinct and slightly differentiated layers in all, Fra’anior’s shield and masterwork arched over her world and way, way out of the ambit of her sight.

One evening they saw a meteorite cut right through the netting – the rock whistled through apparently without any disturbance whatsoever, before igniting when it struck the atmosphere and burning up in a brilliant smear of light.

Often, Aranya’s thoughts turned to the lacework lustre of stars all around them, best viewed when the suns dipped behind their world. There had to be ten thousand times more stars than ever she had imagined, hanging like veils of hard-edged diamonds embedded in the blackest folds of velvet; waterfalls and whorls and webs of stars, some with curling spiral arms and other formations like clouds or wings of ruby and chalcedony dust – yet why, when she looked at the glory of all these, did she sense nothing of the life-affirming warmth she had heard in that voice? Did these stars burn, yet existed without life?

Then, what did it mean to be a star?

* * * *

When Casitha did at last stir, it was to great confusion but little apparent pain. She could not string two coherent words together. She lolled and moaned and promptly fell unconscious once more.

Zuziana persisted. Gently.

When she had finally coaxed the girl awake a second time, she tried to wheedle the name of a healer out of her. Casitha’s incomprehension might have been funny on another occasion, but on the fortieth try or thereabouts, she managed to gurgle, “Yay … unh.”

“Yaethi?”

She might have nodded, or it might just have been her slipping back into unconsciousness.

So much for the strength of Remoyans.

Retracing her steps to the Helyon Islander, Zip regarded her with greater sympathy than before. She hoped that Pip had been useful to Aranya – her friend would have set the girl back on her feet in no time, to be sure. Right. She had oodles of patience and noodles for brains. She had seen Aranya strengthening her friends dozens of times. Could she not manage that much?

Yaethi stirred pleasingly quickly compared to Casitha. “Hmm? Wash – um, schmorn-ug?” she just about managed.

Zip was getting rather good at addled-brains speech. “Not quite morning,” she said cheerfully. “Strength to you, petal. Ready?”

To her horror, she promptly zapped Yaethi with her Azure electric power! With a loud buzzing noise, the girl flopped about like a live trout tossed into a heated saucepan. The Princess of Remoy wailed something very un-princess-like at herself. Prize ralti sheep!

Careless of the lightning spitting from the girl’s fingers and away from the white-blonde hair now splayed out in an audibly crackling shock from beneath her conservative headscarf, Zip leaped to her aid. “Oh, flying ralti sheep, I didn’t mean – I’m sorry! Come on, Yaethi. Don’t die on me just yet. I’m not a healer. Obviously. I guess you felt that?”

“Ffffaaa …” moaned the girl. She was smoking from her ears!

“Look, I’m sorry I electrocuted you. I need your help and I guess I overdid … whatever I did. I’m actually a friend.” A friend who was prattling like a rabid parakeet and not actually helping one jot. “Reversal! Aye. I’ll pull the electricity back into myself like this, and then strengthen you like … well, I’m not totally sure how, but hopefully this should help?”

Not frying the girl in her own juices was a good result.

“You’re lucky,” slurred a voice behind her. A dagger dropped over her shoulder.

Thump. “Yeow!”

That was how Yaethi awoke, bottom of the pile beneath Zuziana and an insensible Casitha. Ice-blue eyes snapped open. “Why are you lying on top of me?”

Zip was holding the back of her head where Casitha had inadvertently head-butted her. “Not a whole heap of good, clearly,” she groaned. The tang of blood filled her mouth. Bitten through her tongue, too. Perfect. “Uh, Islands’ sakes … you seem remarkably alert for someone I just tried to electrocute.”

“Electro – what? Am I dreaming? Gently with Casitha there! Who are you?” Yaethi demanded in a loud, bossy voice. “And where on the Islands are we?”

Casitha moaned, “Atha … noth … athatthin …”

“Not an assassin. See?”

“Seems we’re both alive, no thanks to you!” Yaethi continued to rant, “Get off me. I can do without your kind of help. Actually, once you’ve climbed off me, you psychotic figment of Re’akka’s diseased imagination, you can use your smutty mouth – and nothing else – to start explaining what in the volcanic hells is going on here!”

Twisting about carefully, Zip managed to manoeuvre her fellow Remoyan to the ground without dropping her head on the ground, say, or causing further injury. Yaethi sat up slowly, feeling her limbs with great suspicion before she began to take in the scene around her. As a Helyon Islander she was naturally pale, but in a second she looked as if she had been bleached, her pallor matched only by the extraordinary platinum blonde of her hair and eyelashes.

“Whaa … oh, mercy! Fra’anior have mercy …”

Zip waved a hand helplessly. “This is what I need you for. Apparently you’re a healer, and we have a whole battlefield of troubles here. I’m not very good at this, but I do know where we –”

Yaethi said, “Inside the Egg? We’re still inside?”

“Aye.”

“Pip sent you?”

“I took her place.”

“You …” Yaethi’s pretty features scrunched up as she clearly tried to solve a few mental equations. “I had best … apologise. Aye. Sorry. Excuse me – I never – I don’t know what came over me, speaking like that. Sorry ten times over. So, how many weeks has it been since the battle?”

The Remoyan Princess exhaled. “Just stay seated for this bit, alright?”

* * * *

When they were not discussing ways of stopping unstoppable tyrants, Pip, Aranya, Iridiana and the seven dragonets played in the strangely weightless environment, ate a little, or slept. From being chary and openly discomfited at first, the Chrysolitic dragonets had now decided that this place spelled playtime in the best possible way. Only the water they carried provided enough resistance to fly within as they were used to. The rest was a madhouse of drifting, flipping, squealing collisions, running over the larger Dragoness’ scales, or playing a dragonet version of hide-and-seek perhaps better called ‘hide and ambush.’ Cute? Aye. Annoying? Eventually!

After a few initial hiccoughs with producing oxygen and removing waste, Auli-Ambar’s scientific prowess provided easily maintainable solutions that kept the companions alive and breathing hundreds of leagues up in orbit. They were hungry, but alive.

They conversed incessantly.

When they set out, the Egg had been a shining point of light. Now it was a small Moon, an oval a quarter-mile diameter across its midsection and half as long again.

“Curious,” said Iridiana, comparing mental notes with Aranya. “It’s grown, hasn’t it?”

“Aye.”

Pip drawled, “When you say ‘aye’ like that, you sound like a pirate. Oh, but your father was a royal buccaneer for a while, wasn’t he?”

Aranya wrinkled her nose at the Pygmy Dragoness. “Says the talon-sized tyrant? Nak warned us about your predication for mischief-stirring. Now, what do you make of those liquid meriatonium bonds the Thoralians are using to lasso the Egg? Do you think they plan to use something like that power to capture the hatchling and then daimonize its mind?”

All eyes turned to the Egg, coursing away onto what they recognised as a low orbit of the Mystic Moon. The suns were lowering behind the Moon’s gleaming flank to their left paws, causing a shadow to move across its face. From this distance the companions could see many pockmarks and lengthy scars as though the Moon had come under attack at some point, but if there had been meteorite strikes in the past, they could see no sign of other types of rock. All was gleaming pearl, brilliant on the suns-side and softly agleam where night had begun to fall. Aranya estimated that they were a mere eighty leagues behind the First Egg now, moving at an unsettling speed which appeared to increase exponentially the closer they approached the surface at their low, skimming angle. The horizon seemed alarmingly close due to Mystic’s relatively small size.

Where would Dramagon’s Bequest be hidden? The Moon’s surface grew nearer and nearer, close enough to observe that what had appeared homogenous before was by no means so; deep cracks spidered between mountainous deposits of nacreous horiatite crystal, some as large as Islands. Torrents of lustrous magical energy seethed between the pellucid crystal behemoths; Aranya was certain she saw life-forms sporting in those rivers, like quicksilver fish playing in turbulent mountain streams, but their height made it difficult to ascertain for certain. Here and there, volcanoes or fumaroles spat white and golden lava in mighty fountains across the scorching landscape.

Had she imagined this much magic must be inert? Not so!

“There’s a touch of atmosphere slowing us down now,” Iridiana noted.

Aranya said, “I think we’re starting to pick up on oxygen again, but there’s a few other nasty rare gases out there. Probably poisonous to Humans at least, if not to Dragons. Let’s keep the vacuum shield tight for the time being.”

“And, Infurion’s attacking the First Egg,” Pip added matter-of-factly.

“What?” The twins’ identical Dragoness necks snapped about.

Black bolts of flame shaped like long grappling hooks spurted from the shadowy presence of the pursuing Dragon, seeming to home in on the Egg with a languid lack of care. In reality, the strikes were precise; timed and accurate. Lightning jagged away from the Egg in response. A mere fraction of a second after striking, the grapnels appeared to be enveloped in a seething terrace lake of white and golden flame as the Egg’s natural defences retaliated. Searing flashes of light erupted across the nearby surface of the Mystic Moon in response.

Even Dragons had to shield their eyes from the ferocious glare as the mêlée rolled on. It was impossible to tell which of the parties – perhaps all of them – were trying to draw power from the Egg or from the Moon itself, but even with the help of nictitating membranes and sight filters, the conflagration was enough to give them suns-spots. Infurion pounded his way along with the obtuseness of purpose they expected of one who would not contemplate failure against those he must see as no better than fleas. White lightning sheeted off his burning black presence, sparking miles between him and the egg and leagues between him and the surface, but he tracked the Egg like a juggernaut, renewing himself from the inside in consecutive waves of jarring Earthen Fires. The Thoralians struck with reaming blasts of fire sourced from the First Egg and psychic tremors that passed right through the Ancient Dragon and washed up against their shield bubble. Sapphire and her brood shrieked and dived for Aranya’s paw. She held them close, soothing.

I won’t let them have you. Her eyes narrowed. Now comes the fall of the Thoralians.

Infurion had shown them how to speak to Pip before, even inside the Egg. Could she use a similar technique to find Zip? Could she call to the Ancient Dragon and help a baby understand what manner of danger he or she faced now?

* * * *

Facing Master Kassik, Silver, Casitha and Yaethi, Zuziana yelled, “You clutch of first class, limp-pawed lumpwits! Why won’t you listen to me? I don’t care what you think is possible or impossible. I am telling you we are in orbit. The crashing and thrashing out there is most likely –” she yelped as a particularly violent detonation staggered her.

“You’re pregnant,” Casitha said with concern. “Please calm down.”

“This is my calm!”

Yaethi said, “Silver, don’t you think –”

“I think she stole Pip! There’s a potent stench of glamour about this creature, I tell you,” he insisted, glazed of eye but somehow up on his paws.

Zip put her hands her hips. “Do I need to electrocute you too, Mister? Might help your brain actually start working.”

“See? She’s completely lost the Isle of Sanity,” rumbled Kassik, curving a protective paw about Casitha. “Keep your distance, beloved. This one’s dangerous.”

She growled, “I ruddy wish I had the ruddy Pygmy up my ruddy sleeve!” Kapoof! The Azure Dragoness added, “Or hidden in my hide! I am not feral, I am not egg-crazed, but I am mad, you stupid, foolish men! Focus on what I’m saying.”

“Shapeshifters, not men,” Kassik pointed out.

That was it. Leaping off the ground, the Azure tried to seize Kassik by his rather enormous nostrils. Hibernation-slow as he was, the Brown still managed to jerk his head up and away, and his huge paws shovelled the much smaller Dragoness inadvertently down toward his hind legs as he reared. Frustration boiled over. Zip zapped him squarely – ahem – well, right in his most sensitive parts. Worse, she was far too angry to hold back.

AAHHHOOO!! howled the immense Brown, hitting an unlikely soprano note at ear splitting volume.

“Holy Fra’anior!” Yaethi winced.

Silver’s eyes bulged as Kassik danced about, alternately holding and blowing upon his injury to cool it. The Silver Shapeshifter took several backward steps as Zuziana turned a severely jaundiced eye in his direction. “Never. Spite. A. Dragoness.”

“Especially not a pregnant one,” Casitha agreed.

Kassik wheezed, “If you weren’t pregnant, so help me …” but the way his eyes watered rather spoiled his threat.

“Are we paying attention now?” Zip cooed.

Zip … Zip-Zap!

Aranya! She turned to the surprised foursome. “Aranya’s the Star Dragoness I told you about.”

“I see how you earned your nickname,” said Silver, who for reasons best known to him seemed keen to hide behind Yaethi at this point. The girl clucked in annoyance as he jostled her from behind.

Aranya, put Pip on, please.

They all listened intently; all feet and paws braced as the ground trembled at another tremendous detonation outside of the eggshell.

… attack … Inf – old …

“That’s not Pip,” Kassik interjected weakly. “Although, if this is some kind of revenge –”

“Hush, my flame,” said Casitha, with a firm headshake. “Let speech follow knowledge.” Zip nodded approvingly. Definitely a backbone in that one!

In a second, another voice broke through. Judging by its timbre it had to be Pip, but due to the heavy interference they could not understand a single word. Silver volunteered, “I think they’re torturing her, Master. Maybe we should revive a few more Dragons so that we have reinforcements against –” He jerked his head in Zuziana’s direction. “For my part, I’m feeling very weak …”

Her glare informed him exactly how weak he would become if he continued that Isle of thought!

Then, Silver’s muzzle almost clunked down on his forepaw. “That was Pip. She just called me a toad brain. Unfortunately, I missed the rest.”

When there appeared to be no further communication due to increasing turbulence outside of their environment, Casitha said, “Here’s a suggestion. Why don’t we all listen to the person who bothered to wake us up to this present danger? We can work out the historical details of non-existent kings called Lorman of Remoy and our little injuries –”

Kassik stopped rubbing his tender parts in order to bare one hundred gleaming fangs at her. “Little?”

Casitha barely had to stoop to kiss him upon the knuckle of his left forepaw. “Alright, mighty leader of the Academy, most noble and puissant Brown, la la love your every magnificent scale, we can discuss this later. I, for one, would like to find my way home. The best way I see of doing that is by starting to wake and heal our allies. We’re going to need all hands and paws on deck – even these fallen Night-Reds. If half of what Zuziana says is true, we’ll need every last one.”

Indeed, little ones, said a new voice, spine-tingling of resonance and mellifluous of tone. Indeed. Enough have I listened; thy hearts do I hear. How might a not-yet-born eggling supply that last paw?

They whirled as one, and gasped.

I am Zankaradia, said the Ancient Dragoness.

* * * *

Jeradia under Commander Ignathion, Yolathion’s father, had been genuinely eager to supply help up until the point that they learned that the Cognates wanted to run Land Dragons all over their Island. The giant Jeradian grew positively squirmy at the suggestion.

Asturbar rumbled, “Indeed. Ardan will communicate with our allies at once. I can understand the need not to alarm the civilians.”

“Oh, I think the mob sporting happily in our swamps down south have that matter firmly in paw,” the Jeradian replied. “It’s the squadron of freaking enormous Land Dragons peering over your battlements around dinnertime that tends to put the populace at their ease.”

The Azingloriax warrior chuckled heartily.

“Sorry about the crops,” said Ri’arion. “We did not realise how curious they would be about Human civilisation.”

Leaning forward, the grizzled Commander said, “How’s Aranya?”

“Safe,” said Asturbar.

“Relatively speaking,” said Ri’arion. “How’s Yolathion, Commander?”

“Really, really struggling,” Ignathion said bluntly. “I’ve come to the conclusion that it is not so much due to the Shapeshifter in him as the torture that preceded his transformation. It is grievous as a father to see one’s son brought to such a low place. And by no means do I cast blame. This war has been ruinous to far too many people and nations.”

Ardan opened his eyes and said, “Regarding Aranya, Commander, could we request use of your observatory tonight? She’s –” He pointed upward.

“Being a Star Dragoness,” said Ri’arion.

Ignathion’s eyebrows shot in the same direction. “Right …”

“So, I’ve confirmed that the Land Dragons will only need to climb key mountain peaks. We can map safe routes,” said Ardan. “Basically, we’re trying to figure out where the Dragon Rider Academy used to be and put it back safely.”

“You’re returning a famous school to Jeradia? No problem.”

“More like an entire dormant volcano populated by forty thousand people and Dragons, Commander,” said the Shadow. “If you happened to know any current members of the Order of Onyx, it would be incredibly helpful if we could speak to them, too.”

“Those crazies? Might take a day or two to track them down,” said Ignathion, with a sidelong glance meant to reassure Ardan that he was firmly included amongst the number of ‘crazies.’ “Anything else you need before you turn my homeland upside down, gentlemen?”

“I’m perishing for a decent meal,” said Asturbar, rubbing his belly. “Chasing Dragonesses is jolly hard work.”

All four men around the conference table found themselves nodding in agreement. With a gruff burst of laughter, they stood and followed Ignathion to his private dining room.

* * * *

After cramming a decent meal into their bellies, the menfolk rushed on. It seemed all they had been doing for weeks was rushing. Still, a week’s non-stop travel from the Rift to Jeradia was definitely shifting at a pace to be proud of. Not a Moon-catching pace, mind. That accolade went to the ladies.

With his eye glued to the eyepiece, Ri’arion made minute adjustments. “Clear night. Fine gleam on Mystic, although this instrument is nothing on the ones the Dragons have … there we go – one fine Egg and – holy Fra’anior!”

Asturbar pushed him aside. “What – I don’t see – suffering murgalizards!”

Ardan took his turn to shoulder his way in. “What’s going on? I’d appreciate a few actually descriptive words!”

When he saw what they had seen, his hands cramped into fists and a few execrations of his own leaped to mind. The blot of Infurion’s presence against the Moon’s gleaming face appeared to be throwing everything he had at … aye, the Egg. Could that tiny speck just upon Infurion’s tail, as insubstantial as a soap bubble floating against a clear noon sky, be the Dragonesses? They had not surely succeeded in flying into orbit, had they? What turned his knuckles whitest, however, was the scale of the white flares blasting off Mystic’s surface. He knew how large the Egg was. Those flares could likely be seen with the naked eye, which must mean they were tens if not hundreds of leagues wide and deep.

Aranya would be engulfed. That much power? There had to be a point at which even a Star Dragoness bit off more than she could chew!

Asturbar’s huge paw gripped his forearm. “Whatever’s happening up there, Shadow, it’s a battle royal.”

He stepped back, feeling shaken. “I feel so freaking helpless!”

Ri’arion scratched his head. “If only there was a way to send them a message – I’d tell them what we discovered about the Rift fires. Any advantage over Infurion could be crucial.”

The three men gazed at each other. Suddenly, they nodded as one.

“Aye,” Ardan grinned.

“Yes.”

“What do we have allies for?” Ri’arion finished. “Let’s roust those lizards out of the swamp and start them beaming information aloft – hopefully, before the girls disappear around the edge of the Mystic Moon, that is.” He jumped back to the telescope. “We have … no time at all. Great. They’re gone.”

“Blame it on my stomach,” Asturbar cursed unhappily.

“Aye,” Ardan agreed. “A recently pregnant man just needs his munchies, doesn’t he?”

* * * *

Aranya wished she could pace in tight circles, but she could not. They whistled low over the Mystic Moon’s surface at a blistering pace, both literally and figuratively speaking. Detonation after detonation threatened to rattle her fangs right out of her skull. Meriatonium fires sheeted over them as they hurtled low over ridges of crystal shaped like a Land Dragon’s blocky molars. Despite her best efforts at adjusting Auli-Ambar’s gravitational parameters, they were flying lower and faster by the second.

Some unknown force was towing them in now. Nothing helped. She had deployed aerodynamic and kinetic shields in the oxygen-rich lower atmosphere, to no apparent effect. Even her best magical shenanigans left their course unchanged.

Occasionally, they caught glimpses of Infurion battling doggedly through the billowing tempests of fire, his great body appearing to lose cohesion, only to reform; once they saw one of the Thoralians flitting above the Egg, floating along serenely as he patently enjoyed the travails of his pursuers. Hour after hour passed as they plotted a course around Mystic before suddenly, the ground dropped away and their shield juddered violently.

Aranya found herself plastered against the side of their bubble right alongside the Pygmy Dragoness with Iridiana atop them both. “Get off my head!” cried Pip. They promptly tumbled in the opposite direction in a tangle of limbs and wings.

None of them could move as their life-preserving bubble jinked wildly and then executed a turn of such sharpness that even the Dragonesses blacked out momentarily. Immense gravitational forces seized them like gnats held helpless to a whistling gale’s power. Suddenly, they gazed down the length of a gleaming tunnel some six or seven miles in circumference toward a vanishing point of darkness; a darkness of such utter absence of light or magic or fire or anything at all, that it was as though they were being sucked into a void more ravenous and terrible than any of the emptiness of space they had traversed so far.

It was a wound pierced deep into Mystic’s flank.

A maw that consumed and gave nothing back.

This was the way to Dramagon’s Bequest, and Aranya knew one thing. She could not allow the Egg to be drawn into that place. It would be devoured.

Chapter 32: Ancient Mimicry

Zankaradia the Corundum Red peered over a landscape trembling arguably as much as the five Shapeshifters and Humans standing upon it. Words tumbled from the hatchling; words of welcome and encouragement and infantile joy at discovering other intelligent creatures she could converse with; the first living creatures she had known.

Her slanted, brilliant yellow eyes peered at Zuziana with particular affection. Shell mommy. Mommy heart. BLESSED SUMMONER OF MINE LIFE’SFIRES! Oh … oops.

That was a little more enthusiasm than could keep a Dragoness on her paws.

Zuziana picked herself up and dusted off her wings with a delighted wriggle. Hail, Zankaradia! She is born! Er … maybe? In principle, she was still inside her eggshell and therefore not born.

Technicalities! Toss those cares into a Cloudlands volcano.

Kassik sang softly yet poignantly:

She is born, fire of fire,

Blessed eggling, heart of living Dragon flame,

Born to fly!

Zankaradia went very still. Only her eye-fires flared like translucent crystals as she absorbed the import of his song. Each eye was a slanted ovoid larger than Kassik himself, set in a sleek muzzle of an appearance that struck Zuziana as Eastern in origin. She had hair-like barbels depending from her chin, the lower edges of her jaw, nostril edges and where the skull ruff would ordinarily be; each armoured tendril was tipped like a flanged spear point with a toxic-looking, barbed tip of crimson gemstone-cross-Dragonhide armour. Her body was longer and sleeker than any Dragon Zip had ever seen, twining around the entire Island-fragment they stood upon and perhaps beneath it, too, in miles-long, ever-writhing sea of corundum-red coils. Even as a babyish and slim eggling, she was immense, and possessed of an unearthly, lethal brilliance that was a hallmark of the Dragonkind. Ardan could arrive with the stealth of nightfall. Aranya outshone stars. Fra’anior embodied the shattering immensity of Storm. Zankaradia had a wild, fey beauty all of her own.

She was beyond awesome.

She was also apparently on their side. All in all, a useful development, Aranya might have noted with her dry Immadian sense of humour.

She and Zankaradia spoke in highly compressed bursts of information. The eggling wanted to know everything: all about the danger that faced her egg, the enemy, and the grave scene which had greeted her eye-fires upon ‘reforming’ herself from her nascent eggling-fires. Eventually Zuziana just gave up and threw it all at her at once; every memory, every thought, every reflection that she could summon up, even her dirty washing as Remoyans would say.

The eggling blinked rapidly. This is – must assimilate – epic victory – AH, CAN SUCH FOULNESS EXIST? Thou, Fra’anior mine progenitor – he is titanic! she gasped. O Zuziana, Remoy’s heart, I grieve for thy pain! Oh … this is love? This friendship love, Rider love, Human love, hearts’ love, mother love, fiery and righteous world-love!

Her long nose snuffled toward the Azure Dragoness, breathing in her scent. Thou … I see now, I was not born to tarry here. Mine presence engenders terrible danger to thee and thy kind, little ones.

Zip cried, You are wanted here, and loved – thou paragon of all draconic fires, Zankaradia! Thou art never alone. Never!

The eggling’s voice burbled in wordless approbation. Again the nostrils breathed deep, causing a breeze to stir the long-stagnant battlefield, and then a slim paw appeared, setting down beside Casitha and Yaethi before, with almost laughable care, the eggling curved her elegant talons toward Zuziana. Such yearning. Such innocent, vulnerable fires enflamed her eyes.

The Azure reached out to caress her gleaming Dragon hide. Thou, Zankaradia.

Thou, Zuziana, adored of mine hearts. She touched them each in turn now, pronouncing each name solemnly. Silver. Kassik. Casitha. Yaethi.

The Egg shuddered as it came under increasingly powerful attack from without. For the first time, Zankaradia’s expression betrayed alarm. Her neck twizzled in all directions, examining some property of their surrounds that Zip did not understand. When she spoke to soothe the Dragoness, however, the Corundum Red said at once:

Following mine coalescence, the Egg’s magic changes. It must crack soon.

Oh. What can we do? Silver blurted out.

I see I must breathe upon these all the breath of revival. This skill I do possess, for thou showest me much, o Zuziana. Even thy mistakes art mine teachers. She giggled, a curiously sweet and melodic sound. Hearken. And Silver, wilt thou mine instructor be? I fear mine untrammelled power must surely snuff out many lives – the image I have from thy mind is of a lens, or a filter?

The young Dragon drew himself up at once. This I can do, noble Zankaradia.

Zankaradia paused. I see thine beloved, o Silver, a Dragoness cast of Fra’anior’s own stormy beauty – and I wonder, who wilt mine beloved be? No mind. As you little ones say, one paw before the next!

The Dragoness drew in a mighty breath, and then exhaled. Golden motes shimmered upon her breath as if the suns themselves, cast low and golden at their eventide waning, gleamed richly through the volcanic atmosphere of Fra’anior Cluster. Slowly and deliberately, she curved her neck to spread her breath far and wide. Zz-shaah … was the song of her wind. The golden motes washed across the fallen and right up to the volcano’s flanks, descending upon each and every person like the most delicate blanket, like a dream of golden times of yore.

There was stillness within the Egg, and a dull, escalating thundering without.

Then, as if a primordial voice had spoken the very first command of life, a second stirring rippled around the battlefield. Wings rustled and leather armour creaked. The injured groaned as they shifted position. Voices began to mumble and buzz. Here and there, a head popped up to gaze about in bewilderment. The dominant tone of the murmuring was one of confusion, or shock as Zankaradia stepped overhead with a lithe flexion of her long body. Placing her forepaws upon the volcano’s rim, she raised her muzzle and then breathed within, a second profound exhalation.

Gleaming dust puffed up and spilled over the rim as if the volcano had erupted.

Zankaradia smacked her lips in apparent satisfaction.

Some of the Night-Reds woke with memories of battle at the forefront of their minds. They began growling and roaring, baring talons and fangs and casting about for the enemy. In the main they were so weak that the Dragons simply flopped along the ground, unable to raise wing or spring into the air as their brains told them they must. Officers and wing leaders began to shout orders. Every living creature upon the battlefield braced themselves for the wrath that must surely erupt.

Zankaradia vented a sibilant screech, “Stop!” The first flame of her life billowed out of her nostrils as her ire peaked; the Dragoness startled as crimson fire licked up around her jowls, and she brushed it away with her paw. “Listen to me – nay, listen to my mighty right paw, Zuziana the Azure! Zuziana, arise and issue your orders!”

Belatedly, the Azure sprang into the air. I, uh …

I shall amplify thy tiny voice, Zankaradia assured her. Speak thy will.

Alright. Nothing to it.

Forty thousand lives rested in the palm of her paw.

Swallowing away a boulder of a lump in her throat, Zuziana channelled her inner Princess of Immadia, and in a voice that boomed off the volcano’s ramparts, she thundered, “The time for battle is over! Re’akka is defeated! You Night-Reds, therefore, will tender your surrender to … to Kassik the Brown Shapeshifter, right away, or I shall have you squashed! Summarily and, er … forthwith!”

Roaring rajals, she was not the most eloquent orator. But having an Ancient Dragoness standing right behind her was clearly more than enough reinforcement. The Night-Reds might not ordinarily have obeyed a pint-sized scrap of sky, but veneration for physical stature and power was inbuilt in most Dragons. Heads dipped in acknowledgement, flared wings rustled back to flanks, and the tenor of their fires changed to a low drone of abasement.

All across the battlefield, the Night-Reds examined their paws.

Grandly, Zuziana gestured, “Kassik is over there! Surrender to him! The rest of you, start helping the injured while I brief you on what has been, and what we must do next. This sanctuary is under attack and I will require every paw and hand to aid our cause, or we shall not survive this day!”

She had just told them the battle was over. Now it had begun afresh? Zuziana gnawed her lip with her fangs. The potential for confusion loomed large.

Recalling the Herimor obsession with honour, she cried, “Dragons shall have a chance to prove and regain their honour this day! This I declare in the holy name of Fra’anior himself: All honourable service shall be redeemed; all creatures of dishonour shall be cast into the accursed, everlasting darkness inhabited by null-fires cowards!”

Her fury challenged them all.

Not a single voice rose in rebellion.

Kassik said drily, Well and boldly spoken, Zuziana. Do let me know when I can have command of my Academy back – but not today. He bowed regally. Allies?

She lowered her head more deeply than he. The honour is mine, noble Kassik. Let it be. Silver. See to Arosia and Chymasion. I understand that they possess powers we shall sorely need – and see, too, if you can improve or restore the levels of cognitive function in these Dragons. If any of your shell father’s faculties run in your blood …

The Silver stilled. What of him?

His shell kin are one enemy we face without, she said evenly, measuring his fires with her every sense alert. For Pip’s sake, be ready.

His voice was like velvet over flint. Speak thy commands, noble Zuziana. I am ready to serve, and to die if necessary.

* * * *

Both the Thoralians and Infurion seemed to be aware of by Dramagon’s Bequest, but that did not stop them tearing into each other all the way down the tunnel. The two remaining Thoralians redoubled their assault on the First Egg as though they expected something to happen imminently; meantime firing great sheets of white flame back at Infurion. The Ancient Dragon tore mighty founts of magic out of the horiatite, leaving blackened splotches in his wake as he completely drained patches of crystal, it appeared, in his insatiable hunger for power.

Then, both parties threw all they had at each other.

Aranya laboured to hold their shield firm. They smoked as they flew, the conflicting magic at play tearing at their constructs without pause or stanching. Pip struggled with Iridiana, attempting to calm and contain the increasingly magic-maddened Chaos Shifter. Pip was having the worst of it.

“I can’t! It hurts, it hurts!” Iridiana screamed.

Sapphire touched her. Heal Iri … whaa! Bad Iri!

Sorry, Sapphire! I can’t stop myself … that … darkness! That evil!

Calm down, Dragoness! Pip cried. You’ll destabilise us.

I’m … trying.

Down below, the dark shadow of Infurion enveloped the gleaming First Egg in its entirety; now all they could see of the Thoralians was the flashing of crimson and white fire as they tore at the insubstantial body of the Ancient Dragon; he had one significant natural advantage, they realised. No bones. But whatever the Thoralians were doing to him, the mighty power of Earthen Fires was bellowing fit to split the Moon in twain. Infurion’s body of fires bubbled and twisted obscenely. His bellowing, amplified up the tunnel, was contributing in no small measure to Iridiana’s distress despite all the acoustic dampening Aranya could muster. Pip held her despite her crazed contortions and shape-changing; talking to her, soothing, encouraging.

For long minutes the dark hole grew closer and the conflict more intense. The vacuum shield was disintegrating visibly now as dark streamers of dust sloughed away from it. Aranya knew that something of Dramagon’s magic was corrupting the constructs, and what she observed was a reaction. Quickly, she switched to throwing up shields within shields, so as the outer layer crumbled away, a fresh one was primed to take its place.

Suddenly, Infurion’s yawning, pain-wracked visage appeared above the Egg, facing Aranya. Well, since you bothered to show up, little Star Dragoness – don’t be shy!

Oh no! Pip gasped.

Aranya braced herself for one of his paws to reach out and seize them. Therefore, she was entirely unprepared for being smashed from behind by a mountain of darkened meriatite. Laughter as bruising as the impact reverberated up the tunnel as Infurion somehow ripped himself away from the First Egg and threw the small posse right into the Thoralians’ faces.

Make yourselves useful!

The shock registered on their old nemeses’ expressions could not have been plainer. How had the Thoralians not expected this; not seen them coming? Had Infurion played a double bluff upon them, effectively forcing the pursuit but concealing their presence from the Thoralians’ perception until the crucial instant? Crafty.

Yet here the Yellow-White Shapeshifters were, caught in an instant of bug-eyed amazement before, predictably, they threw everything including the proverbial Dragon’s treasure hoard at the uninvited guests. As their every shield and magic evaporated into nothingness before the awful psychic-magical onslaught, Aranya found herself wishing that life could once again be as simple as a pair of girls firing flaming arrows at Dragonships, and chasing leopard men about the Isles.

Sapphire chirped, Away.

The Chrysolitic dragonets flicked them through space.

The trio of Shapeshifters reappeared briefly beside the Egg’s flank before a second broadside from the Thoralians reamed the space where they had remained just a blink before.

They appeared behind a Thoralian. Sapphire ordered, Go!

Pip and Aranya immediately screamed into the attack, pummelling him with Storm, fire and synchronised lightning bolts. Their battle-linked telepathy was a welcome boon. Powers flowed and mingled between them. As the Thoralians whirled in the air, readying their malign bone-gripping power, the dragonets whisked them away again.

Aranya began, Sapp –

Speaking in Flow space was pointless. Appearing right in front of a Thoralian’s jaw was a welcome surprise; the pair of Dragonesses pounded him with fists and fire in a perfect concert of fury, as though they had practised the manoeuvre not less than a thousand times before. Blood mixed with fragments of bone and fangs sprayed through the air.

The Thoralian wrenched away in furious pain.

Glancing at her paws, Aranya gasped, I never …

Onyx strength, said the Pygmy, flexing her wiry, muscly frame. Clearly, shiny girl, you were way too nice – they dropped through space – in the past.

Oh no! Where was Iridiana? Aranya yelled, Watch out!

She hurled them sideways as Infurion struck. A dark hammer of power crunched into the First Egg, cracking its gleaming shell along a dozen separate fault-lines.

Oh no, you don’t! Iridiana cried. A gleaming iridium blur assaulted Infurion in one of her mad solo attacks. He tried to shrug her off, but the Chaos Beast made its appearance and flared within his paws, vaporising the appendages.

WHAT? YOU LITTLE …

The Thoralians decided now was the moment to dive for a widening crack in the First Egg. Aranya and Pip immediately gave chase. Iridiana was apparently taking on an Ancient Dragon and had the beating of him. Crazy girl.

Not … fast enough, groaned the Pygmy Dragoness.

A pair of sapphire wings somersaulted past her face. Follow clever-clever Sapphire!

It all happened at once. Infurion lashed out a second time with his power. Iridiana bit through the flame of his attack, but it still retained enough force to shatter the eggshell. As the gleaming white pieces carved away, falling languidly down the tunnel, the Thoralians launched their own assault. They sought to capture anyone or anything inside, but the Chrysolitic dragonets were just a whisker faster.

The Amethyst cannoned into a very large, very surprised Dragoness’ head. By the mountains!

Pip whistled down beside her. Oof!

A thrilling voice cried, Why, who are you?

Pip and Aranya found themselves splatted upon a wide bed of sleek red scales, surrounded by a very strange, barbed array of wickedly red tendrils depending from a Dragoness’ head. Despite the obvious threat, Aranya forced her disruptive power backward a second time, thwarting the Thoralians’ attack at least partly.

As the eggshell split, the Amethyst Dragoness realised where she was. Atop a Dragoness. Atop a volcano. Gazing out over a battlefield that by rights should not exist, filled with people and Dragons helping each other and a jostling crowd of sooty red-black Dragons bowing to a powerful Brown; a battlefield where a familiar blue-winged Dragoness wheeled about as if she was in charge of absolutely everything and everybody.

As usual.

Zuziana! Aranya carolled with joy.

Her cry mingled with Pip’s, Silver! O, Silver!

* * * *

“This blows like a ragion’s rear end,” Asturbar grumbled. “It blows worse than fire applied to a ragion’s stinking rear end. If a bunch of walking brains can’t figure out where that volcano belongs, then what chance do we have? Ruddy overgrown squad of helmet heads. Our women get to partake in the battle of the ages up on the Mystic Moon, and we’re stuck down here tromping through swamps at night. Who invented swamps, anyways? Some festering pimple-brained junior engineer with too much time –”

“Fra’anior,” said Ri’arion.

The soldier growled, “Well, next time, stop me before I say something completely blasphemous.”

“You just keep on disparaging the Creator Dragon,” said the ex-monk, coughing as a particularly dense billow of sulphurous smoke blew across the foetid swamps. Much of the bioluminescent local flora and fauna apparently revelled in the toxic volcanic outflows and gases. “I’m sure that’ll work out just fine for you. Personally, I’m voting for a trip to the Northern tip of Jeradia like the fellow from Order of Onyx said. Durithion’s great-great-great grandson. These hot swamps might sit atop an exciting area of active volcanism, but I just can’t see the attraction.”

Asturbar rubbed his hands together. “Pick him up in Jos? Fly him with us?”

Ardan said, “Ignathion called him crazy. He seemed perfectly sane to me, if a little eccentric.”

“Eccentric? He wears a twenty-foot ribbed anaconda for jewellery, and hears voices in his head,” Ri’arion pointed out. “He feeds the snake live mice from his own mouth.”

“Can’t beat that for ally material,” said Asturbar.

Heads nodded in the semidarkness. In a word, they were desperate.

A second later, a huge shadow loomed darker than the night. Dragon Ardan boomed, “Away from us, o slough of misery! To Jos!”

Once his companions had mounted up, the Shadow Dragon coiled his legs and sprang skyward, soon leaving the notorious boiling swamps of Jeradia far behind.

* * * *

When the eggshell peeled away, Zuziana was prepared for trouble. She was just not prepared for this scale of trouble. The Thoralians hovered off their left flank, glowering. Infurion loomed above like a noxious thundercloud primed to unleash vast and immedicable destruction. The Mystic Moon’s magic flickered and crackled up and down the blackened tunnel walls, a song of Imbalance and natural forces run amok. She knew the reality of falling sideways toward a place they had discussed and imagined, but never seen or felt up close. The evil that radiated from it was like the Suald-dak-Doon amplified a thousand times over.

And, her best friend sat upon Zankaradia’s head. Screaming for joy!

Right alongside her lay a splendid little Onyx Dragoness. Judging by Silver’s ralti-stupid beaming, that would be one Pip, delivered safe and sound.

Genius!

Her Splendidly Gleaming Majesty did have a way of making an entrance, she thought, as her stomach took a lurch toward a weightless sensation of pure delight. Aranya had come! Coupled with the realisation of her own liberty! Now was not the moment to celebrate the sweetness of this moment. The situation was delicately balanced. Any second now, the Academy’s inhabitants would be subject to the ravages of Mystic’s strange atmosphere …

Just then, the Corundum Red unleashed such a scream of agony, it gave even Infurion pause. The Thoralians laughed evilly. Drop your shields, little one, and let us come close. Join us. Your fire life is ours for the quenching. BACK, INFURION! Back, or lose it all.

The Ancient Dragon paused, considering. She is mine, Thoralian. My whelp to alter as I wish, according to the superior pattern of Earthen Fires!

With millisecond timing, Aranya said, Zip, how I rejoice – join us!

She flitted toward her friend.

* * * *

As the Thoralians twisted the hatchling into knots and Aranya tried to battle their marrow-seizing power into something approaching submission, she called, Pip, we need an atmospheric shield. Iridiana, what can you do? Distract the Thoralians! Dragons, to me! Where are the ones called Chymasion and Silver –

Here and ready, Aranya, Zip replied.

With the Thoralians and Infurion at a standoff, Aranya knew that it was up to her. Dramagon’s Bequest was close, perhaps just a few miles off. Could they block that opening with horiatite? Stuff Infurion in there, sideways? The volcano itself? Surely everyone would be consumed and die – she bit her lip as Infurion seared into the attack. His fires gathered, darker and denser than ever before as he sliced through the inimical horiatite-based magic, angling directly for the Thoralians. They dodged at once, flinging their power at the young Ancient Dragoness – what an oxymoron that was – who screamed again and writhed as if the Thoralians had flushed pure acid through her intestines.

Aranya touched that mighty, pain-wracked mind. Be healed. With me now, like this!

Who –

Aranya, Star Dragoness, Fra’anior’s grand shell daughter.

I am Zan – AAH! Zankaradia … Corundum Red. The hatchling’s eyes suddenly shot wide. FRA’ANIOR HAS COME!

Storming from above, from the direction of the tunnel mouth, came the famous seven-headed Dragon, mantled in an immensity of boiling clouds. Aranya could not believe – she could not. The mental signature was Iridiana’s! But Infurion and the Thoralians were not to know her act of mimicry. The Thoralians howled their defiance as they darted aside, breaking their contact with Zankaradia as they shielded themselves in anticipation of his assault.

Infurion gasped, SHELL BROTHER MINE, I –

Her intervention staggered them all.

Infurion collided brutally with the Thoralians, driving them all together against the tunnel wall. The overstressed magic detonated at once, pounding the threesome downward past the rotating Academy Island and Eridoon nearby. They dove away in a pugnacious tangle, punching and clawing and blasting each other, matching broadside for broadside and power for power. Clearly, there was not a scale’s breadth of love lost between the supposed allies.

Zip sincerely prayed they beat each other into a pulp.

Zankaradia’s eye fires darkened with turquoise and cerise tones as she turned to Zip and Aranya. I must … it was an honour. Her coils slithered about the Island, tightening her grip.

Zip called, Zankaradia, what are you doing?

What I must. I see my destiny; ’twas but to live in a flash of fire, to succour the Star …

No! Aranya and Zip gasped as one.

Bracing herself across the horiatite tunnel from wall to wall, the Dragoness shuddered as she drew deep of the ambient magic, and then she hurled them away from Dramagon’s Bequest with every ounce of her strength. Zankaradia tore herself loose in the doing. She tumbled toward Infurion and the Thoralians, twisting her neck to hose them with her golden breath in a devastating, doomed assault. Infurion in particular seemed to find her unique flame afflicting; the Thoralians shuddered as they tried to flick up shields or resist. Too soon, the motes guttered.

Aranya whirled toward Zip. “How can we shield the Academy?”

“We’ll take care of it, o Star Dragoness,” rumbled the Brown Shapeshifter.

“Master Kassik, Head of the Academy,” Zuziana announced.

She bowed aerially. “Honoured. Pip –”

“We’re already slowing,” she confirmed. Turning, she punched the air with her fists. STOP!

The Island wobbled violently as the competing magic clashed for supremacy, but in a second, they all sensed that the slowing down continued. Soon they would be falling toward the centre again. Pip gasped and slumped in the air; at least four Dragons leaped to catch her, but it was Silver’s paws that were quickest. “Corruption?” he guessed.

“Even a Word of Command has its antithesis, it seems,” she spluttered. “I’m alright. Just.”

“We’ve Dramagon to thank for that impossibility,” Kassik rumbled. “Star –”

Rapidly, Aranya said, “We can’t let Zankaradia sacrifice herself for us – not this way. It doesn’t feel right. Pip, Iridiana, Zip, with me. We’ll form shields about this place and pass them to –”

“Silver and me,” put in a young Jade Dragon. He had the most peculiar eyes! “I’m Chymasion.”

“Silver and Chymasion. Rally every available mind in this place, gentle – uh, Dragons.” Aranya laughed hollowly. “We need to find a way of reversing course out of the Mystic Moon. Keep the air pure. There’s enough ambient magic here to do practically anything. I’ll show you how. And let’s link in Eridoon Island while we’re at it. There must be thousands still aboard.”

She glanced across the battlefield and over the edge of the Island which was tilted almost to the vertical plane, yet gravity still behaved as though she stood – or flew – perfectly upright. Nobody on the ground seemed troubled, apart from by the crazy perspective. Even a few Dragons showed signs of vertigo.

Why was the gravity so skewed?

Beyond that edge in the direction of Mystic’s core, the four battling Dragons had almost disappeared into the darkness. Zankaradia had thus far survived attempts to parasitize or take her over – perhaps only due to the others fighting over her – but she was taking a relentless pounding. Clearly, she knew little about Dragon combat, but her lashing coils and golden breath were doing enough to keep the Thoralians very busy and very annoyed indeed. Could they not sense its proximity? Or did Infurion or the Thoralians imagine that the Bequest must be filled with creatures loyal to the cause?

Aranya did not agree. What she sensed was the chilling, rapacious hunger of otherworldly creatures. They were all in mortal peril.

How could nothingness be so terrifying?

She turned to her companions. Sapphire, there’s only one way I can think of that we might save this Academy from the creatures inside that hole. Without Ardan’s powers present here, that responsibility falls to you and your brood.

The little dragonet nodded bravely. We ready, Ari. You go make Ancient Dragon … toast?

Aranya roared with laughter. Aye. And a toast to the dragonets!

Star, Chaos, Onyx and Azure were the four Dragonesses who flung themselves into the abyss in pursuit of Zankaradia the Corundum Red.

Chapter 33: Arise, O Star!

ZUZIANA OF REMOY knew that she had to cast off the nagging suspicion that she was the perennial spare Dragoness. She was not superfluous. Aranya wanted her here. She had been her best friend right from the start, when they had tried to beat each other bloody and instead fallen into the most incredible friendship she could ever have imagined. Stars. Legendary Dragonesses! And one little Azure.

What could she do?

Call Zankaradia! Aranya’s warm mental voice intruded upon her thoughts. The Azure’s fires flushed heatedly. Had she been listening? I … to do what?

I don’t know. Get her attention. Teach her to use her fangs.

She doesn’t have any.

Huh?

Zip tried to recall what she had observed. She has – very sharp tooth ridges, I think you’d say. They’re forked like your old daggers, about fifty feet long and several hundred feet deep into her muzzle …

Tell her to use them!

Iridiana gestured with understandable frustration. Battle? There?

Aranya said, We’ve always chatted our way through battles.

You chatted enemies to death?

I suppose! The Amethyst growled, Join with me. If we can’t reverse direction, we need to throw enough down into that hole that we can buoy Zankaradia up. NOW!

The Dragonesses each supplied their characteristic powers – the strength of Onyx, the subtlety of Azure, the reality-usurping guile of Chaos, and the purity of starlight – as they funnelled a tornado of churning power ahead of their flight. Ahead, Zankaradia snapped alternately at Infurion and one of the Thoralians, who had gripped onto her back and was now working his way up to the skull, perhaps aiming to try to penetrate her brain by physical means. He dodged the gleaming barbels as she shook her ruff angrily, trying to dislodge him. Meantime, her mystic golden breath wafted over Infurion and the other Thoralian, who were embroiled in a life-or-death battle below her, between her coils. Her breath vaporised large patches of the Earthen Fires Dragon as they watched. That helped Thoralian. He had changed tactics and was now attacking Infurion’s mind with his daimonising power.

Perhaps sensing Infurion’s weakness, Zankaradia struck out at the entangled Thoralian. Her unique teeth snapped off one of his hind paws!

“We can’t hit that one on her back!” Pip shouted.

“No. Let’s clear the other one, and Infurion.”

“Warning Zankaradia,” said Zip, biting her lip. She risked a backward glance. Academy slowing. Fighting the Bequest’s force.

Aranya said, Dramagon’s magic operates even on the Chrysolitic plane? Holy Fra’anior! I need to check –

Focus, Aranya! Zuziana ordered.

Marshal Zuziana? her friend teased. Thanks. Still, she sensed Aranya compartmentalising. And they called Remoyans stubborn?

The dragonets were struggling mightily back there, drawing dangerous levels of power through their network as they fought to stabilise the volcano. Aranya’s consciousness slipped back to lend a helping paw, so to speak, showing them how to increase their efficiency.

The timing would be crucial. Listening to her best friend’s strategizing, Zuziana opened herself to Zankaradia. Strike incoming. Distract. Thoralian on your back – there!

The stalking Yellow-White Shapeshifter startled as the barbels struck in concert. His dodge was almost perfect. One glowing crimson point touched his tail about two thirds of the way to its base. For the first time, they heard his howl rise even above the din of his shell brother’s clash with Infurion. Poison flared within his flesh. Zip had never seen anything like it. Lodes of gleaming crimson appeared beneath his scales before the flesh combusted from within. In seconds the hole in his tail was two feet in diameter and growing wider and deeper by the second. A necrotic fire poison? Several barbels struck again, one slightly grazing his flank. Thoralian writhed away, howling as though a blazing log had been flung into his eye.

Stung, the other shell brother tore into Infurion with feral ferocity. Ardan had described how they worked together; here it was in action. Meantime, Thoralian somersaulted free of Zankaradia’s back. His sinuous body contorted as he tried to make sense of his injuries.

Now, Aranya said quietly.

A white-blue torrent of power poured down the side of the tunnel, gathering form and shape as it thundered away from the quartet of Dragonesses. The horiatite gleamed afresh where it had passed by. Warned by Zip, Zankaradia flung herself into a mighty contortion to avoid the strike as it speared beneath her coils, shearing Infurion’s presence away from her body. The Dragonesses dove in as fast as they could, pouring more and more into building a buffer between her and the enemy. The Dragoness gripped the tunnel’s side, but the force of Dramagon’s secret weapon still dragged at her tail, slowly, inexorably, hauling her toward its maw.

More! cried Pip and Zuziana as one. Sable lightning crackled through the seething whiteness below, drawing aggrieved bellows from two distinct voices.

They were close now. So close!

Differently! cried Iridiana.

Aranya immediately whipped their power aside at the second, lurking Thoralian, but he appeared to Shadow through it – with a stolen ability? Zip followed with eyes and senses not her own as the Amethyst followed his progress. Just a feint! The real Thoralian appeared right above Zankaradia’s skull, his curiously elongated talons bared as the youngling gazed quizzically up at them, clearly awaiting instructions as to how, perhaps, to clamber out of the tunnel.

She had no idea.

As the Thoralians smiled deviously, Zip’s outcry seemed to take forever to leave her mind. He was blanking them! ZANKARADIA … NOOOO!!

* * * *

Aranya felt rather than saw Pip leave their diving group. One instant she was with them, the next, the fearful talons of Thoralian’s left paw stabbed deep into her back, while the other parted Zankaradia’s flesh and bone with ghastly ease. He buried his right forepaw inside of the Ancient Dragoness almost up to the shoulder, but the real, obvious shock to him was the way that his other paw stopped. Pygmy-stopped.

Pip shuddered beneath the terrible force of that strike.

Faster than she could think about it, Aranya linked with Iridiana and forced the young Dragoness to roll on her axis, twisting Thoralian’s paw so viciously that his bones snapped cleanly at the wrist.

Then, all was instinct. She rode a mauve wave down at Thoralian. He convulsively jerked out a pawful of Zankaradia’s brain matter as he tried to escape, but the Pygmy Dragoness gripped him by the muzzle and forced him to stay put as the trio smacked simultaneously into his flank, rolling the burly Yellow-White Shapeshifter over onto the poisonous barbels. His jaw gaped as the poison touched him in a dozen locations.

Thoralian screamed, I will … his paw again tried to quarry into the Corundum Red hatchling’s skull. Despite her convulsions, he managed to gain a grip inside that first wound just as Iridiana transformed into a hulking Asjujian Emoflit. Two thousand tonnes of Chaos Shifter was too much even for their nemesis. Her wooden muzzle shovelled him sideways across the barbels. Skiss! Skiss! Poison flared in his flesh, gouging great trenches as she liberally rubbed him over the poisonous spears.

Thoralian writhed in agony.

“Nasty,” said Pip, her grin spoiled by an eruption of golden Dragon blood from her throat.

Zuziana had two of the barbels in her paws, holding them below the dangerous tips, and was stabbing Thoralian repeatedly around the shoulder, head and muzzle, sobbing, “You – you vile – I hate this, I hate I hate I hate …”

The shell brothers screamed in mortal agony as the poison burned through one’s flesh, blackening even the bone beneath.

Aranya reached out for Zuziana. “Enough. Stop, petal.”

“I cannot have mercy …”

“He is finished.” Could it be true? Another Thoralian destroyed? She drew her best friend into her embrace. “It’s done. Help me with Pip and Zankaradia –”

A lunatic outburst cut through her words. Spinning upon the Corundum Red’s head, Aranya gazed down her stretched-out length. Through a gap in the dissipating fires they had flung at the other Thoralian and Infurion, she saw them still locked in a death grip as they passed into the darkness of Dramagon’s Bequest.

From the depths, Thoralian bellowed, Now you are finished, Star Dragoness! I take Infurion with me! O NOBLE DRAMAGON, RECEIVE MINE SPIRIT!

And again, he roared in a far greater voice, AN’TOL SÛYA SHAO’LUKAYN – ARISE!!

A metallic, sibilant rattling began to shake Dramagon’s Bequest.

Zip shook Aranya out of her unnerved gawking. “Petal, isn’t now the moment we flee like Dramagon himself is breathing down our necks?”

“Aye – let’s shake a wingtip, girlie!”

* * * *

Ardan surveyed the barrens at the northern end of Jeradia with disdain. From low, wet and miserable to high, wet and miserable. The thunderstorms over Jeradia Island were doing their search no favours, but Amazothion, by dint of communing with his pet snake, claimed he would be able to lead them directly to the location. Crazy? Maybe. The Cognates had certainly weighed in with their opinion, which Ardan could have translated by means of any number of pithy Western Isles expletives.

The hour was much closer to morning than to midnight as they skated low through one final squall, and now Ri’arion murmured appreciatively as the clouds opened to reveal a night sky replete with stars. “Communication lines open,” he said.

“Pay attention, holy man,” Amazothion sniffed. “Majuskar says we must head farther East.”

“That area has already been mapped,” Ardan explained.

“East.”

“Very well.” The Shadow Dragon tilted his wings to take them directly toward a small peninsula on the North-Eastern tip of Jeradia. “I wish we knew what the measurements –”

“I have supplied the data,” said the man, cuddling his pet.

“Aye,” Ri’arion said drily. “Is Majuskar not cold?”

“Ah, you hear him too! Perhaps you are a holy man, after all,” the fellow returned slyly. “Aye, he is not comfortable upon this ill-tempered Dragon’s back. Perhaps his services are not sufficiently appreciated?”

Perhaps we should wring the reptile’s neck? Ardan thought to himself.

The snake immediately hissed angrily.

Very well. How a Dragon must abase himself for his Star’s sake. “Amazothion, I personally swear I will provide Majuskar a lifetime’s supply of anything he desires if he can lead us to the right place. Furthermore, I am right now deploying additional heating elements to our environmental shielding. When the temperature is optimal for the noble Majuskar, please do let me know.”

“Bah. You are still ungrateful. Majuskar senses your deepest feelings, Dragon.”

Most of those feelings involved the anaconda strangling his owner straightaway, Ardan decided, feeling charitable about the whole affair. Still, he winged on quickly as he was bidden privately by Asturbar. Soon they hovered over that desolate spit as Amazothion consulted once more with his pet at interminable length.

“This is the place,” he said.

Ardan eyed the location. It was right upon the edge where Jeradia Island’s massif dropped in sheer cliffs many leagues tall into an Impossible Deep that gouged a trench uncrossable by the shelled kind of Land Dragons almost from the Western Isles to Jeradia and across to the Spine Islands. A thin peninsula jutted out, curving back to the mainland in what could conceivably have been one edge of a round volcano, if only there had not been absolutely nothing beneath where the main part of the mile-and-a-half diameter volcano, he imagined, should lie. The cliffs above the Cloudlands were three miles of bleak granite upon which only the hardiest bushes scrabbled for a roothold.

“Here?” said Ri’arion.

“Majuskar’s birthplace was in that forest to the South,” said the man, pointing to a thickly tangled patch of forest lying at the foot of the start of Jeradia’s famously wild interior mountain range, about three miles away. It was almost uninhabited, even by these hardy giant warriors. “He distinctly remembers the lower entrance to the volcano being just about over there.”

Shaking his head slowly, Ardan set aside his disbelief and surveyed the terrain in detail. He tried to imagine what could have been, matching it up with Leandrial’s faulty memories. Could Pip conceivably have gouged out that much rock, or … he pointed with his fore-talon. “Could those be claw marks? As in, Land Dragon claws?”

Asturbar grunted, “You know, you might just have a head on your miserable shoulders after all, soldier! Ah –” he chortled softly, “– old habits.”

Amazothion laughed his annoying, nasally laugh. “Do you see now? The legend of the traitor Shurgal tearing at the bedrock in his fury, was true! So, I hope you men and Dragons have the King of Fra’anior’s own resources to hire the labour you’d need to rebuild this place you’re so set upon, and a decade or two for your nice building project. And you call me crazy – ha ha ha!”

Ardan threw back his huge black head and bellowed a laugh that shook the rainwater off the trees a mile off. “No, my friend. We will rebuild this bedrock within a week, by which time we plan to fly the Academy in from the Mystic Moon. Will you help us?”

“Ah, you are crazy indeed! Majuskar likes you after all, Shadow Dragon.”

Crazy depended upon one’s measure, didn’t it?

* * * *

Unfortunately for those bent on fleeing, brain-damaged Zankaradia could not proceed at a pace much greater than a laboured crawl up the tunnel, despite healing and physical assistance. Aranya had done what she could under the circumstances for both her and Pip – but a bigger problem was growing in intensity right behind their tails.

The Shao’lûkayn threw up a disturbing racket. The deepest chill of outer space emanated from that sixth Moon now. How could Fra’anior have mistaken its import? How could Dramagon have hidden its living payload from his shell brother – unless nothing in that Moon had been alive when it had originally impacted Mystic? Perhaps it had embedded itself on purpose, then millennia later, tunnelled toward the surface in search of magical power that would cause its denizens to grow and mature?

They passed around several large fragments of eggshell apparently stuck to the horiatite. The hatchling climbed in a dazed state, palpably traumatised by whatever Thoralian had tried to do to her mind, but her paws gripped the cracks in the horiatite firmly enough. Aranya wanted to rail at her to hurry, but that would be useless. Instead, her focus was on the Academy’s laboured progress above. Too slow. Far too slow to avoid whatever was about to –

That!

A metallic thing fluttered out of the hole. She wanted to say that it had wings, but they looked more like spokes or spines that moved so rapidly, they hummed. The Shao’lûkayn was blacker than night all over, save for a crimson spot on its underbelly that reminded her of a variety of venomous spider she had once inadvertently shared her bedroll with in the Western Isles. Almost quicker than her eye could follow, the creature nosedived into the tunnel wall and expired in a puff of black dust that darkened a section of horiatite perhaps thirty feet in diameter.

Another fluttered up weakly, barely making it out of the mouth of its lair before dropping back inside. A minute passed before another, stronger creature spat forth. This one made it several hundred feet before expiring in the same way as the first.

“Move!” her voice crackled with thunder – fear, she realised.

Zankaradia was not going to make this. Not by miles. A rough reckoning had them ninety miles beneath Mystic’s surface. The night sky up there bore a chilling resemblance to the darkness behind. They were perhaps a mile above Dramagon’s Bequest, and the Academy four miles ahead of them, also travelling far too slowly despite repeated attempts by the Chrysolitic dragonets to drag it into their Flow space. They kept wavering back to reality again.

She glanced behind. Flick. Flick. Two of the creatures soared toward them before falling short. The spikes appeared to wave in a sensory fashion before they veered to collide with the walls. Three! Another pair! Suddenly, the horiatite was being eaten away more rapidly than Aranya wanted to credit. Four at once! Faster and faster, and stronger each time, the creatures spat forth. Their bodies were seemingly spikes upon spikes, but so dark it was impossible to discern detail save for that crimson spot which, Aranya feared, might be a mouth or some other vile organ.

Now the first soared up to their level. Iridiana smashed it aside with a fireball.

The sibilant rushing sound increased in volume. The whole tunnel was starting to shake now, like a volcano building up, the gases fizzing, the pressure increasing – so suddenly that Zankaradia stumbled and fell upon her nose, the force redoubled in intensity. Despite her digging in all eight paws, Aranya noticed peripherally, she was being dragged backward and her winged companions with her.

Iridiana! Pip! Join paws with me! She had an idea of how to combat these things.

Shao’lûkayn spat from the pit faster than one per second, now. Some passed them by. One landed upon Zankaradia’s tail and set her scales alight there. She groaned but kept struggling on.

Dark bodies whizzed past in their tens. Twenties. Explosions rocked the tunnel.

With me, now. Make light!

Pip said, But I can’t. I’m not a –

We have to try, Aranya insisted. And, I think you can.

She exchanged a brief, incredulous look with Zuziana and Iridiana. Umm … wrong end of the colour spectrum?

Not even on the spectrum, Aranya wanted to protest – not that it mattered! That had been the last thought on her mind.

Iridiana demurred grimly, And I’m just the zany Chaos girl around here –

Zip rapped, Just shut your fangs and do what she says, alright? The first of the creatures powered right up to the Academy, striking it squarely on the underside. Where the shield had been, a wide round hole appeared in the magic before it automatically resealed, drawing on the resources of the Dragons within. Oh, no …

Lowering her head, Aranya gripped her friends’ paws and said. Focus on me, now. They all jumped as Zankaradia flinched a second time. One, two, three … shine!

After perhaps two minutes and twenty-five increasingly panicked transformations, Iridiana found her shine. She was a twin, after all, and the breakthrough found its way through their intimate connection into her soul. Belief flowered. Doubt almost immediately cut in, but Aranya’s radiant smile of encouragement put paid to that a moment later. Pip was a different matter. She clearly believed that creatures of onyx or jungle girls were not meant to shine, and she was certainly no less stubborn than a certain Remoyan Aranya could have touched by the merest flick of her wingtip at that point. When a Shao’lûkayn expired against their radiance, she pulled away.

“This isn’t my place.”

“Child of Fra’anior’s spirit –”

“Stop it! I’m not like you two. Can’t you see? I’m little and I don’t have an ounce of Star Dragoness inside of me! I’ll fight these things fire for fire!”

“Pip, don’t!”

The Pygmy Dragoness broke away to station herself down near Zankaradia’s tail. As the barrage increased, she seemed to keep pace, using shield, paw and hot fireballs to take them down. Blood trickled from her reopened injuries, one being a puncture wound dangerously close to her second heart. Iridiana and Aranya moved nearer to her. Their brilliant combined shining fragmented the creatures that approached – but only within a radius of about four hundred feet. Beyond their coverage, Shao’lûkayn survived and struck the descending Academy regularly.

The rattling escalated a notch.

Ready? Aranya called to Iridiana.

BOOM! Hundreds of creatures spurted from the hole, a rapid-fire barrage that overwhelmed Pip and came within inches of exploding in Iridiana’s face before the last one expired. The Pygmy Dragoness escaped only by dint of some extremely fancy flying. She whirled, panting, her eye fires blazing with fright and battle fury.

Now, ominous stillness.

Zip winged rapidly toward them, having to beat hard just to maintain her position. “The eggshell! They don’t penetrate the pieces of eggshell!”

“Aye? If we could wrestle a few pieces up there …”

The tunnel shuddered as the Shao’lûkayn came flooding forth, spitting out faster than the eye could follow. They came in clumps of dozens. The detonations were a hundred feet wide now, until the previously brilliant horiatite resembled, uncomfortably, Aranya’s skin lesions at the height of her battle with the Shapeshifter pox. The four Dragonesses pounded away with their fireballs and rapidly reformed shields, but the barrage was intense. Only by combining their efforts could they keep Zankaradia clear, and she was still slipping. The Academy took an absolute pasting. The shield took noticeably longer to reform this time, but Silver appeared to rally the hibernation-weakened Dragons in the nick of time.

When the flurry eased again, the Dragonesses glanced at each other and shouted, “Go! Go, go!”

Silver! Pip shouted. Help down here.

It’s getting violent, he said, but less than five seconds later part of a Dragonwing led by Master Kassik that swooped over the edge of the Academy. Eggshell, dear one?

Every piece we can salvage!

Iridiana cried out in alarm as Zankaradia’s talons suddenly lost their grip and she slid several hundred feet backward. Aranya swatted her in the backside – not that a Dragoness of her body shape really had one to speak of – with her Kinetic power, staying the slide.

Iri … help me! Together, they lifted a narrow shard. Academy?

Yes, her sister agreed. Here they come again!

This time the flurry was not thick, but it was blindingly fast. Aranya led the counterpunching, trying out different types of shields and effects, but the contrary type of magic these creatures possessed simply annulled every technique she knew. Eventually she and Iridiana resorted to a crazed flurry of fireballs, chunks of horiatite torn from the tunnel walls, and starlight-powered punches to keep some of them at bay. Kassik’s Dragonwing lost half a dozen Dragons within a single breath. Each Dragon touched by a Shao’lûkayn combusted instantly in a cloud of ash, its innate magic consumed by the predator’s hostile power.

A brief hiatus allowed the Lesser Dragons to wing lower down and then to struggle back with four or five substantial chunks of eggshell. The Academy was lowering rapidly, now.

Something big was coming. Aranya sensed it even as Zuziana worked with Zankaradia to try to find a way of her gripping a chunk of eggshell and sitting upon it, or at least, angling it and then arranging her coils in such a way that the piece would provide maximal protection.

It was far from perfect.

How were they ever going to fly out of here?

Dragons were born in trios. A brood of three matched shell-siblings was supposed to be the strongest force in battle. Dragonship hawsers were made of three strands.

So, what if one strand refused to cooperate?

Pip punched the air restively as she called, “Come on, Aranya, aren’t you supposed to command star hooks or some useful power to pull us out of here?”

“Didn’t Fra’anior gift you strength enough?” she retorted, and then bit her lip. None of them was strong enough for this, were they?

Pip glared at her. “I tried to shine. It was a stupid, insensitive idea – oh, mercy …”

Her voice trailed off as a Shao’lûkayn fifty times the size of its predecessors came rising languidly out of the dark cave mouth. Another. And another. A Dragon’s every fire darkened at the advent of these predators. They rose as if they had no care for gravity, nor for any other force save their own mysterious propulsion. Aranya realised that Pip was right. They just needed to find the right hook and Auli-Ambar’s handiwork might just save their hides.

The Pygmy grabbed Aranya’s paws. She thought for a second the other was going to plead or babble, but instead, Pip said, “Tell me I can shine.”

“I …”

Full reverse! Aranya caught her breath.

“Tell me. Convince me. You believe it, don’t you?”

Did she truly believe? Moved by the desperation in the other Dragoness’ eyes, galvanised by Zankaradia’s outcry as the hatchling at last found her golden breath to fight back once more, she searched her Dragoness’ hearts for the answer. Had Pip implicitly been accusing her of racism? That stung! Thrust it away. That was never Aranya’s way.

It was her Humansoul who said, however, “Pipsqueak, nothing is little about you apart from your nickname! It took me long enough to believe. It was only after Fra’anior trout-slapped me over the head a few times that belief bit, and bit deep.”

“Oh!” Pip laughed.

“I’m a bit slow like that sometimes. You and I both know what ‘child of his spirit’ means.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m the child of Istariela’s spirit,” she pointed out astutely.

“Maybe you’re my missing third shell sibling.”

“Now you’re just being too jolly existential to follow. Aye or nay?”

“Light cannot shine in the absence of darkness. Not to its absolute. If everything was light, then light itself would be nothing. It would be indistinguishable from –”

Pip shook her muzzle dolefully. “I’m convinced you have an ‘aye’ in you somewhere. Come on, you ridiculous tongue twizzler. Shine! You’re so tied up in your silly philosophical contemplations! All you need to do, is –”

“Shine. Exactly,” Aranya agreed. “Let’s do it, Pygmy girl. Follow my lead.”

Silver’s half of the Dragonwing was taking on the first of the huge Shao’lûkayn with a robust series of blasts, whilst Kassik and his group wrestled pieces of eggshell toward the Academy. The Shao’lûkayn appeared to take little notice of their attacks, sailing on to impact against the under-edge of the Academy once more. The resultant explosion was as if Fra’anior had drawn back his paw to kick the place. Shuddering! Cracking! Rocks tumbling off the volcano and inside, she could not imagine the devastation if the buildings collapsed. People and Dragons cried out in terror, but they heard Kassik’s calm voice issuing a stream of orders.

“Those look tough,” said Iridiana dourly, re-joining them.

“Not if we can find some Pygmy shine to add to our twin-shine,” said Zip. “Ready to add your squeak’s worth?”

Aranya rolled her eyes. “Remoyans. Hopeless. Pip, I know you can do this –”

Before the Onyx Dragoness could respond, a series of dull, powerful thuds shook their bones. A whole battalion of heavy Shao’lûkayn issued from the sixth Moon, followed a second later by the lighter spitting sounds of their smaller brethren – only this time, they massed themselves in a wave that did not slacken off. The fizzing sound escalated toward a furious bubbling, as if a mile-wide kettle was about to boil over, and then the jaws of their lair simply overflowed with the creatures. Myriad strong. So many that they appeared initially to move like a hairy black caterpillar, like a single organism. The wave front crumpled at the edges as it swelled, destroying the horiatite with a low crackling roar of decimated crystal until Mystic’s native magic was entirely blotted out, and still they flew on, as if driven by an endless upwelling from behind. Individuals spurted out of the main advance only to be swallowed up by their fellows.

A devouring maw rushed up the tunnel to engulf them.

Pip cried out, “Wind, Aranya! Their advance is compressing the air ahead …”

She was the Daughter of Storm. At last, a simple idea presented itself to Aranya. A solution.

Gathering her sister Dragonesses about her, she rapped, “Whatever you do, get Zankaradia and the Academy straightened out so that the shells are beneath – we’ll ride this wave out! If they come around the edges of the eggshell –”

“Starlight,” said Iridiana.

“Zip, the dragonets –”

“They’ve collapsed,” Zip said soberly. “Sapphire is inconsolable.”

“Aaaaaaaah …”

She had used the little Chrysolitic dragonets with barely a thought for their safety, and now they were gone. Nothing could bring them back.

That was how Aranya discovered a Star could shine for grief.

She shone because she had no choice but to shine. She shone despite her imperfections, her hatred, or her burdens. She shone because this was how she could be a beacon, and spread her light into her twin, who turned into a dazzling fountain of light, a manifestation in complete contrast to her own steady radiance, and thence into the Pygmy Dragoness, who for the first time in her life, began to gleam like translucent black crystal. Aranya grinned until her mouth hurt. Fantastic! More, Pip! The Dragoness shut her eyes and let the light fill her soul. Her gleaming had a completely different character to her own, which Aranya did not just then understand, but the smile which curved Pip’s lips as she realised what was happening to her, was treasure beyond description.

Their combined destructive radius was over a mile now, and still expanding!

Thou, mine soul sister eternal, Aranya whispered.

Thou, blessed Onyx Star, Iridiana breathed, literally igniting with the surfeit of her joy.

Then Pip and Aranya were slowly whirling about their axis as the Chaos Shifter blazed across the breadth of the tunnel like a misbehaving comet, far too bright to look upon. They soared above Zankaradia, the Academy and Eridoon Island as they tried to ensure that their light spread past every possible corner of their impromptu shields, which the Academy crews were still desperately struggling to affix beneath their Island. Brown Dragons created rock clamps at a frantic pace down there, not daring to glance at the approaching hordes. They knew what one touch would mean.

The Amethyst reached out with her Storm power, and began to force the thin atmosphere from above to bend to her will. She poured it downward past the Academy and Zankaradia at a higher and higher compression, creating a huge cushion of air, until at last the pressure differential tipped beyond equalisation and their friends and allies simply had to move in the right direction, as buoyant as leaves tossed by a hurricane.

Dramagon’s hold had been broken.

Now all they had to do was survive the darkness that rushed up to assault them.

Chapter 34: Beacon

Aranya’s IDEA WAS a sweet fusion of basic physics and frantic brilliance, Zuziana thought warmly as she organised Kassik and his forces. They deployed a perimeter guard of Dragons on both Islands plus on the volcano’s rim, whilst they set in motion a hectic, not-quite-panicked evacuation to the Academy volcano. To her surprise, the Academy buildings had mostly survived being slung about at ninety degrees to the horizontal due to the gravitational anomalies that plagued both the Egg and the Mystic Moon, but the blasts and rattling now threatened far greater destruction.

“Keep the injured out in the open, on the fields,” she ordered. “Silver, what can we do about a sonic or shockwave defence? We must minimise the damage. Anyone up at Eridoon checking on the situation there?”

Master Kassik said, “I’ll get a Dragonwing on it.”

“Maybe we can balance Eridoon on top of the volcano to protect everyone inside?” Zip mused aloud.

Kassik grunted, “Hmm!”

She agreed. With royal tutors paid to drum mathematics into unwilling brains, she did remember a few facts about mass and momentum. What if the gravitational fields changed?

“Here it comes!” roared several of the Dragons.

The windstorm created by Aranya roared down the tunnel walls in a rough ring about the embattled Islands, before funnelling beneath them and Zankaradia. Swaying on their eggshell perches, the Academy Island jostled with Zankaradia as the combined mass of Dragons struggled to keep them upright upon an intensifying storm shot through by the dark creatures. The forerunners spat and scraped against the eggshell now. Those which were isolated or too far in advance were immolated by starfire, but the creatures did possess a measure of animal cunning. They sneaked through the shadows beneath, searching for gaps, and hurtled around the sides, trying to break through the Dragon defences.

Holes ripped through the shields. Shao’lûkayn tumbled onto the battlefield. The tips of their spines scorched the rock and withered plants. The Lesser Dragons rushed together in fluid battle groups. Firing fireballs or even hurling boulders, they beat away the invaders.

Kassik boomed, Don’t touch them! Don’t touch!

Zip shouted at him, Do you have armour? Dragon lances? Building poles? Plates … I mean, metal plate –

I’ll organise! Mistress Mya’adara! Break open the stores!

Rally your Browns and get them preparing stones – the volcano is more defensible, isn’t it? she said. Clear the battlefield of injured! Hurry! Silver, Chymasion … Zankaradia will help you!

Linking quickly with the Corundum Red, Zuziana showed her how to sluice her fires across the Island’s undersides and edges, where they were most vulnerable. But when her particles injured their own Dragons she groaned in dismay.

Distinguish them by the character of their fires, Zip showed her. Work around the shields.

The Shao’lûkayn came on in thundering advance, hurling them up the everlasting tunnel. No magic survived the onslaught. She felt Aranya’s mind checking closely with hers, but then the Stars raced away, beating down an assault on Zankaradia that left her tail and back smoking in dozens of locations. The hatchling had seemed frightened before, but now she was grimly intent, keeping her side of the Academy Island almost free of attackers.

Zip led a counterattack against a posse of the dark creatures before whipping around to the far side of the volcano, where the Star Dragonesses had combined to frazzle an assault only after it had claimed the fire lives of dozens of Night-Reds.

She screamed, Don’t touch them! Use rocks, trees, anything you can find, but don’t touch them!

The shocked Dragons regrouped.

With a wingtip-deprecation, she said, Hold this section with everything you have. The starlight will slow and destroy them, but they are still deadly.

The pure starlight shining from above rendered the scene stark; the colours almost unbearably poignant, the shadows cut of razor edges. When Zuziana passed back over the volcano, crossing from the sprawling red-brick school buildings to the great field and the bright green lake beyond it, she saw a powerful Western Isles woman – Mistress Mya’adara, whom everyone called ‘indomitable’ – directing teams of both Human and Dragon students as they laid out spears, lances, shields, Dragon armour and even stanchions and pieces of Dragonship armour cladding on the fields to be relayed to the defenders.

As Zip landed nearby, the Mistress held up an eight-foot hunk of cabin armour, showing a young Dragon how to punch with it protecting his knuckles. “Now, go!”

The muscular Mistress turned to her, looked her up and down as if she could not quite find enough Dragoness to be impressed by. At length, a broad smile curved her lips and she drawled, “So, mah pretty! Yah the one that’s ordering mah Kassik about like some kitchen skivvy?”

Zip dipped her muzzle respectfully. “Since the Star Dragoness is busy burning the heavens, somebody has to dirty their paws doing her will, don’t they?”

“Don’ they just!”

Funny how in life, one could meet a person and achieve instant understanding. As if this conversation were all they needed to know about each other, the Mistress and the Azure Dragoness fell to discussing and arranging how in Fra’anior’s name they might protect the vulnerable when it came down to it.

* * * *

Embroiled in fighting to keep everything afloat atop a raging storm peppered with deathly Shao’lûkayn, Aranya was startled to see Dragonwings rising above the Academy volcano. They wheeled sharply before diving into the attack with long Dragon lances held ready in their paws, or cupping loads of boulders – or, it appeared, refuse sacks, firewood, barrels of glue and even a few stray pairs of soldiers’ boots. Whatever worked. The supplies teams were growing creative.

Their combined efforts kept them ahead of the advance for a couple of minutes as the eruption continued unabated. Her head flicked back and forth, measuring the distance to the surface. Fifteen miles. Twelve. Ten. Then, she saw a crack snaking past them up the tunnel wall. Quicker than the eye could follow, it shot right up to the rim. Dread pricked her hearts.

Initially, nothing appeared to happen. Then, a segment of horiatite bigger than the Academy volcano itself sheared free under the huge stress of the tidal forces and began to slide down toward them. The tip caught, sending it tumbling slowly end over end.

The Dragonesses were so closely linked that they needed no conversation before they reacted.

STOP! Pip roared, gesturing with her talons. The piece froze in place.

Aranya and then Zankaradia were up in a flash to try to Dragon-handle it aside, but the chunk was simply too large and the Academy volcano too close for there to be any chance of squeezing by. The Corundum Red hammered repeatedly at the horiatite, but the chunk was bigger than her and refused to shatter. With the low grinding of an earthquake in motion, the edge of the platter-like surrounds of the volcano became stuck. Stone ground and cracked. Incredible pressure built behind, hissing between the edges of the tunnel and the Academy.

“It’s going to tip!” Iridiana shouted.

The Dragons aloft became hapless victims of wind shear as the backing pressure rose dramatically, some smashing against the stone or rebounding off the horiatite fragment and falling victim to the rising Shao’lûkayn. Iridiana fizzed and contorted herself as only she could to snatch many Dragons and Riders away from lethal collisions.

Aranya called, “It has to tip to get by!”

“So we ride with it,” Pip responded grimly.

“And me with you,” Zankaradia responded. “How can I –”

“Coil around and over the volcano!” the Amethyst Dragoness enthused. “I mean, you can protect them, but leave your muzzle out – try not to crush any buildings – and we’ll protect you. And them.”

The edge of the Academy dipped into the rising Shao’lûkayn. The spiny creatures began landing in their thousands, crawling along the stone with rippling motions of their spines. Zuziana had reappeared from the volcano to lead a counteroffensive, while Zankaradia quickly arranged her coils as best she could. This would be a close-run affair, Aranya thought, summoning Iridiana with her mind. If ever they had needed a boon, this was the time, because as the Academy Island tipped its leading edge bunted Eridoon along while the other dipped further and further into blackness. Dramagon’s creatures attacked en masse. Meantime, the Island’s motion released huge pressure from beneath, thrusting the Island against the horiatite spar. Zankaradia had to hunker down or she faced being scraped off – or, the rim of the volcano might equally be sheared away.

Not a pretty situation.

Nor could she believe they had seen the last of Thoralian. Not if Dramagon was involved.

Riding a shrill blast of wind, thousands of Shao’lûkayn came whistling beneath and behind the tipping Island, shooting up past them like tainted steam released from a geyser. Now a dark wave curled overhead too, the weaker creatures again falling toward them from above while the stronger flew on or struck from beneath. They were sinking, about to be swallowed whole.

Catching her sisters’ paws in hers, Aranya said, “It’s now or never. Those people down there need us. Pip, I can see right through you.”

“Huh? Well, whatever works,” laughed the Pygmy Dragoness.

Iridiana mused aloud, “Don’t suppose we can wangle something Chaotic out of our starlight, do you, Aranya?”

“What do you mean?”

The glow between them was already growing in intensity, spreading out over the beleaguered Island. Iridiana frowned, concentrating with every ounce of her being.

It took all the self-discipline she possessed not to shout at Iridiana as her twin’s eyes shuttered. Their need was dire! An idea was also growing in her mind, but just as before when they had been gazing into the mirror and Aranya had lost her mindfulness of which one of them was which, she did not know which of them, or perhaps it was both simultaneously, said:

What if everything were infolded into light?

* * * *

It was a one-Moon early morn, a rarity in a night sky usually well lit by two or three Moons. Full Yellow on a cloudless night could illuminate an Island to the level of a respectable dawn, say, but a full Mystic alone was so uncommon that it had spawned the Western Isles tradition of a night when the ancestral spirits roamed free, and were to be appeased. Superstitious people made small sacrifices of food to satiate the hungry spirits, or hung great sprays of tarragon, fynis brush and hunks of twisted lamkuga root from each doorframe or window frame around their huts to ward off bad influences.

Ardan, lying on the barrens with his arms folded behind his head as he watched the lone moon in the pre-dawn sky, was fruitlessly pursuing the idea of perhaps one or two more hours’ sleep. The calls of night birds echoed hauntingly upon a gentle breeze. His thoughts roiled and refused to settle.

He was not a superstitious man, but the significance of this night in his culture had just crossed his mind when the Mystic Moon appeared to grow a dark eye.

The resultant chill did not just settle in his marrow, it tingled right into his fingertips and toes.

“R –” He had to stop and cough to clear his throat. “Ri’arion. Asturbar. Something’s happening to the Mystic Moon.”

The ex-monk was on his feet in an instant, gazing upward, but the Azingloriax warrior turned over and pillowed his head on his folded arms, mumbling, “Iridiana. S’alright. I’ll hold you – ah! I’m awake. What is – suffering, scurvy-blasted murgalizards!”

Ri’arion said softly, “Whatever Dramagon left up there, it just woke up.”

For the longest time, those were the last words that echoed around the small clump of boulders where they had elected to spend the remainder of the night. Before them lay the barren, open expanse where once a volcano had allegedly been silhouetted against this very night sky. Nothing had regrown here. Nothing, despite the thicket not far south of their location.

Mystic’s dark blot spread infinitesimally, at least seen from this great a distance, even to Ardan’s Dragon sight when he transformed, the better to focus on that faraway phenomenon. “I should have gone up there myself,” he muttered to himself. “Could have done something …”

Could he have? Mister lumbering along five thousand miles behind? Aye, rich, Ardan.

But now he longed to be with his Star.

Ardan watched until his neck developed a fine crick, and then he watched more. He saw how specks of darkness began to obfuscate Mystic’s surface like dark, fine sand spread by a tide, soon causing a perceptible dimming in the Moon’s brilliance. The phenomenon appeared to occur in isolation at first. He was unable to perceive what might be creating the darkness, only that as dawn’s glimmer spread from the East, the reality was that Mystic’s magic was under powerful attack. Fine veils of light began to shimmer right across the sky. The gossamer spiderweb vaulted way overhead, from the searing orange dawn to the still-purpling gloom of the night side, and it shivered across that breadth as if agitated.

“Fra’anior’s bulwark?” Ri’arion guessed.

Asturbar said, “Shall we fly aloft, Shadow? I cannot but say this bodes ill. How can we warn our allies, even those still trapped on the Herimor side?”

As the men scrambled aboard, Ardan said, “What do you mean? Warn them about what?”

Ri’arion said, “He means, warn them against whatever is up there. If the bulwark falls, Fra’anior forefend, we will be exposed not only to whatever Dramagon hid up there, but also to these cosmic powers of evil which Aranya warned us about – powers like the Nurguz of the Pygmy Dragoness’ time. If there is half a chance we could arrange to shoot down some of those things, or creatures, or whatever they are …”

Ardan meant to roar in agreement, but the sound emerged more as a mournful bugle. He gasped, “Did you see that? Did you?”

“Aye,” Ri’arion noted, his voice rising with hope. “There is one more star abroad this morn, and she shines for us. Yiisuriel will see. She will know what this means. A most terrible day has dawned, may the Great Onyx preserve us all.”

* * * *

When the Academy spat free of that Shao’lûkayn-blasted tunnel in a coruscating whirl of light, a thrilling roar rose from the throats of many Dragons, including Zankaradia. They saw their Island-World for the first time, resplendent as a jewel suspended in the firmament; surely the centrepiece of the creator Dragon’s own hoard, its crowning glory. Then the Academy tumbled slowly end over end, and they beheld a far graver sight.

The Star Dragonesses just panted to catch their breath. Great Islands! Burgled out of the jaws of disaster!

The fountain of Dramagon’s creatures spurted unabated out of the depths. They spread darkness over Mystic’s surface as they landed and consumed the magic, leaving desolate ramparts of drained and shattered crystal in their wake. The Stars shone bravely, but they were neither strong enough nor close enough to make a difference. Instead they focussed on saving those they could, preparing gravitational and atmospheric shields for the Academy and Eridoon Island in order to stabilise them, and rallying and organising the surviving Dragons and Humans with Zuziana’s and Kassik’s help.

The Academy drifted gently into orbit.

Shao’lûkayn continued to spout from the tunnel. Aranya could not bear to contemplate their millions. They spread out in every direction, crash-landing and tumbling across the crystal battlements before expiring in darkening puffs of dust, or rising until they touched the sevenfold lattice where they blew holes in its underside. At first the lattice appeared to adapt and reform after each attack, but she quickly realised that power was being drawn from the embattled Mystic Moon, and that the scale and frequency of the attacks was increasing exponentially. The Shao’lûkayn seemed called to or attracted by the lattice, or indeed, by any magic of draconic origin. Dark flotillas pursued the Academy in its orbit. The weaker ones expired on the Moon’s surface, but millions rose against the lattice nodes, steadily driving it toward a shimmering critical overload.

Iridiana gasped, “No matter how many we kill, Aranya –”

“There’s always more. Aye. The adaptive magic –”

“– resists, but I’m not sure it was ever designed to be –”

“– attacked on this scale. I know,” Aranya grimaced. “The primary vectors of control –”

“– anticipate assault from the outside.”

“Aye, Iridiana. Fra’anior did not anticipate betrayal once he had removed Dramagon and all the Ancient Dragons from our Island-World.”

“Betrayal?” she echoed hollowly. “Not so, sister –”

“– from within, I meant. From without? Undoubtedly. Dramagon’s nature is treacherous to the core.”

Pip butted in, “Honestly, you two are giving me a twin-speak headache. Listen up! The key question is, how do we preserve the lattice thingy? I mean, that’s the only shield we have from all those otherworldly creatures like the Nurguz out there, right?” She shivered, her light dimming. “You don’t know what it was like …”

Iridiana shuddered too. “You showed us your memories, Pip – it was awful beyond imagination. Genocide.”

The word hung between them like a curse spat from Thoralian’s own mouth.

“I know we can’t draw on or parasitize Mystic, or we’d be just like him,” the Pygmy Dragoness said.

“And, we’d take down the lattice in one fell swoop,” Aranya added. “We have to stop these Shao’lûkayn. We need inspiration.” General Zuziana. How’s everything down there?

Just peachy, Your Star-ship, came the immediate response.

As they conversed rapidly, Iridiana asked Pip what on the Islands a peach was. The Pygmy girl was equally confused. “Perhaps it’s a Remoyan cultural artefact?” she suggested. “Oh – Aranya! You were right. Thoralian is far from as dead as we had hoped.”

Aranya saw nothing.

As she juddered through five spontaneous transformations, Iridiana spluttered, “He has – took – Azhukazi’s – powers.”

Aranya began to ask how her twin knew. She had also been alerted to a change in the stream still issuing from the dark tunnel mouth. The numbers had thinned. Now she sensed a magical signature of epic proportions but familiar character about to emerge. An icy frisson played down her spine, but Aranya was ready for this. Ready for battle. She had expected such a ploy from Dramagon as soon as Thoralian had symbolically turned over his spirit. Why had she dared to hope he might have perished?

Hope could be so foolishly attractive.

Zip. Silver. Get that Academy out of here!

We aren’t ready yet, Silver replied tersely. Catching the tenor of her thoughts, he snapped at once, As you command, Star Dragoness. Moving!

Pouring power into the gravitational constructs provided by the Dragon Librarian, the massed Dragons of the Academy caused their home to sluggishly build up a turn of speed. Aranya admired Silver’s mental strength and agility as he switched between monitoring the acceleration, shoring up their defences and combatting the creatures homing in upon them as if the Academy were a shining beacon.

A beacon!

The idea fizzed in her mind like the best berry wine.

Aranya knew the Great Onyx was limited in the help he could directly offer. Perhaps he had already bent the rules in providing a clue about Auli-Ambar which had enabled them to travel this far. But help sourced of one’s own means was a different matter.

Spinning upon her axis, she scanned the heavens. Where in the boundless reaches of space, amongst billions upon billions of stars, might she locate her kind?

Those who had called to her before?

Be a beacon. Summoning up her memories of the scant few words she knew, she began to project in every direction with all of her strength, /Stardrop. Peril, peril, peril./ Dip the head. Every direction meant the full sphere, did it not? /Stardrop, peril. Stardrop, peril …/

Pip gaped! “What does that … holy Fra’anior! Iridiana, do you feel –”

“I think so. It just … tingles, yes?”

“Aye! In my mind, something weird – you’re so weird, Star girl. Do it again!”

“Just trying to call for help,” Aranya smiled. Weird to call for help? /Stardrop, peril./

“Mercy!” Pip yelped. “That’s awesome. I feel as if there’s something inside just waiting to be woken up, and – you aren’t hearing anything back, are you?”

“Not yet.”

When she queried them with her eyes, both Dragonesses rapped, “Keep going!”

She called again and again, but with dimming hope.

Meantime a huge paw reached out of the tunnel, putting an abrupt halt to their conversation. It was black and spiny like the Shao’lûkayn, but from a distance of four miles, the spiky outline made it resemble a hairy spider’s appendage. It shifted and gripped, levering the body behind upward. The mighty paw burned into what little horiatite had been left unscathed, but unlike before, this creature did not expire upon contact with the magic-bearing crystal – rather, it appeared to feed upon or assimilate the magic. The spines rippled eagerly as another appendage reached out, and then the mighty black body slithered out, filling at least two thirds of the tunnel with its circumference, and in length, the beast outstripped Zankaradia by a considerable margin.

Iridiana whispered, “It even looks like him …”

Aye. There was something of the Thoralians in that stance, in the long, serpentine belly and the muscular power of its frame, but that was where any resemblance ended. This creature was apparently pure Shao’lûkayn, perhaps the essence of those creatures distilled and revived in a new form. It had no eyes. No ears. Nothing but the endless, spiky sable body and a savage, thorny mind that oriented at once upon the trio of Dragonesses who had taken a protective position midway between this new threat and the departing Academy.

Aranya! Its voice groaned against their minds. Remember us?

That presence was threefold and hateful, everything that the Thoralians had always been.

Aranya shrugged. I recognise this excrescence of ugliness, aye.

FOOLS!! The voice battered them. Dramagon has recreated us in a form greater than ever before. Our power is multiplied; indeed, we are a new kind of power in; nay, even above any of this world! Even Infurion hath perished before mine hegemony!

As the creature spoke, Aranya sensed a tickle against her mind – exactly the type of tickle Pip had just been speaking about. She breathed, Keep him busy.

Gone. There was no way she could have imagined it, was there? Languages did not arise from nothingness. Pip and Iridiana felt the same.

/Peril! PERIL!/ How she mewled, like a helpless kitten.

Waiting. Breathing … anticipating …

With a sensation like the tiniest prickling of light-warmth upon her mind, a voice replied with a hint of consternation, /Stardrop, what ails thee? Are you the one called Hualiama – nay? You are another! Quinesstaralia! Stars! ATTEND!/

The voice was male, the timbre of its song like an unearthly tenor playing notes upon starlight, and its presence an unfolding of long-dormant faculties in her mind. Aranya felt as if she were a bud being unfurled as the being focussed upon her, before the communication wavered fiercely. They were so unimaginably distant, she could hear them only through applying her utmost focus.

Cutting in and out, voices called urgently, /Peril – indeed, most – pressing need! Together, now!/

/Alert substation – farseer – /

/Why’s – exposed?/ queried another voice, this one as clear as sonorous bells. /The Danigarus Quadrant is no place – / As if the link had been severed by a knife, they were gone.

Aranya spun to Iridiana and Pip. Did you hear that?

No, they chorused.

No? Her jaw creaked like a badly oiled hinge. Huh?

Below, Thoralian skittered a few miles across the moon’s surface, his long splayed legs making easy progress across the ranges of crystal. After pausing to eat his fill of horiatite, the creature oriented itself upon the trio of Dragonesses and sprang upward. It did not make it more than a quarter-mile off the surface, but then a spigot in its hindquarters area must have opened, because a steady stream of Shao’lûkayn spat backward, pressing the creature into motion.

He said, See, even space flight is no trouble in this form. Soon, the barriers will fall and the feasting will begin!

Pip replied, I killed you before, Thoralian, and Iridiana next. Aranya, I believe it is your turn to vaporise this hairy slug – that will make our tally one each.

Feckless little stars, jeered the leviathan as they retreated steadily, keeping the Academy at their backs. You think three can succeed against all that I am? Dramagon has reincarnated my being in a far superior form. My powers eclipse those I previously possessed by an exponential margin.

Even his mind had been changed. There was still a hint of three-in-one, Aranya realised, but the personalities seemed to have blurred into one another, making a greater whole – perhaps, a servant more perfectly befitting Dramagon’s designs?

Cracking open its toothless maw, the creature spat Shao’lûkayn at them. Faster. Faster! The black bodies blurred across the gap, taxing their starlight to the maximum as the creatures imploded mere feet from the Stars. They were forced to retreat as the resultant dust adulterated their shining.

More? You want MORE? Even my breath is death incarnate!

/Stardrop!/ Aranya stiffened as the voices – many voices this time – rang inside that part of her mind which was so unfamiliar and unused. /Attend. Quickly, open your consciousness to examination./ She tried, but it was long, breathless seconds of that slight mental itching sensation before a glorious voice chimed, /Legacy-quartile, upper septuplet signature markers confirmed! Oh, Astralior, we are – /

/Blessed!/ cried the tenor, at a volume that made even her paws tingle.

/To arms! To arms, brother and sister stars! The stardrop – / This cry swelled into a thunder of light, so powerful that Aranya’s senses swam. She must have blacked out momentarily, because when she recovered, Iridiana was cradling her in her paws, the Thoralian-thing was jeering at her weakness and Pip snorted:

Superior form, Thoralian? You’re the one farting black spike balls all over the Moon!

Iridiana cracked up; as embarrassed as Aranya was by Pip’s frankness, she was hilarious. She could not help but laugh too.

Enraged, the black creature expelled a violent flurry of attackers, but they expired both in starlight and in a stream of golden particles that passed around the Dragonesses and sizzled toward Thoralian. He countered with a greater outpouring than before. He was also coming on faster than the Academy was accelerating, firing at them with apparently inexhaustible resources.

As they ducked and weaved away from an overwhelming flurry of spikes and ash, he sneered, Despite you and your luminously challenged allies, Zankaradia, I shall reduce this Academy to dust. Then I shall peel your brain-casing like a fruit and sup upon what lies within.

But the hatchling said quietly, What moved you so, Aranya?

I think I found aid …

/O beauteous stardrop, we are aid indeed,/ cried the tenor voice. /In the time of your relative, Hualiama, we released the Yhishaalylia, or the Shining Ones, to be your benison – but now the Sankûraguz move against you in power! Why are you so fearfully exposed? Why – /

The female chimed, /We are your great grandstars, to borrow your quaint terminology, o luminous kin-beauty who illumes my soul with joy’s pure radiance! I am Quinesstaralia, and this is Astralior – /

/Open to us – speech shall be given thee,/ sang the male, clearly almost beside himself with excitement. Aranya had a sense of great fonts of light swirling and exploding like fireworks within his soul, while his vocal tones wobbled between multiple octaves.

How could he not sense or intuit that they were under heavy attack? That was the reason her starlight was exposed. One paw at a time.

We are three, she tried to communicate. /Stardrop, stardrop, stardrop!/

Why could she not express herself?

There was a startled silence out there, a silence wherein Pip and Iridiana cried out urgently and the Corundum Red groaned. A Thoralian mental attack was in progress, clamping down upon their minds like monstrous, burning pliers, but Aranya’s core attention was far, far away, yearning for that poignant contact with her great grandstars – her mind wanted to burst at the tidings – when the communication zinged back to her in a wild paroxysm of joy:

/Three? THREE! O, let myriad stars rejoice!/

Starlight ignited within her soul at their unbridled exultation. Crushingly tender. Searing. Immense and miraculous and unstoppable. Somewhere, a host of starry voices trilled:

/Sing, o Stardrop! Let thy voice be heard! Summon all starlight within, and shine, shine, SHINE!/

It was as if the melody of their joy released her, at last, to find her own voice. It was not physical singing that they meant, but a liberation of the capacity of starlight within her. To be, to receive, and to give out in ways she had never imagined. Aranya opened herself with unbridled exuberance. She attracted and inveigled so much light into her being, from every possible source – from the risen suns, from the effulgence of Mystic Moon, from her world’s own shining and from the farthest stars – that it seemed to her that surely, her demands must snuff them all out in an instant. Yet, the converse was true. Her glory made them greater. No, this glory was her gift. It was glory that must be given away.

A star could never hide her light. She must shine for all.

Chapter 35: Sneaky Stars

ARDAN’s UPTURNED FACE was glowing. He could feel it. A third sun beamed its pristine illumination upon them all, outshining the Mystic Moon by far. Aranya! That quality of light could only be his beloved, but she shone with an intensity of incandescence far beyond anything he had known from her before. Searing. Unbearable to look upon, yet he must. He was mesmerised.

Oh, how his hearts thrashed the insides of his chest!

Only the sight of dark motes homing in on that astonishing display adulterated his joy. Windrocs circling! Ravening powers gnashed their maws in futile wrath. He sneaked a glance back along his spine spikes. Asturbar looked as if he had just swallowed a miracle for breakfast. The planes of Ri’arion’s features, usually so austere, conversely seemed softened by his unabashed regard.

Ever so softly, the Fra’aniorian said, “It’s still a battle royal, but our girls are doing it! May the Great Dragon strengthen them all …”

His voice broke the spell.

Asturbar clapped him upon the shoulder. “You still manage to find words after seeing something like that? You’re creepy, man.”

* * * *

Gathering the splendid song of stars within her being, stirred and electrified in ways for which she could essay no description Aranya called upon her sisters and invited them to partake. Pip. Iridiana. Receive, imbibe, and give out with me. /Stardrops! To arms!/

Carolling her delight to the heavens, Iridiana echoed, /Stardrops!/

Pip could barely speak, not even in her mind. /Stardrops?/ And then she cried, BE LIGHT!

Radiance seemed to rush into the three Dragonesses and through them in great, dazzling beams of starlight. Gathering into a threefold meld of their unique light qualities, they beamed forth a brilliant strike against Thoralian.

He threw up his dark paws to deny them. NEVER!

Shao’lûkayn exploded forth from his being. The great dark creature reappeared from behind a shifting veil of ash, grinning manically as he dived for the trio of Star Dragonesses.

/Hold firm!/ Aranya cried.

They pounded him a second time, and a third time more luminously still, but each time he shook through the aftereffects, and now he was gathering his troops from every direction. He drew Dramagon’s Bequest away from their attacks upon the Mystic Moon and the heavily damaged lattice to fling them in a wild paroxysm of paws and draconian breath against the Stars and the Academy. Aranya heard Silver and Zuziana and Sapphire cry out back there, and Zankaradia joined them in combatting the incoming scourge, but for her part, she knew she must hold firm no matter the cost. They had to finish this. Finish Thoralian for good.

Yet he struck back with his signature cunning, pounding them with psychic strikes, Shadowing away to misdirect their attacks, and regenerating himself at a phenomenal rate using the techniques he had clearly stolen from Azhukazi the Iolite Blue. His form flickered and changed, shifting through the veils of ash that boiled off of him as he fought back; now he rematerialized to their right flank and swung hard with his massive black fist. A thousand Shao’lûkayn pounded the Star Dragonesses across the skies.

/Too strong … we cannot fail!/ Aranya panted dazedly, holding them together by the force of her will. /I’ll be the bulwark. Iridiana, strike force. Pip – /

The Pygmy Dragoness laughed wickedly. /Cause trouble? Thou, Aranya, our strength …/

Suddenly the little Onyx Dragoness spun to track Thoralian’s flanking movement, and she shouted, BE ENFEEBLED – BEZALDIOR!

Iridiana darted forth, fifty strong in her Chaos Beast manifestation, only this time she was filled to bursting with unsullied starlight. Flares exploded along the length of Thoralian’s spiky body, not just crumbling what was there, but blowing pieces right off of him. Desperate, hurting, he countered with his greatest broadside of darkness and fury yet, driving the Stars back foot by grudging foot as his never-ending assault brawled and bullied its way through the greatest concentration of their light. Pip kept gesturing, waving the dust particles aside as the colossal barrage thundered against them. Again and again, the enemy roused himself to greater heights, the power of his fury smoking liberally off his body now as the dark blurs of the Shao’lûkayn rattled against their light. Dozens imploded around them every second. Closer. Closer!

/Stand firm, o stardrops!/ belled the powerful voice from afar.

/Sing clear!/

/Never shall darkness prevail!/

/Let thy purity ream the enemy!/ cried Quinesstaralia.

Astralior sang, /Shine brighter, shine clearer, shine across the Universe, my beloved ones! Shine for love!/

/Gnnnaaaa …/ cried the nascent stardrops.

The circle of their light was being squeezed tighter and tighter by the unrelenting press of the enemy. No longer could they see the stars; barely even the suns’ gleaming through the press of bodies and the ever-churning smoke. Pip’s wings brushed hers. Iridiana surrounded them in coruscating, endlessly intertwining and coiling streams of mauve light. Just a dozen more feet, and one of these creatures must surely touch them and suck their magic dry.

Thoralian set to pounding them hither and thither with his paws, still striving to break through by main force. He did not believe they could withstand him. Each clattering blow tested their union of three. Each time his paws smashed together it was with a thunderclap that strove to drive spikes deep into Star Dragoness flesh, but they burned them away with but inches to spare. Pip and Aranya had both tucked in their wings. His power was devastating, a brooding corruption of magic which had been foul to begin with, e’er it had ever been shaped by Dramagon’s paws. Aranya sensed the Academy just behind them. They were all that stood between him and destruction.

No. Light could not be beaten down like this.

Light must penetrate the darkness.

Starlight could be her inspiration; imagination alone could limit her response to this fiend. Casting her artistic mind forth, Aranya drew the biggest sword she could imagine across the sky. A sword forged of pure starlight. She gave it an edge sharper than any steel, and a grip imbued with Pygmy strength. She emblazoned runes along its length, runes that spelled out:

IZARIELA’S LEGACY

Iridiana flowed into those etchings.

Aranya paused in horror. /Sister …/

/This is my way,/ came the reply. /Wield your weapon, Aranya. Wield me!/

There was a moment’s curious detachment as Aranya perceived that she gripped Pip by her tail, which was as rigid as steel, and swung a sword that seemed to protrude somehow from the Onyx Dragoness’ muzzle in the physical sense, but it was far more than a physical phenomenon. Iridiana had taken on a form in which no Shao’lûkayn could destroy her whole physical being, for she flowed into and through the starlight sword in ways that had no correlate in physical or magical laws. She was her own law. She was Chaos.

Taking up her sword, the Amethyst Dragoness stormed into the offensive. With beautiful fury, she pierced the darkness with her weapon, and nothing could stand against. She carved aside the hurtling Shao’lûkayn in great, expanding sweeps of immaculate radiance. Flicking her wrists, Aranya drove through the confusion and billowing grey ash with incandescent simplicity, trusting in the power and above all the character of her sisters to become the instruments of her righteous indignation, and again in this realisation, she experienced a polemical awareness of emancipation. This was right. It was not so much revenge as cleansing; not so much anger as vindication.

This was what she stood for.

This was the same choice she and Zuziana had made that day long ago when they decided to oppose Sylakia’s tyranny.

Reading Thoralian’s movements with mind and heart, the trio took the battle to him. The swinging of his paws grew desperate. His evasions became jerkier and even irrational as they placed him under increasing pressure. Thoralian boomed and blustered, but Aranya had long since decided that she would hear nothing more from this despot. Shao’lûkayn blasted into their faces. They swept them aside. The sword was dancing now, shaving spikes off his flank and trimming a talon. The creature seemed to feel no pain. He fought back with an almighty, lashing sweep of his tail, but this was the moment they had waited for. Somersaulting gracefully over the seething dark blur, Aranya-Pip-Iridiana struck downward with all of their force, severing the appendage at its root.

Thoralian thundered his madness!

Together, they stabbed his flank deeply and twisted the blade upon exit, gouging out a chunk larger than any Dragonship. Thoralian’s back arched and his thunder had barely begun to split the atmosphere when Aranya reversed her movement – given as the sword was as insubstantial as light, she could flick it instantly in any direction she desired. Momentum was no impediment. Again, hundreds of feet of flesh topped with spines carved away from his back in a wild spray of grey ash.

A creature of this nature could have no heart. Seeing him attempting to corral those pieces and return them to his embodied form, the Star Dragoness determined to attack faster yet. Which was speedier – thought, or starlight? Ordinary physical laws could not bound the visionary power of this weapon. The Immadian Princess danced and spun in the skies above the Mystic Moon as she had never danced before, the blade moving faster and faster until it shimmered around her wings and paws in a sphere of light, until it seemed to be attacking Thoralian and his minions from every direction at once. She whipped that blade about with a shivering motion of her paw, and the point two thousand feet away diced his debased substance fifty times through, until only a cloud of ash remained to be swept away. A looping backhand severed a hind paw just beneath the knee, and then cremated the remainder seemingly in the blink of an eye.

Suddenly it was Thoralian who retreated, wailing, Dramagon, o Dramagon, I perish! Oh …

There was no reply from his master.

Aranya struck a swingeing blow to his neck, and two more, severing the head from the body. Chaotic shards of lightning speared off her blade, corrupting the flesh of the corruptor. Somewhere, Zankaradia the Corundum Red wafted her gleaming breath across the battlefield, clearing the space as the Amethyst Dragoness lined up the still-spitting maw.

Thoralian roared, Aranya, you –

Shwap! She cleft his skull in twain. Holy Fra’anior!

Nice speech, Pip gurgled.

Again, Aranya – let’s finish him! Iridiana prompted.

Swish-swish-swaaashhhh … Aranya sliced through the remains in a frenzy sparked by shock at what she had achieved, moving the blade so rapidly that to the naked eye it appeared as if starlight had arisen from within his riven flesh; perhaps it had, for that was Iridiana’s touch she sensed, destroying Dramagon’s uncanny magic before it had any chance to regroup.

In the aftermath of her beautiful fury, there was silence.

In the lee of her starlight, there was no shadow.

In the wake of her blade’s passing only dust remained, drifting upon a zephyr created by the very slight atmosphere and Mystic’s natural rotation.

Aranya expelled the breath she had held, seemingly forever.

Finished.

* * * *

Zuziana laughed until she cried. Down on the Academy’s surface, there were more than a few reunions going on, and if she had anything at all to do with it, there would be a party worthy of the name – ah, if any of the stores had survived over a century, intact. Right. Pop that issue onto her to-do list. Right now, she had other priorities.

Shouldering her way to the front of the crowd, she flung herself at her best friend. “Incoming pregnant Remoyan!”

Despite looking as wrung out as a washer-woman’s oldest rag, Aranya still managed to catch her best friend in her arms. “Rascal!”

“Empress of the stars!”

Zippy Zip-Zap! squeaked Sapphire.

Aranya picked her up and spun her around several times, and for once, the Princess of Remoy did not mind that her best friend was too tall for her own good. She was so ridiculously happy, she was sobbing all over the place. Who cared if she soaked Aranya’s borrowed dress? She could blame all sorts of nonsense on her bump.

After a few minutes, Casitha tapped her upon the shoulder. “Ahem. Master Kassik did not send me in any capacity whatsoever to inquire when he might reacquire command of his Academy from the Remoyan usurper.”

“Ha.” Zip introduced her to Aranya. “Casitha’s from my end of the Isles – from Yelegoy. She’s with Kassik, wink-massive-wink.”

Iridiana reached over to pat Zip upon the head. “Smallest general ever.”

“Bossiest,” said Pip. “She’s so bossy, Aranya.”

“Like a Dragoness in disguise?” Aranya suggested.

Like Pygmy, Sapphire chirped, drawing the desired round of laughter. She zipped over to Pip’s shoulder, but not before indulging in three celebratory aerial somersaults complete with five twirls.

Pip introduced the twins and Zuziana to her young but white-haired boyfriend, Silver, who appeared understandably squirmy as everyone scrupulously did not mention his relation to Thoralian. He quickly returned to looking after their shields, as the matter of providing enough oxygen for the volcano’s denizens would soon become a pressing issue. He had a team of eager scholars of both the two-footed and four-pawed kind who were zealously making his life a misery by quizzing his every calculation. The discussion grew heated.

Catching Zip’s eye, Aranya breathed, Is now an opportune moment?

Aye, petal.

Taking Zip by the hand, Aranya strolled over in Master Kassik’s direction, exclaiming, “That was awfully bold of you, Remoy, taking charge of the vast and complex operations of this fine Academy.”

“Aye?” Zip pretended to puzzle.

“I believe that the noble Master has now recovered all of his faculties,” the Immadian declared, playing along.

Turning toward them, the handsome, scholarly leader of the Academy began to raise an eyebrow as though expecting student mischief, before he clearly recalled who he was speaking to. “Noble Star Dragoness,” he said, with great formality.

Being Jeradian, Kassik was a strapping man, and being a Brown Shapeshifter, he had a tangible presence that Zuziana imagined had practically melted students who dared to tread upon the famous strip of carpet in front of his desk. Apparently, Pip had made that carpet her personal playground. Now, it seemed her high-minded friend was intent upon doing the same.

Aranya bowed as if the volcano’s field were her personal fiefdom, but she had a wink for Zuziana upon rising. “So, Master Kassik, with the battle being largely resolved and Zankaradia sweeping up stray Shao’lûkayn, I thought this an opportune moment to resume normal operations. Ah – normal, as in, let’s all return home to our Island-World, so to speak.” She smiled delicately. “How’s about I start by removing random Remoyan power grabbers from the vicinity?”

“As if,” Zuziana snorted. “Yelegoyans, however – ouch!”

Aranya and Casitha smiled at each other as each removed a foot from one of Zuziana’s. She hopped up and down crossly.

Kassik grinned broadly. “I’d like to employ the Princess Zuziana in my administration in the future, should she and her noble House be found willing. She possesses many useful skills –”

“I’ll sell her to you for a blade of grass,” Iridiana put in.

“Silence, Chaos!” Aranya demanded.

“Oh no, I like that offer,” Kassik said, stroking his beard approvingly. He spat upon his palm. “Shake on it, Iridiana?”

“Hey,” Zip protested.

With a smirk aimed at Zuziana, Iridiana plopped an ungainly blob upon her own palm and squidged hands with the Master. “Ha. Interesting Northern customs you have. Done and sold!”

Pip said, “In the interests of making a profit, Master Kassik, I am prepared to offer up to four grass blades for the Princess. That’s an immediate three hundred percent return –”

“Hey!” Zuziana yelled. “I stand down. I abdicate. I am no longer a General.”

“As you wish, Princess,” said Kassik.

“However, I do have a list of improvements for the Academy I would be happy to share with you, Master Kassik,” Zuziana said sweetly. “After all, you are one hundred and fifty years out of date. Times have moved on, Casitha reliably informs me.”

The Master’s self-control very nearly slipped. “What … Casitha?”

Casitha had her hands on her hips in a very Zip-like pose. How annoying. Was she truly that Remoyan? “Don’t you drag me into your schemes, monk stealer.”

“Monk stealer? You’ve an interesting history, Princess,” the Master noted.

Finally, the blush she had been fighting did steal up Zip’s cheeks. “Fine. Ex-monk, just to clarify. Moving swiftly on, shall we discuss my employment prospects? I believe that I have the following to my credit: organising the re-conquest of the North, bearding various tyrants, crossing the uncrossable Rift not once but twice, fighting numerous Dragon battles, commanding armies of Land Dragons, Lesser Dragons and Humans, flying to the Mystic Moon, birthing an Ancient Dragoness …”

“And the attitude,” Iridiana put in. “Don’t forget your humble, rule-abiding, docile att –”

As an opportunity to lose her rag, this phrasing excelled. “Docile?” Zip exploded. “Don’t you docile a pregnant Dragoness, you … I’ll docile your head off your shoulders!”

* * * *

Fra’anior looked very much the worse for wear. One head was missing an eye and another looked like a mouse chewed over at considerable length by a feline, while his scales were blackened and slashed in many places. Golden Dragon blood slicked his flanks in runnels as thick as Cloudlands-bound waterfalls. Even his customary boom-and-grumble personal storm appeared a touch muted on this occasion, as the Stars and Zuziana spoke to him in Aranya’s familiar soul space.

“Dramagon did fare worse,” he declared belligerently. “But I thank thee for inquiring after my welfare, little ones. As Immadians might say, it took some small effort to deter him from interfering in thy battle, but I eventually persuaded him to desist.”

“Might I –”

“Thou, Aranya,” he bugled with open delight. “Thy desire honours mine Dragon hearts. Share with me these tidings of thy … great grandstars, didst thou say?”

Come on, Pip, Iridiana and Zuziana.

Touch the Great Onyx? Pip breathed. Her eyes were as huge as Aranya had ever seen them.

Of course. He’s every inch as great as they say, and so much more. He loves us to the ends of the Universe, and his hearts are true. Aranya smiled fiercely at her sisters. Plus, he’s ours. If you ever sought proof, Pip’úrth’l-iòlall-Yò’oótha of the Pygmies, that was sealed the moment you began to shine. And I am going to tell him so. I’ve always wanted a little sister.

Pip scowled. You already have one.

But the nuances of her Dragonish betrayed her happiness.

As they flew up to the Island that was his paw, Aranya recounted for Fra’anior every detail of their encounter with Astralior and Quinesstaralia, the star entities who claimed kinship with her through Istariela and Izariela. She also listed the remedial efforts that the Stars had suggested in order to stimulate Mystic’s magic to heal itself, and a few improvements that they suggested for the planetary shield.

“Those proposed tasks will consume many years of thy time,” Fra’anior observed as they winged to their landing.

“And require multiple visits to the Mystic Moon!” Zip enthused. “Uh, meaning no disrespect, Great Onyx … your world is just so amazing …”

“Indeed, little ones.” Laughter detonated from his throats, before the smiling of his less injured heads grew grave. “Dost the danger posed by marauding Nurguz and the Sankûraguz not meantime wax most dire?”

“That’s part of the full paw of our job, o Fra’anior,” Iridiana explained shyly. “One of the challenges we face is that the full integration of their language will apparently take many years to mature in our young minds, so they desisted from attempting to explain every nuance. The great grandstars proposed that, essentially, we divert part of Mystic’s energies into generating a false beacon of draconic life somewhere faraway across the galaxy. Every decade or so, we should adjust it to point to another of the ‘dead zone’ planets. There’s no danger of visiting their destruction upon any other living thing, they said.”

“Not in our neighbourhood of this galaxy,” Iridiana noted, wide-eyed at the thought.

Aranya added, “At a future date, they would be happy to share their location with us, and the results of their investigations into where your mighty Egg might have originated from, o Fra’anior.”

“Indeed, thou asked this detail?” His brow ridges twitched.

Why did he keep expecting family not to act like, well, family? He had started all this by falling rainbows over the Islands for Istariela!

Aranya said, “Respectfully, they are far older than thee, Fra’anior – which makes us all less than hatchlings in their estimation.”

How he roared with laughter!

At length Pip added, “They can’t get over how our draconic fire-lives survive out here in such a hazardous quadrant, but we know that’s thanks to your paw work, our noble progenitor. They say our Island-World has other surprises in store for us. And well do you say we’d long to meet those great grandstars, o Fra’anior, but you too have our longing – I mean, meeting like this is awesome fun, but we’d really love to meet you in person.”

His muzzles bowed in appreciation.

However, when Aranya explained her belief that Pip might indeed be her missing third shell sibling in a spiritual sense, and set forth her proofs, the Ancient Dragon’s fires reached a rumbling peak like a slow-motion earthquake. She paused, chagrined, but he said at once:

“Let thine fires not be downcast, most cherished treasure of mine hearts! Mine fires sing in fullest accord with thine words. Indeed, it is only that thou teachest me the most profound tenets of our inmost fires that I responded so.”

Turning to Pip, his fires genuflected with an immense susurration. The doughty Dragoness tried but failed to disguise a backward stumble as he thundered, By every spark that callest me Dragon, by name and paw and heart and mind, I declare thou art mine, Pip’úrth’l-iòlall-Yò’oótha! MINE! Beloved of mine fires! MINE! And thricefold do I swear, thou art blood of mine blood, flesh of mine flesh, and bone of mine bone – BEAUTEOUS OFFSPRING OF MINE INMOST FIRES!!

Speechless, Pip could only lower her head.

Iridiana nudged her, before throwing a sisterly wing about her trembling shoulders. And mine, so I swear.

Aranya whispered, And mine, forever.

The Pygmy Dragoness wept softly, for joy.

At length, Iridiana asked, “O Fra’anior, will you take Zankaradia with you now?”

His laughter reverberated between his disparate necks and torsos. “I rather suspect she’d like to see something of the Island-World before she departs, little ones. You should ask her.”

Kneeling upon his paw, Aranya summoned her healing power and began to pour herself into her work, as she always did. He was vast and severely cut up in many places by trenches hundreds of feet deep, but Fra’anior also possessed internal resources and magic she could only dream of. In many cases, it was simply a case of ordering the body to initiate its natural healing processes, or re-balancing what had been damaged. Could she do this for her mother?

At length he sighed and said privately, Thou pourest thyself out exceedingly much, Aranya. Don’t –

Don’t? she huffed crossly. For thee? O Fra’anior, when is enough, enough?

Exactly the pertinent question for thee, mine unceasingly dedicated grand shell daughter, said he. I thank thee, who hast Istariela’s gift, but also I adjure thee, learn when you have given enough, for no-one can be poured out forever. Put another way, when this is over, thou must take rest from thy mighty labours.

Is this thy command? she inquired wryly.

If it must be, he returned, with typical draconic obfuscation.

When she laughed aloud, she had to summarise their conversation for her friends, and they chuckled too. He knows you too well, Zip teased.

Furthermore, he added quietly, when thou returnest to Izariela, pray include me in thy analysis of her condition before thou attemptest such healing. Mayhap I might provide some vital insight.

I thank thee, she whispered.

Aranya wondered quietly if Fra’anior enjoyed their laughter and banter, for he seemed reenergized by the time he spent with them, and eager to learn details of their lives and the battle with this final Thoralian. She was glad to have been able to be the one to help him for a change, and he had declared himself much restored by her ministrations.

Departing, he said, Aye, he has truly flown, little ones. The spirit of Dramagon’s lackey no longer tarries within thy environs, and I have no need to express the depths of mine relief, nor of mine admiration and gratitude for the incomparable works of thy paws. Now, speak thee to thine allies and thy lovers below, and have them shoot down as many Shao’lûkayn as possible, for I fear they shall convey a spirit-remnant of Dramagon with them. Mine shell brother’s taint has a most unfortunate way of spreading where least desired. Now, burn the heavens, o kindred I am proud to call mine own!

* * * *

As the Academy sailed upon its homeward course, a select group of Dragons, Riders and Shapeshifters prepared to return to the Mystic Moon to make what repairs they could, and to check that Dramagon’s Bequest had truly been emptied and was not perchance refilling with its toxic payload. They would also lay the foundations for the false beacon and fully repair at least one layer of Fra’anior’s shield, if not two. The remainder would need to wait several years for the Moon’s magic to heal itself. Other groups prepared to fly relatively short distances to destroy those thousands of Shao’lûkayn which had found their way into low orbits of the Mystic Moon, or longer distances to hunt many tens of thousands more which had already traversed the gap between the Moon and their planet in search of draconic life. The destruction of the shield continued, but at a much slower rate than before, and that was diminishing by the hour as Zankaradia made her forays.

After three days’ intense labour at Mystic, the group returned to the Academy and prepared to make the long descent through the atmosphere. Any fresh food they might have stored had long since perished, as had most of the ‘non-perishable’ food stores. Most of what was left was a few hardy types of grain, and an even hardier breed of rock goat which had survived the journey. And rats. Plenty of rats. Kassik and his team discussed the matter and prioritised children, pregnant women and Dragon hatchlings. The rest would have to make do with a meagre two spoonfuls of grain per day, plus the mineral-rich lake water.

Delicious!

Not exactly the diet anyone would have prescribed for people and Dragons recovering from hibernation.

As Mistress Mya’adara put it, “Best be hurrying home then, mah pets. And don’t yah be kissing that boy where yah think Ah can’t see, Pip!”

“I did not!” Pip protested.

“Huh. I’m watching yah real good.” Ready, aim, swat!

Pip jumped. “Mistress!”

“Huh. Don’t yah think a hundred and summat years puts mah hand out of practice, young scallywag.”

Given the food rationing, a traditional Jeradian feast would have to wait upon a successful landing. Aranya, Pip and Iridiana therefore focussed on sending messages via light-flash communication in the evenings. As their facility with the method grew, so did the number and variety of demands, until Pip joked that half of the Island-World would be waiting for them in Northern Jeradia and Iridiana promptly leaped into her diamond form – wrapped around the Pygmy Dragoness’ neck.

Silver’s eyes grew round. “How does she do that?”

Zip advised, “Tighter, Iridiana!”

“Silence, children,” Aranya admonished them. “Kassik’s about to speak.”

The scene was unforgettable. The Academy volcano floated toward the upper atmosphere, a hazy azure sphere seemingly thousands of leagues ahead of them, easily visible over the volcano’s rim as this portion of the journey was effectively weightless. Silver had unobtrusively angled their flight to provide the best viewpoint. His use of gravitational manipulation had improved to the point where nothing had to float anywhere anymore, unlike the time he had flooded the field outside the school buildings with lake water and received no end of ribbing from damp Dragons and Humans who had been bivouacking there. At this hour, although it was evening down below in the crater of their home, the twin suns appeared to rise over the planet ahead, casting glorious golden beams across the ivy-clad buildings. The grass was golden but just starting to develop a tinge of green following its inadvertent watering and now abundant suns-shine. Despite the gleaming suns-rise, uncountable stars filled the blackness all around them.

Magical. Just magical.

Every available person and Dragon, right down to the wobbliest new hatchling born just three hours before, had come to hear Master Kassik speak. There must be thirty-five thousand present, Aranya thought, and perhaps more.

Every last soul fell silent as Zankaradia’s muzzle appeared over the volcanic ramparts and she fluted, “Oh, am I late?”

Despite her terrific size, she still had a hatchling’s naïveté.

Aranya tipped her wings. “Join us, noble Zankaradia.”

The Corundum Red had found a favourite place between the Roost Volcano, a secondary cone within the main caldera, and the lake at its base. She slithered down the slope with sinuous ease, coiling herself up as she arrived until the bulk of her body overshadowed the entire secondary cone, and her neck and muzzle dominated the available space opposite Master Kassik and behind the great crowd. Before she quite laid down her head, she lifted two giant tortoises out of harm’s way with a delicate bit of talon-tip work.

Taking his stance on the raised section of lawn just in front of the buildings, Kassik boomed, “I am delighted to tell you that the war we fought has now officially ended!” Cheers! “Thoralian, whom we knew as Marshal Re’akka, is finally dead!” The thundering shook a few more tiles off the already battered buildings. “Thanks to the dauntless labours of the Star Dragoness, Aranya –” he had to pause to make himself heard over the resultant clamour, “supported by our own Pip – and Iridiana –”

Bedlam!

After Kassik had thanked Silver, Chymasion, Casitha, Arosia, Zankaradia, Yaethi and many others, he asked Pip to recount the tale which was so fresh in their minds, the tale of the assault over the Rift and their response to it culminating in Re’akka’s defeat and their retreat into the Egg. Aranya then picked up the tale, telling how she had discovered her Dragoness powers and together with Zip, determined to stand against Sylakia’s tyranny North of the Rift. That led to their discovery of the Thoralians and the theft of the First Egg, and so to a quest which spanned the world they knew.

The Brown then roared, “And who will join me in recognising the intrepid Zuziana of Remoy, who courageously woke us up from our ceaseless slumber?”

This time, a building actually caved in at the racket they raised, from the cheering of Humans to the jubilant bugling of Dragons, to Zankaradia’s carolling song and Aranya involuntarily setting off several gigantic peals of thunder. Oops.

When Kassik had finished clapping the Azure Shapeshifter upon the shoulder and making a fuss of her deeds, he called, “But Zuziana, you neglected one small detail.”

“Huh?”

He gestured for silence. “You left us all hungry!”

The laughter rolled and ebbed, then exploded again when Zankaradia called, “I am so hungry, Master! When can we eat?”

The Brown said, “With that, I am pleased to announce that the first supplies run from Fra’anior Cluster is projected to arrive with us tomorrow morning.”

Ha, so that was what had been keeping Zuziana busy! Aranya grinned at her friend, who looked suitably bashful. And …

The Azure chuckled behind her paw. Aye, Aranya? Expecting someone?

Petal, you surely don’t expect us to hang around here when news like that is in the air, do you?

You are so predictable.

The Amethyst Dragoness kissed Sapphire upon the nose. You are both incorrigible. So, how’s about we slip away after Kassik’s done and snag ourselves a tasty Western Isles warrior, Sapphire?

She wrinkled her muzzle. Ari kissy-kissy? Yuck!

Chapter 36: Falling

CUDDLING ON THE job? All in a day’s work for a Dragoness.

Zuziana was just congratulating herself on an ex-monk cuddled until he was befuddled, when her eye fell upon Iridiana and Asturbar, who were still oblivious to the world. Honestly – they called her shameless? Silvery-blue girl over there was certainly putting a few moves on her soldier. And as for Aranya and Ardan – kaaapow! There went Iridiana. Aye, after snagging Ardan for quite possibly the longest kiss in Immadian history, her best friend now contented herself with shining so gloriously, her clothes were practically transparent. Her Shadow was definitely one distracted man at this point.

Ri’arion caressed her cheek. “Missed you, crazy girl.”

“Absence makes the heart –”

“Ache,” he whispered. “How are the bumps? Bumpettes?”

“All fluttery with joy,” she replied. “Missed cuddling you, Ri’arion.”

“Looking forward to oodles of catch-up cuddles.” His grin was wickeder than a Western Isles scimitar.

She slapped his arm. “Ri’arion!”

“Petal?”

“Pack those thoughts away. How much food did you bring?”

“Twenty-one tonnes of mohili flour, bread, oil, sugar, herbs and spices, nuts, fruit and essential medical supplies,” he said. “There are two bigger but slower shipments inbound, as ordered. One of those holds the most surprised flock of ralti sheep in history. Sheep don’t like being in orbit, for the record. We chose to travel light in order to arrive faster.”

“You are a very nice man.”

“Nice?” he eyed her up and down in a way that made her tummy quiver. “I’ll show you just how nice, girl. When can I start?”

“Lots to do,” Aranya said brusquely, winking at Zip. “Boys, you are all awesome. Now, let’s go get those measurements you need for the underside of the Academy. Is your earth- and rock-moving contingent all ready?”

“Fired up and ready,” said Ardan, slipping his hand across to tweak – oh dear!

“Ardan – that’s my backside!” Iridiana squealed, popping into a butterfly dragonet form. She snapped her fangs at him. “No.”

“Aargh! Twins!” he groaned, clapping his palm to his forehead. “Sorry … it’s just this pair of … ah, the same …” He opted to shut his mouth at this juncture, which was wise.

Evening had fallen, insofar as that in order to meet Asturbar, Ardan and Ri’arion, they had flown into the planet’s shadow. Zip eyed the supplies wistfully. She could eat a few tonnes herself, having tacitly given her portion to several hungry children just a few hours before.

Ri’arion produced a package from his pocket. “Remoyan treats, dearest?”

“Whaaaat?”

“With Commander Ignathion’s compliments,” he clarified, amused by her delighted response. “We sort of – well, emptied the storehouses of Jos City, one might say, and co-opted the Fra’aniorian King into our plans as well. There’s a great deal going on in anticipation of your arrival.”

“A great deal of excitement, too,” said Asturbar. “Bearded Kings doth dance, and so on.”

Aranya grinned. “You passed on our messages?”

“No, we were sulking at being left out of the battle!” Asturbar growled. “However, we have arranged a Land Dragon bombardment that you should see starting … just about …”

“Now!” the three men chorused.

On cue, lights began flashing across a broad reach of the planet. Thousands of beams stabbed the night skies, sparkling like diamonds where they originated and flashing upward in high-focus mode, as Leandrial had taught them. Many ended in a flash-detonation and a puff of grey ash as they vaporised lurking Shao’lûkayn.

Aranya gasped, “How many?”

“Oh, just about every Land Dragon who can still move,” Ardan said airily.

Zuziana clapped her hands in excitement. “Ri’arion, you organised this show just for me? You are such a peach!” When her companions looked mystified, she added, “A fruit.”

“He’s a fruit?” Nyahi giggled.

“A tasty fruit. It’s like calling someone sweet,” the Remoyan explained.

Apparently this did not quite translate into Herimor culture.

The light beams continued their search-and-stab behaviour for many long minutes, gradually generating an ash cloud visible across many thousands of leagues. The Shapeshifters meantime accelerated the supplies bubble, knowing what happiness they would bring to the Academy’s denizens. They chatted animatedly, catching up on all the news – the building progress on the Passage of Dark Fires, Leandrial’s injuries, and the deaths of the brave Chrysolitic dragonets. They had burst their little hearts trying to lift the Academy to safety.

Seven hours later, they made their landing on the Academy’s field to an excited reception despite the early hour. Mistress Mya’adara already had all the kitchen fires roaring in preparation for her baking and the Dragons groaned to learn that meat was indeed flying in, only it was due the next day!

One hatchling said regretfully, “Mamafire, does meat not always fall from the sky?” The little female shrank back against her shell mother’s flank. “Why’s everyone laughing?”

Ardan bowed to her. “O noblest of living fires, I, Ardan the Shadow Dragon, do promise that within ten hours, I shall cause ralti sheep to fall from the skies, just for you.”

“For me?”

“Aye, and then I shall teach you to hunt and catch your first sheep.”

Predictably, Zankaradia was less than impressed by the arrival of the flock of ralti sheep the following day. “Dragons eat these spindly-legged woolly … mites? They’re tiny! How many do you eat at once – a hundred?”

“You might well do, your Mightiness!” Zuziana said diplomatically.

Kassik said, “We’ve set aside five as an, uh …”

Casitha put in, “As an appetiser, noble Dragoness. Merely to whet your taste receptors.”

The Corundum Red gazed mournfully at the offerings. “I shall perish! They do sound interesting, however.” She champed her jaw, terrifying the sheep into a bleating panic. “Do they at least tickle on the tongue? A smidge?”

* * * *

Having taken and relayed all of the required measurements down to the Cognates, Ardan found Aranya elbow deep in matters in the infirmary. Much to do. He was starting to forget what the insides of his eyelids looked like.

“Hard at work, beloved?” he asked.

“Complicated birth,” she muttered. “Twins conjoined at the hip – thankfully, only by a flap of skin and a bit of the pelvic bone. Why should it rain when it can snow?”

“They’re awfully cute,” he admitted, admiring the dark-haired pair sleeping tucked up against their exhausted mother’s side. “I just came by to tell you that I’m dashing downstairs again as Shadow can move rock faster and more efficiently than most other methods.”

“Why don’t you Shadow our supplies?” she asked.

“Because those constructs our clever Dragon Librarian created, somehow interfere with my Shadow powers,” he replied, stooping to kiss her forehead. “Get some rest, beloved. I’ll be back in time for the great descent.”

“Rest?”

“Does the world need to be saved today?”

Aranya sat back, mopping her brow. “No, but these lives do. Tomorrow will bring others.”

“And the day after, more again,” he kissed her once more, lingeringly, “and I love you so much for your heart, it hurts.”

Leaving a glowing young woman in his wake, the Shadow Dragon put on a little swagger just for show, before he let the night swallow him. They still had to bring this Academy in to a good landing and he was the Dragon to do just that.

He clenched his right fist upon his breast. Let Aranya see his heart, too.

* * * *

Two days later, at the crack of dawn, they initiated re-entry.

Silver and Chymasion stood front and centre, commanding a huge team effort of Dragons as they made adjustments to the gravitational field, and the falling began. Twenty Dragons monitored the temperature at key points on the underside of their Island. They hoped that a combination of aerodynamic and thermal shielding plus Storm Dragoness-style wind control to whip away the enormous heat generated by two Islands’ worth of friction would suffice not to melt everyone and everything. Silver’s group, meantime, was responsible for stabilising and controlling their trajectory.

Only once they were much lower would the Cognates be able to lend their unique mental strength to the enterprise. In preparation, they were clustered as near to that north-eastern tip of Jeradia Island as was physically possible.

For the first few minutes no-one felt any sense of movement. Then, the wind began to sough and sing, and the heat built rapidly as the Islands picked up speed. They had to balance vertical speed with horizontal wind effects – today the atmosphere was meant to be relatively calm, but that disregarded the millions of tonnes of rock they planned to land upon a pinhead. The few knots of side wind which was just now picking up made the whole undertaking much trickier. Ri’arion led three teams of Dragons at ten, twenty and forty miles further down as they checked conditions ahead of the Academy’s path.

“Aranya, make a point-six percent lateral adjustment four compass points north of west,” Silver said curtly.

“Adjusting.”

“Exhaust flows?”

“Running smoothly,” she confirmed. The design funnelled cool air beneath the Academy and Eridoon Island and ejected it out the back.

“Thirsty?” he queried.

Aranya startled. “Uh … aye, actually. Parched.” Mercy, that Silver really did have his shell father’s facility with reading minds. She had to chuckle as an eager young fledgling puffed out his chest at the honour of being the one to fetch the Star Dragoness a drink.

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.

With the help of the children, Beran set the great gong ringing with great gusto. He passed the hammer to Aranya for the seventh blow. That was the one that choked her up properly. It really was finished, wasn’t it? What did an Amethyst Dragoness do when she was not flying to war? Or repairing Moons? There were so many new questions to face. So many unknowns.

Aranya set down the hammer. “Friends, it is finished.”

* * * *

When a King returned home, a kafuffle was sure to follow. Having a King return with an Ancient Dragoness in tow brought his entire kingdom to a flabbergasted standstill. Aranya was sure Zankaradia rather enjoyed the impression she created as she delicately tiptoed – courtesy of Ri’arion’s handiwork with kinetic energies to ensure that she did not destroy roads, fields and forests in passing – up to a frozen city that she dwarfed. Settling her coils over perhaps twenty-five fallow fields that Beran indicated to the west of the city, she propped her muzzle upon her gleaming flank, and peered avidly over the crenelated battlements at all the goings-on below her. Squawking, panicking terhals. Exclaiming and pointing people. A couple of trader Dragonships heading out to the villages behind the mountains. Smoke rising gently from chimneys as people rose for the day, and then completely forgot about a warm breakfast as they rushed into the snowbound streets first to gape at a Dragoness bigger than their entire city, and then to cheer for their victorious King.

As he walked unhurriedly through the streets, Beran paused many times to offer pithy explanations. “Aye, the Thoralians are dead.” “Aye, we conquered.” “Aye, Aranya has returned victorious from the South.” “Those lights you saw a few weeks ago, that was the Star Dragonesses fighting Thoralian. The Mystic Moon will heal, aye. It’s only a temporary problem.” “The Corundum Red Dragoness is our ally; she is called Zankaradia.” “You are all safe. There is nothing to fear.” “These are the finest warriors from around the Island-World …”

Eventually, they reached the Palace. Pausing in the doorway, Beran said, “Welcome home, my lovely wife, and all my children.”

“Ooh, heated floors!” cried Pip, kicking off her shoes as fast as she could. “Somebody shut that door and bolt it until springtime. I’m a – what do you call those shiny hanging things?”

“Icicle,” said Silha.

Zip prodded Iridiana in the ribs. “Not half as rustic as you thought, Nyahi?”

Asturbar gazed about curiously. “Iridiana says it’s missing a few rubies.”

“I did not,” Nyahi protested, but she too was rubbing her nose. “This must be twice as cold as the Kahilate. It’s … cosy. I like your palace, uh, Dad.”

Beran’s quirky smile made her blush instantly. “Dad’s the word!”

That probably helped re-warm her extremities, Aranya decided, once more amazed at how different a twin could be.

The walls were thick and in the wintertime, additional crysglass panels were fitted treble thick against the cold, but the interior of the Palace and indeed, many homes in the city, were kept warm by water piped from thermal springs just south of the city’s main gate. Aranya supposed that in comparison to Yazê-a-Kûz, it was a homely sort of palace rather than being ostentatious, but she loved it, and judging by the delight sparkling in Iridiana’s eyes and Asturbar’s contented sigh, her friends and sisters would too. The pictures lining the walls were familiar, the servants’ faces glad, and it even smelled just right.

Silha immediately bustled away, calling gladly to the servants and soldiers as she started to make the necessary arrangements, but Beran turned to Aranya. He made a shooing gesture. “Go ahead, Sparky. All this arriving nonsense can wait.”

She sprinted to her mother’s tomb.

* * * *

Ardan found Aranya with the help of King Beran’s discreet directions. The tomb lay behind the Palace in the formal gardens that abutted the city’s rear wall, which stood hard up against the mountains that appeared from this perspective to launch into the sky. He had seen many views in his travels, but this was one he knew his warrior heart would not easily grow used to.

After a brief glance, he ducked into the tomb’s low entrance.

Here, many generations of Immadian royalty had been interred in grottos carved into the sides of underground tunnels. The very low temperatures combined with unique mineral deposits seeping from the walls and roof combined to preserve the remains with extraordinary fidelity, even though the features or clothing were difficult to pick out beneath the calcifying layers of – well, he wanted to call it crystal, but he was not certain. He walked quickly into the darkness, following Beran’s instructions, toward the more recent remains. Soon he saw a pool of light.

Aranya half-turned, gratitude registering on her face. “Ardan. You came.”

“Of course.”

Aranya’s mother was not originally Immadian, but Ha’athiorian. She rested in a side tunnel in a carved grotto at his chest height, so that by the merest dip of his head, he could gaze upon this woman who had so long preoccupied his beloved Amethyst Dragoness’ thoughts, hopes and dreams.

She was beauty, distorted. Izariela lay upon her back with one hand folded upon her breast in a queenly pose that would have done no poem shame. Her multi-coloured hair lay in petrified waves all about her, as long as Aranya’s and just as lush. But behind her body, indeed, all the right half of her body, was arrested in a grotesque partial transformation. The beginnings of wing struts protruded from her outflung arm, her right leg was misshapen, and her skull had begun to display skull spikes. Her right eye was twice as large as the left, while white-silver scales gently dusted much of her skin.

Izariela was encased in this strange crystalline substance, as though preserved for a museum display. He shivered involuntarily.

Aranya’s hand sought his. “O Ardan, would you …”

“Of course, petal.”

Sending forth his Shadow power, Ardan searched Izariela’s mortal flesh for signs of life.

Almost immediately, he said, “Aye. Aye, Aranya … here, meld with me and sense what I sense. This is her fire life, see?”

“So … sluggish. And abnormal.”

“That’s the signature of the toxins, similar to an Imbalance,” he replied, unable to restrain a rising lilt in his voice as he exclaimed, “Izariela’s alive – oh, Aranya!”

She clasped him fiercely, dabbing ineffectually at the corners of her eyes. “I … I just can’t believe …”

“Softly now, my beloved. There is much work to do. We need to memorise every aspect of her inner and outer appearance, and every effect we can detect, so that we can provide Fra’anior with the fullest possible picture of her condition. Even then the act of reviving her will be fraught with peril – yet I say, Fra’anior speed that day!”

“Aye,” said Ri’arion, from just behind them, holding up a lantern to illuminate the couple. “What can I do?”

* * * *

After a week of gradually melting the crystal encasement, they painstakingly transferred Izariela’s body to a bed in her old chambers. There had been four separate consultations with Fra’anior to try to hammer out the least risky way of attempting what promised to be a fraught, hazardous operation. Even the Great Onyx had been filled with doubt about his proposal.

“Ready?” said Aranya.

Gathered around the White Shapeshifter’s bed, Ardan, Ri’arion, Pip, Iridiana, Asturbar and Silver all nodded.

Zuziana palmed a small vial of tears. “Ready.”

They laid hands upon Izariela.

Shuttering her eyes, Pip drew in a deep breath. O soul of Izariela, o fire life of Fra’anior, o daughter of Istariela, ARISE!!

Izariela’s body quivered.

Simultaneously, the Shapeshifters joined their powers and dived into their work. Silver soothed her mind. Ri’arion and Aranya traced the toxins and effects in her flesh and magic, for as slowly as stalactites growing in a cavern, Izariela’s life and magic began to gather pace. Her limbs writhed. The half-formed bones slithered in and out in ghastly semi-formed Shapeshifter transformations, knocking Iridiana to the floor and smashing Ardan in the stomach.

Her magic’s attacking itself, Ri’arion cried. Shadow!

He grabbed her leg bone – or was that her hind paw – as it smashed against the ceiling, but Ardan was no longer present. Linked with Iridiana, he seared through her flesh and took into himself every malefic influence or substance that he could find, both in her Shapeshifter spirit-form and in her Human body. It was a fight. Izariela resisted. The poisons were a complex cocktail of lethality. Chaos shifted through and around him, battling the poisons on too many levels to count, while Silver tried to hold her near-feral psyche away from the edge of madness with delicate inflexibility.

Aranya poured healing power into her mother. Izariela. Izariela, it’s me, Aranya!

UNNNHH … HURTS!!

Her left forepaw clouted Pip across the room. A swinging Dragoness’ thigh bone smacked open a cut upon Asturbar’s unbreakable cranium.

NOOOO …

Blood and bone exploded from her abdomen, but Iridiana somehow gathered it all up and shovelled it back inside faster even than the Shapeshifter’s transformation could tear itself apart. Wing bones ripped out of her shoulders. Spikes shattered the bed slats. They disappeared again.

Aranya screamed, “Mother!”

Izariela’s body twisted horrifically and arched backward to an impossible angle; bones snapped with sharp retorts. The group brawled with her uncontrollable body parts for several long minutes before suddenly, everything soothed and settled down.

This was their chance.

Ardan and Asturbar gripped her outflung limbs and flung their fullest strength into holding Izariela taut.

Zip! Iridiana cried.

Zuziana squeezed the vial hard, spraying the shattered body with Aranya’s tears, before her best friend threw herself bodily atop her mother and shouted, BE HEALED!!

The room rocked to a brutal detonation of magic. Ri’arion managed to stay the ceiling’s collapse, but a wall blew out, bringing a gust of frigid air and a flurry of snow into the room. Izariela sat bolt upright, her face set in a rictus of agony as though she meant to scream, but had forgotten how to.

Then, her violet-blue eyes fluttered open to alight upon Aranya, who had been thrust onto her mother’s knees.

Puzzled.

Hopeful?

Outraged!

Izariela Dragoness-thundered, WHO BLIGHTED MINE DAUGHTER THUS?

Healing power mingled somehow with the intense agony of Iridiana’s signature iridium-flare magic, discharged in a blinding paroxysm against Aranya’s torso. She screamed as the whiteness roared over her and through her. It seemed she soared over strange billows as in that first experience of flying as a Dragoness. Dreamlike. Faraway. Knowing that she landed in the snow outside the palace building, but not feeling the cold.

Not feeling anything at all.

* * * *

Aranya woke languidly. Thoughts seemed to idle mutely in her mind like trout lazing in a terrace lake at the height of summer. Her nose wrinkled. A thread of cotton tickled unbearably. Something tugged at her wrist as she attempted to scratch the spot. She tugged again. “Hrrr?”

“Petal.”

A hand soothed her fevered forehead.

A hand she had dreamed about too many times to count.

Fingers stroked her forehead in a way that to a person starved for most of her life for such a touch, screamed, ‘Mother!’

She had to be dreaming.

The dream, however, supplied a cooling cloth for her sweating forehead. It added Zuziana’s concerned voice that murmured in a language that seemed to make no sense. Motherly tones replied gently. Her senses swam. Too many herbs to process, each scent as lucid as crystal, in total contrast to the pile of prekki-fruit mush that was her brain. Fresh linens. Astringent antiseptics. Perfume? Was that dorlis flower perfume?

Who did she knew that wore that perfume?

Her bedclothes itched worse than an attack of fire-ants. Again she tried to move, but the voices burbled like an unseen stream trying to tell her watery secrets. She was tied down!

Aranya moaned, “Hurgh – arg – what?”

Finally! Speech that actually made sense. Whose captive was she? Mercy, these bedclothes! This prickling alone would kill her. In desperation, Aranya tried to scratch herself with her foot, and that was a very, very bad idea indeed. She collapsed in a perspiring, gasping, enervated heap. Why so weak? This was ridiculous! Why could she not … see? Or even hear properly? Was there padding over her ears? Great Islands, these captors were devious!

Surely Thoralian had not returned in some other form to plague her?

“Aranya, petal,” Izariela whispered over her. “Be at peace.”

“This is murder!” she growled.

Izariela?

“Ah … Mom? No. Is that truly –”

“And Princess Stuporously Snores-a-lot is awake at last,” Zuziana snorted with typical Remoyan lack of tact.

How could she begin to believe? Yet her pulse danced.

Long-cherished laughter bubbled over her. “Aye, petal. I am Izariela. You are safe, my precious child – well, all my memories insist that you are still my little girl, yet you are a woman grown – but Aranya, you mustn’t move, or scratch, or anything. The healing is as yet at too delicate a stage.”

“Healing?”

Her thoughts seemed muzzled, unable to nibble at any implications.

“Healing, petal. You are healing.” Someone nearby stifled a sob. “As am I, slowly. You are healing all over.” Fingers gripped hers, tightly enough to hurt. No dream? Head and heart, however, simply refused to operate in tandem. “You are in Immadia’s Palace. I am seated in a wheelchair at your bedside. They aren’t sure if I’ll ever walk again. But you … Aranya, it appears you will be fully restored. Nobody’s even quite sure what happened, are they, Zuziana?”

“Something involving crazed Shapeshifter powers, tears, your healing and an iridium flare –” Zuziana’s breath snagged in a way that Aranya knew she was weeping “– and it burned, petal – it burned the scars right off of you. And out of you.”

She heard the words. All her brain could think was, ‘huh?’

Purified? Had she passed through the crucible of Iridiana’s forge-fires, and returned whole? Impossible!

Izariela explained, “That’s why you’re so weak. Your natural healing power is working twenty-seven hours a day to fix … well, everything, as best I can tell.”

“Your Mom’s healing gift is as yet, very weak,” Zip added. For the record, petal, she doesn’t know about Iridiana as yet. We judged her heart too weak to handle the shock. Not until you returned from your coma … it’s been five days, Aranya! We were terrified.

She was numb. Unspeaking.

“Say something, petal,” her mother urged. “Aren’t you happy?”

Someone was making a very strange noise. After a moment, Aranya realised it was her, and they thought she was choking. People were shouting, rustling, checking what she belatedly realised were bandages covering most of her body. She wanted to wave them off, but that was pointless, wasn’t it? She would rather die than wake to her old reality. Maybe this was just too foolish, and far too fragile, to be a dream. Maybe this was the new …

Aranya slumped upon her pillow-roll, and began to laugh.

“Alright, she’s now leaped gaily off the Isle of Sanity,” Zip said acidly.

“Petal?” For a convalescent, Izariela had a grip worthy of her Dragoness’ nature.

She laughed so hard her stomach began to cramp, and that hurt so badly that tears flowed and soaked her eye bandages.

Mother. Thou, Izariela!

Aranya’s whole heart was in those simple words; the nuances of her Dragonish far exceeding in intricacy and intimacy and affection any words she had spoken in her life to date.

Tranquillity settled upon the room.

Thou, Aranya … o thou! Izariela sobbed in exultation.

Aranya rasped, “Take off these bandages. I want – I need – to see my mother.”

Under cover of a doctor arriving to see to the bandages and familiar voices outside the door conversing in low ‘don’t disturb the sick’ voices, Aranya communicated quickly with Zip. No, Iridiana had not revealed herself. She had insisted upon waiting for her twin. Aye, Izariela was weak. Aye, Ardan was charging through the Palace scattering servants to the winds as they spoke. Overexcitement ruled, but her friends were tiptoeing about her bed – and how under the heavens had Iridiana managed to keep her secret from their mother for five whole days without spontaneously combusting … ah, that would be, resuming her Human form?

Chaotically speaking.

Forty endless seconds or so later, she saw fuzzy blobs moving about a blurry space.

Perfect. Aranya cleared her throat. “Ah, so, exactly how much did you burn out of me, Iridiana?” And how in Fra’anior’s name do we break the news of you to our mother? Any clever plans, Nyahi?

Uh … not so much, her twin admitted.

You’re a rotten big sister, leaving me to do all the work.

Listen, you ingrate, who exactly do you think carved up Thoralian for you? That’s right! Me. That sore wrist you’re feeling there? That’s battle fatigue –

Aranya had to chuckle. Alright, you win already. I’m in no state to even start an argument with you.

A dragonet’s paw stroked her foot gently. When did you become such a pushover? I’m deeply suspicious of your motives at this point.

This is my apology for worrying the Chaos out of you for five days.

Her eyes were not the best. They watered badly as she blinked fast, then slow, and the scene faded from unfocussed to severely unfocussed and back again. All she could tell was that someone with identical hair was sitting next to her, and the brown blob wearing a teal dress was Zuziana, and now the dark thing elbowing his way through the crowded doorway was Ardan.

Then, she found a trickle of healing stealing up her spine. Hers? Or Izariela’s? The warmth flooded into her face. Her eyes at last focussed, shifting from Ardan’s agog face – ‘I love you’ she mouthed to him – to her mother’s anxious expression.

Sweetness.

This was real. This was the smile that she had been treasuring up in her heart all these years. Radiance flooded the room. Her dream had come true.

“Oh my … stars,” Izariela laughed. Leaning dizzily out of her chair, she kissed Aranya upon the forehead. “My little star.”

“Mom, I see you.”

* * * *

Dawn had barely brushed the horizon with its first flush of fuchsia and crimson when the servants set Izariela’s wheelchair upon the stonework at the top of the fully restored tower named after her. They withdrew discreetly.

Moving behind his first wife, King Beran grasped the handle rail and gently manoeuvred the chair forward, toward where Aranya stood at the edge of the battlement, watching the dawn. Her unbound hair flowed down her back, tousled by the breeze. Her newly smooth skin tingled where the lesions had been cauterised; excised as if they had never been, and reclothed in new flesh. Aranya, reincarnate, had chosen to wear the royal purple for this occasion, but in a Ha’athiorian lace-train style. For her part she knew Izariela would be wearing a soft Helyon silk gown, with thick wrappings added against the early chill. Daughterly orders. Without turning, Aranya discreetly checked her temperature and supplied a trickle of additional warmth.

Inwardly, she gathered her courage.

“A beautiful morning for a surprise,” Izariela query-commented.

Aranya wore Iridiana upon her right wrist, right against her pulse. The diamonds quivered in perfect time with her own speeding heart rate. So much hinged upon this moment. Fear and hope commingled; plugging her throat with hot emotions. Was this harder than fighting Thoralian? Maybe.

She whirled impetuously. “So Mom, Dad and I have a surprise for you. Glad you’re sitting down for this one. It’s so huge, you might just fall off your chair. Ready?”

Izariela said, “You’re trembling, Aranyi.”

“I am? So I am.”

Bite the lip. Find words, any words, to express her heart.

Aranya said, “While I was up at the Mystic Moon, I spoke to our ancestors. You have great-stars, Mom – grandparents called Astralior and Quinesstaralia, and I know that’s going to take a great deal of explaining, but that’s not what this morning is about.” She stole a glance. Izariela sat motionless, but Aranya could read thae shock in her eyes. Oh, Mom! Tenderly, she said, “Here’s the thing. Do you remember when you exclaimed, ‘Oh my stars’?” She emphasised the plural a second time. “Stars.”

Izariela’s brow furrowed. “Ah … aye. Aye, I do. I thought – a slip of the –”

Bending down, Aranya picked up a small leather satchel she had left beside the battlement. She opened the top flap and slipped out a second dress, identical to her own. She said, “In the battle with Thoralian, as we told you, Pip took part. She came into her heritage as a Star Dragoness and that is why our family adopted her.”

“Right,” said her mother. “I understand the lore – and I fully welcomed her, as did Silha. I stand by my words. I will treat her as my own. She is mine.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

Beran’s hand clasped her shoulder. “Aye.”

Aranya whispered, “What if there were three stars up there that day?”

She shook out the dress, holding it up to the light. Her mother smiled a wan, puzzled little quirk of the lips, but said nothing.

“It took three Star Dragonesses working together to defeat Thoralian. What if that third star were here with us, right now – right on this battlement? It is so.” Aranya touched the diamond bracelet meaningfully. “Mom, she is a Chaos Shifter – a Shapeshifter of many forms, just as I am a Star Dragoness of many colours.”

Izariela’s jaw dropped. “What – what are you saying, Aranyi?”

“Mom, I would like you to meet Iridiana.”

Nyahi. Nyahi, now.

Her mother stared at the dress as if she beheld her own displaced soul.

The bracelet shivered. Then, with a whoosh of displaced air, the fabric fluttered as though caught by a warm zephyr, only this zephyr was called Iridiana and she was as real, and whole, and beautiful as she had always been.

“Mom, I have a twin sister.”

Izariela’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh! Oh my … she’s … oh my soul!” Her gaze searched Nyahi up and down, and she knew. Just as Aranya had known, so the truth struck her mother like Fra’anior’s own paw. “It … can’t be true!”

Yet her voice, her eyes, her heart all said the opposite.

“Iridiana, this is Izariela, your mother.” Aranya had to pause to catch her breath. “Mom, about twenty-two years ago, someone paid an uistarikolalion egg stealer from Herimor to steal an eggling from your womb. I found Iridiana in Herimor. She’s the third of our trio, Mom. She’s also a Star Dragoness. Do you remember, maybe …”

Izariela wailed, “Oh! Oh! I always thought – I had dreamed – my baby – how – oh my baby, my lost one, I –” I GRIEVE … OOOOOOOOO!!

A Star Dragoness’ heart-rending cry split the very fabric of the dawn, causing even the twin suns to shiver.

Izariela flung out her arms, tottering to her feet before anyone could stop her. “Come to me, my – I’m so sorry, my precious, precious baby – oh, forgive – oh Fra’anior, what have I done … and lost … my baby!”

In a flash, the sisters caught their mother as she collapsed.

Almost insensate, Izariela moaned, “I heard a second – in the womb. A presence. So tiny, unformed … but I didn’t believe! My baby, my eggling, my love, how can you ever –”

Aranya strengthened her with a tender caress.

“Because I choose to forgive you. I have already,” Iridiana said simply, but tears tracked down her cheeks. Their eyes locked as if they never wanted to let each other go. She sobbed, “You are my mother. Mine! I’d cross the Universe for you, never mind this little world. Mom … I love you, forever.”

“My treasure, how I adore you …”

Iridiana breathed, Thou, Izariela! Thou, mine beloved shell mother.

Thou, art the beloved radiance of mine heart. O precious daughter, home at last! Ah, how mine soul rises …

Aranya held her so close. “Mom, now it’s you who is shining.”

Beran said, “That’s what stars do.”

The End

Fly Higher!

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Dragonfriend and The Pygmy Dragon kick off two more bestselling series set in this same world – a feast of epic Dragon adventure, peril and magic!

Dragonfriend: A world of Humans and Dragons lies above the clouds, torn by politics and riven by rivalries. When Hualiama, a young royal ward, pits her skills against the usurper Ra'aba, she is callously cut down and tossed off his Dragonship for her trouble. Marooned miles down a cliff on an island sacred to the Dragons, a most unlikely paw intervenes to save Hualiama's life.

With the dragonet Flicker's help, Hualiama embarks on a quest to avenge her family and overthrow Ra'aba, traitor and pretender to the Onyx Throne. Yet the secrets she unearths and the extraordinary friendships she forges with Humans, Dragons and dragonets alike, will change her world forever.

A girl who dared to befriend the mighty Dragons. A friendship forged in fire, that paid the ultimate price. Soaring landscapes. Deep dragon lore. Shattered taboos. Pulse-pounding battles. The first Dragon Rider. This is the legend of Hualiama Dragonfriend, the girl who dared to fly.

The Pygmy Dragon: Stolen from her jungle home and sold to a zookeeper, Pip knows only a world behind bars, a world in which a Pygmy warrior and her giant ape friends are a zoo attraction. She dreams of being Human. She dreams of escaping to the world outside her cage. Then, the Dragon Zardon kidnaps her into a new life. Pip rides Dragonback across the Island-World to her new school - a school inside a volcano. A school where Humans learn to be Dragon Riders. But this is only a foretaste of her magical destiny, for the Dragon Assassins are coming. They have floated an Island across the Rift and their aim is nothing less than the massacre of all Dragons.

The Dragon Librarian is a parallel series which explores some of the mysterious events behind Hualiama Dragonfriend’s birth, rescue and adoption. Read on below for a short excerpt!

Abandoned at birth by her parents, Auli-Ambar is seen as a child blighted by a callous talon-stroke of fate. A worthless burden. She is blind, severely disfigured, and fit only for the most menial tasks. Then, a simple act of kindness changes her life. Flown to the Halls of the Dragons, the painfully shy girl becomes a cleaner of Dragon roosts, and a helpless wanderer of the Dragon Library. Soon, she becomes embroiled in magic, peril and draconic politics sparked by the rivalry between Dragonkind and Humankind, between the ambitious Captain Ra’aba and Sapphurion, the mighty leader of the Dragons – whose very life is imperilled by the arrival of a babe at his Halls, a babe by the name of Hualiama …

The Dragon Librarian – Excerpt

Hope is that emotion most riven with glorious terror, a unique, intensely personal expression of suffering. May hope’s promise never play you false.

Ianthine the Draco-Mystic, Collected Wisdom Sayings

Early that storm season morning, very close to her sixteenth birthday and her age of majority under Fra’aniorian lore, Auli supervised the loading of her Dragonharp into Master Chamzu’s vessel, as usual. None would know that inside the false bottom of her case lay one tiny, sleeping child, of white-blonde hair and effervescent laughter, in whom all the fire-life of the Dragons themselves seemed to burn so brightly. Auli had administered a herbal drink in the early hours before suns-rise, ensuring that Hualiama would not wake for the five hours their flight should take. She quadruple-checked the fastenings and the air holes before leaving her chambers with the instrument.

Shortly, the Dragonship swayed upward into the still dawn air, hissing and creaking at the joints as the sailors steered her out through the tunnel access and over the great terrace lake, before setting her nose toward the East. With the suns-rise came the warm volcanic breezes, rocking the vessel as they crossed heat inversions and negotiated the tricky thermals around the rim Islands. Auli deliberately stilled her soul as she took her stance toward the port bow. She drew out the new minifying oculars Arkurion had built for her, and put them to the test.

Minoculars, anyone?

Strange how she resented the thought that she might, one day, not be able to be called blind anymore. For she saw afar toward a pair of fuzzy blobs that must display that colour they called orange, one very slightly higher than the other, and puzzled over the narrowness of her field of vision that achieved such a result. It was as if she looked upon the world through a tube many tens of miles long, but had the capacity to see what lay right at the end. Utterly impractical. The need to magnify her sight would have made much more sense.

Despite her rampant fears, the flight proceeded smoothly. No Dragons. No unusual checks. She was just the Venerable Instructor in Matters Dragonish on her way to teach the royal children, as she did every month.

After landing, as the unloading progressed at the Dragonship docks, a soldier called her aside. “What’s in the bag, lady?” he said roughly.

“My Dragonharp.”

“What’s that?”

“A musical instrument.”

“Dragon stuff, eh? I’ll have to take a look. Open the bag.” Clamping down on an urge to scream, Auli began to comply. The man said at once, “Captain Ra’aba. Look at this.”

“What is it, soldier?” came that much-hated voice. Smooth as oil. Nasty as a Green Dragon’s most bilious acid attack.

“Look, Captain, the base is too thick,” he said, most probably pointing at the offending part. Exactly where Hualiama lay!

Auli was speechless. Mentally prepared, aye, but terrified out of her wits.

“Well, Auli-Ambar? Can you explain to our zealous new recruit?” sneered Ra’aba. Oddly, the note of sarcastic boredom in his voice settled her.

“Just my music scrolls, Captain Ra’aba,” she replied lightly, managing not to squeak or sound at all breathless. “The case opens here, see, beneath the base of the instrument. It’s a storage section where I keep all my Palace-approved musical scrolls for teaching the –”

“Bah, scholars,” said Ra’aba. “Carry on.”

The soldier clearly heard the implied threat in his Captain’s voice, because he barked, “Captain says carry on, girl.”

“That’s the Venerable Instructor in Matters Dragonish, soldier,” the Captain growled, apparently not even bothering to turn before venting his spleen on his unfortunate target. “She works at the Palace. Remember this one well, for she worships Sapphurion’s every scale. Dragons’ paw-licker if ever you met one.”

Ugh. Shaking and nauseous, Auli followed the dock labourers wheeling her instrument and carrying her bags toward the Palace. So far, so safe.

* * * *

The standard second check at the doors to the royal nursery was more cursory. Check inside the harp bag. Finding neither pythons nor Dragons nor an army of anti-royalists being smuggled about the Isles, in she went with her priceless cargo. She tried not to sag with relief, but Auli’s weak knees promptly threw a decidedly inelegant wobble into the mix that had her clutching for the bag and very nearly toppling the entire instrument on the floor. That would have been inexcusable.

Auli had thought the Queen would be first in line to greet her new charge, but apparently there were protocols and measures galore which Xa’an had not been entirely forthright about. Essentially, once Auli had unpacked her instrument and the more valuable cargo sleeping beneath it, the child should be inspected minutely for defects by a doctor and then thoroughly disinfected.

Politeness rather failed her at this juncture.

Nonetheless, a steamed-up Auli and sleepy-annoyed Hualiama attended to all that was demanded of them, including the return or destruction of all clothing sourced from Gi’ishior. The doctor probed her ears and checked her throat while Hualiama sang him a ditty about dragonets playing with a ball of string. Perhaps something of Auli’s foul mood communicated to him, for he completed the examination with almost indecent alacrity.

“A bouncing, healthy young girl, perfect in every respect,” he pronounced, and exited Auli’s chamber post-haste.

Xa’an quipped, “Channelling our inner Dragoness, daughter?”

“Keep count of your fingers, father.”

“I see.”

“I don’t. I singularly fail to see the point of this charade,” Auli glowered, growing angry at her own pun. Marvellous. Then Hualiama demanded a cuddle, which was impossible to resist, as usual. “There, darling, we’re here now. Mommy Shyana will be along in a minute.”

Hualiama bit her ear.

“Ouch!”

“Dwagoness Hualiama,” she chuckled merrily.

“Rascally pipsqueak! The rat already took a piece of that one. Don’t you start.”

“Down. Hualiama dance.”

Auli sighed. Maybe focussing on harp strings for a few minutes would soothe her frazzled nerves. That, or she’d do or say something regrettable and summarily end her input into this little girl’s life. Hualiama still needed her – didn’t she?

As she played and Hualiama’s feathery footsteps twirled about her like the rising winds of a tiny storm, she considered the fate of a girl snatched from Master Mi’elgan and Mistress Sairana’s house and brought up amongst Dragons. This girl had enjoyed a most unusual privilege. For Auli, it was Chamzu’s rescue and Sazutharr’s warm welcome to his Dragon Library which had changed her life’s course, even before Arkurion’s deft insight had brought it all into focus. She winced. Figuratively speaking. Then, her involvement with Sapphurion and Qualiana.

Who would Hualiama’s benefactors be? Could she hope that her small actions might somehow abet and inspire a great future? With the ruzal securely hidden, aye, she could hope. As Amaryllion loved to opine, one never knew when a Dragon’s wingbeat might trigger a tempest. Unintentional aftereffects. When Auli had put that point of view to Sazutharr, the Dragon librarian had been most tickled. ‘Aye, Auli. Aye indeed!’

Then came a gentle knocking at the door, and Hualiama darted for the safety of Auli’s arms. She buried her head against her shoulder. “No mommy. Wowwied. Go home?”

“Dearest pollen-fluff, this will be your new home. Remember?”

“No. Lee-lee don’t want home. Where home?”

Poor mite. No small wonder she was confused. Auli squeezed her tight, making to stand.

“No need,” Queen Shyana said, entering with a muted rustling of what must be a long lace gown. Bah. Since when did one not rise for royalty? Auli struggled to her feet regardless. Or was disobedience worse? Help! “Islands’ greetings, Auli-Ambar. And … do I remember this little dragonet? Cheep, cheep.”

Hualiama wriggled as a finger tickled her ribs. “No.”

“She’s in a bit of a ‘no’ phase, o Queen,” Auli advised, startled to receive a fond kiss upon her cheek from Shyana.

“I’d imagine so,” said the Queen. “Have you grown taller again, o reed most slender? Welcome to your new home, Hualiama – and Auli, how can I ever thank you enough?” Auli wanted to say, ‘By letting me take Hualiama back again.’ “There’s your service to the throne, but also to me personally. I’ll be forever grateful.”

If she remembered. If anyone did. Sighing within, Auli dredged a gracious word or two up from the darkness of her heart.

Shyana must have known or at least suspected the lie of her feelings, because she was very kind to Auli as she questioned her for over two hours about all things Hualiama. Every detail, nuance and foible had to be known. Her joy in dancing and singing. The words and phrases she preferred. It did not take her long to conclude that Shyana would make a wonderful, devoted mother to this orphan. The kind of mother she had never enjoyed.

Would she ever find her mother? Or Hualiama, hers?

* * * *

That afternoon, an elegant scroll arrived from Prince Hi’ixion inviting her to accompany him on a day trip, for which Auli had to seek special permission. Rainbows dancing over Islands! “Do you think he’ll want to talk about the future, Shyana? Our future?” she asked excitedly.

“His was a very traditional family,” she said, chuckling at Auli’s fervour. “He might want you to meet a special mentor or friend.”

Rather to Auli’s disappointment, the purpose of the trip was rajal hunting.

She supposed she had one small advantage. Wearing a face mask, the good Prince could not see the faces she pulled behind his back as they flew up to the mid-North of Fra’anior’s main Island, found a suitable patch of wilderness where a particularly troublesome beast was said to have made his lair, and set off into the tropical jungle accompanied by a troop of soldiers, five of whom were assigned the sole task of protecting Auli from assorted nastiness – feral monkeys, rajals, pythons, fourteen varieties of deadly spitting cobras, and other jungle delights. She rather wished they could mop her brow and feed her cool prekki-fruit juice. The jungle was sweaty, loamy and as humid as a Sylakian soldier’s well-used socks, and all sorts of bushes and vines and fallen logs kept attacking her knees and ankles. Not her favourite sort of adventure.

The Prince had thoughtfully provided a maidservant who helped her bathe at a small pool afterward, out of sight of the troops, and then it was on to a picnic dinner upon a flat-topped boulder overlooking the caldera, and Auli began to nurse a flame of expectation that all her skirmishing with bushes might have been worth it. The Prince seemed in a jolly mood following his successful hunt. If listening to men crashing through bushes, growling, shouting and having absolutely no idea what was going on counted for anything, then Auli had been part of her first rajal hunt.

Much easier just to send in a Dragon!

A soft rush mat to recline upon. Delicious nibbles. Bubbly berry-wine raised to a cheerful backdrop of chirruping birds saluting the gathering evening. Undivided royal attention. Life, my dear scholar, could be worse.

To her surprise, just as she began to relax and enjoy herself, she heard the turbine beat of another Dragonship approaching. A trader, perhaps?

That was when Prince Hi’ixion seized her left wrist and clamped cold metal around it.

A manacle! “Hi’ixion!” she squeaked. “Are you kidnapping me?”

She tried half-heartedly to beat him off, but the Prince was a strong young man and very determined. A few token kicks later, and he had her wrists secured behind her back.

Auli growled furiously. “If this is a kidnapping, mister, it’s supposed to be done from my home. And, I’m not yet sixteen. I will not stand for –”

“This is not a kidnapping,” he said coldly. “Now, settle down.”

“It’s … not? What?”

“Captain Ra’aba will arrive any moment.”

“Ra’aba!” Auli struggled furiously against the manacles, trying to twist up to her knees, but the Prince’s hard-muscled arm prevented her from rising. When he did not speak, she cried, “What the hells is this, Hi’ixion?”

He said, “I’m sorry, Auli. He’ll explain.”

What Auli-Ambar understood was the bottomless well of betrayal’s bitterness. Humiliation, too, but mostly the knowledge of the Prince’s treachery. Him? She had a terrible feeling she knew exactly who might be behind this. For how long had he been playing her for a fool? Months? Had he actually remembered her, or had he been prompted by another agent?

She said, “Well, this is one way to rile the Dragonkind, Hi’ixion. I can’t say I’d want to show my head above the parapet once Sapphurion hears about this.”

“When he hears about your treachery, do you mean?”

“My treachery? Mine?”

Awkwardly, the Prince returned, “You’re party to vital information you’re concealing; information that could destroy the draconic race. I’d imagine most Dragons would look kindly upon one who abetted –”

“Ra’aba put you up to this! You lying, conniving slug!”

Wrenching away from the protesting Prince, Auli gained her feet. She heard the soldiers spreading out and the rattle of weapons, but in truth, they had little to fear from a chained scholar. Or did they?

Amaryllion! Amaryllion, I’m in trouble!

No reply.

Now was the time for him to be absent? Could this be about Hualiama? Definitely, it concerned the prophecy advanced by Ianthine. The child or the ruzal … or, Auli cleared her bone-dry throat painfully, both? What did Ra’aba and his undoubted collaborator, Razzior, know? Xa’an had assured her that Ra’aba knew nothing about the child. The plan was for Hualiama’s presence to remain unremarked for several months by the busy Captain of the Guard, who had many other responsibilities – for example, destroying Auli’s plans and rallying the Dragons against her …

As Hi’ixion approached, speaking soothingly, she focussed narrowly upon his voice. Which way was the Prince facing? Directly toward her? She realised she had no idea what he might be wearing. It was unlikely he would still be wearing his body armour once the hunt was finished, wasn’t it?

“Auli, all you have to do is tell the Captain what he wants to know,” argued the Prince. Closer. “Come on, it’s not as bad as all that.”

She raised her chin. “Oh? Then why the manacles?”

“Orders.”

Coward. Ra’aba’s boot-kissing lackey! So much for a royal romance. Dreams, kerpoof. Auli’s muscles drew taut, and her fury felt like the bottomless pit of a volcanic hell, set to detonate at the slightest pretext. When he spoke again …

The Prince said, “Auli, you have to understand –”

“I do!” With a wild yell, she launched her left foot in a scything arc that aimed to dis-orbit whichever Moon might be abroad this day. She struck something soft.

The Prince made a noise like a punctured Dragonship balloon, and collapsed against her knees.

No time to celebrate. Auli bolted.

* * * *

Her flight lasted all of perhaps seven seconds. Having remembered to negotiate the drop from the boulder to a stretch of grassy meadow below, Auli stumbled through the wildflowers before tripping over what felt like a soldier’s spear and measuring her length upon what she had taken for soft grass. She tried to fling out her hands. Trapped.

Krack!

Her chin rebounded off a small rock. For a second she just lay there, watching for one of the very few occasions of her life, the play of lights behind her eyes. Pretty.

Then, pain ignited like fire all about her jaw and seared up into her head. Auli cried out, smothered in the agony, in the burning, in the place of knowing nothing but pain. Chips burst from her mouth with each cough. Bits of teeth. Blood. Bone.

“Fools!” roared the Prince.

People were talking above her. Around her. The voices said things about haemorrhaging and broken jawbones, but she knew only excruciation. She must not move her mouth. Hands turned her onto her side to stop the choking, although there was not much bleeding, someone said. The pain clamped her head like a vice and slowly ratcheted up the pressure.

Then, the acid tones of Ra’aba passed over her, searing. Condemning. Calloused fingers checked her mouth. His fingers, with the grip-strength of a swordsman. “Broken. At least four or five places. Idiots! I needed the girl able to talk!”

Her tongue felt so thick. Swollen unto bursting, like her heart.

“Get me a cursed doctor from town. Now! And give her something to stop the pain. All I need is speech, nothing else. The damage can be fixed later, if needs be.”

In a low, agonised voice Hi’ixion mumbled, “Can it? Hurting Auli-Ambar wasn’t part of the deal, Ra’aba.”

“Oh, go mewl somewhere else, kitten!” snarled the Captain, before he set about cursing the Prince with the lurid facility of a professional soldier. “If you’d just bothered to hold her, you wouldn’t be limping about like she unmanned you!”

The Prince whined, “Mouldering son of a windroc, I’ll see you –”

“Interred? Decent kick for a blind, manacled scholar, wasn’t it? Damaged the family hoard down there? You can’t even stand upright – idiot Princeling!”

Auli hurt too much to enjoy their interaction. What now, o bruiser of princes’ manly egos?

Someone rolled up their cloak to pillow her head; a gentler hand tried to clear some of the mess out of her mouth so that her airway would not be obstructed. As the man’s movements inadvertently jolted her jaw, she passed out.

* * * *

She regained consciousness to sense the unmistakable rocking motion of a Dragonship in flight. She felt strangely good. The pain had passed through her being, leaving just a dull, faraway aching in its wake. Auli remembered that she had been badly hurt, but she was too busy watching colourful phantasms flitting behind her eyes, and enjoying a sensation far more soaring than Dragonship flight. She cartwheeled like a dragonet through the night skies. Nothing mattered anymore. All of her cares floated away upon warm, luxurious duck down from Archion Island, the stuff of royal pillow rolls.

Where was she?

Waterfalls thundered behind her ears. Great torrents of life, powering upward into the skies – what were the skies like, anyhow? Or the moons? What was the colour blue, the colour strangely splashed upon her Dragon’s kiss? She imagined her mother as a fragrant flower, the touch of her puckered petals infusing rippling, mellifluent life into her being, where water mingled with fire and created something … unique. Infeasible. Delicate as starlight yet as strong as the striving, thriving, ever-changing power of life itself. Were she comprised of such pith, it were wondrous indeed.

Perhaps such as she should never have been, yet she was.

Firewater.

Waterfire.

Dizzying, spinning, tumbling ecstatically through pain into sorrow and from sorrow to joy, she soared upon the roaring billows. All was elemental, majestic, the sporting of wildfires within the tranquil pond of her being.

Auli settled. Her brows furrowed. Where had she been?

A voice said, “Who the freaking fumaroles do you think you are?”

She struggled to speak.

Xa’an said, “The truth is as I have told you. We know not her mother. I have amnesia – magically induced amnesia. Your informants told the truth.”

Oh no. They had her father too?

“That must have been a memorable relationship,” sneered a draconic voice. No surprises there. Who other than Razzior? “Ra’aba, focus your thoughts. Look, the girl’s awake. We can question her – if you haven’t broken her jaw too thoroughly, you dumb rajal.”

“It was the boy –”

“Oh, shut the fangs,” Razzior snapped. “Auli, if you can hear me, speak.”

Her mouth and tongue were so bruised and puffy, all she could produce was a sound like, awwwgghh.

“Good,” said the Dragon. “So, here we are. Girl, we’ve brought you to a little-known Islet just off the northernmost peninsula of Fra’anior Cluster. Your father graces us with his presence – begrudgingly. We want information. I would strongly suggest that you discover ways to communicate clearly, or we’ll be forced to encourage you.”

Xa’an called, “Razzior, please, speak to me –”

“Someone shut that fool up.”

Auli winced as the sound of a heavy blow fell dully upon her ears. Her father groaned. Ways indeed.

Razzior sneered, “I can be very persuasive. Imagine my fore-talon sliding into your father’s bowels, like this –” A creature screamed. For a moment, she mistook the sound for that of a windroc’s ferocious shriek, but then it lingered horribly into a bubbling, agonised cry that was unmistakably that of a man. The Dragon snickered, “Or we might start twisting off limbs, like this …”

Nuuurrrrrggghhh! Auli shouted. Her entire face felt as if it would throb off her shoulders any second. Judging by the hot rasp of her breath past her tongue, she feared the swelling would constrict her airway any moment.

“Ah, suddenly so motivated,” Razzior snickered. “You can have so much fun with a blind girl. I wasn’t even torturing your father, little one. Just some random villager, unlucky to be abroad tonight. So, how’s your capacity for speech coming along?”

“Don’t tell him anything!” yelled Xa’an. Thud! “Aargh!”

“One leg broken,” the Orange Dragon said callously. “I don’t even need a hammer. I’ll just stand on him and slowly, very slowly, crush the life out of your precious daddy.”

“Father!”

Horribly slurred, but recognisable speech it was.

“Better and better,” purred Razzior.

“Oh, Xa’an’s still alive,” the Captain put in. “So, we’ve wasted more than enough time on that popinjay Princeling and your worthless sire. Situational briefing. Hear my demands. You will tell us what you know about this secret of the Child of the Dragon, and exactly where you hid it that day, Miss Clever Scholar. Aye, we know you found something. You see, men like to talk, especially drunks.”

Auli hissed.

“Aye. That soldier, that’s the one. Took us a cursed long time to find the sot, but he mouthed off in a tavern one night – in Sylakia Town of all places.” The Captain sounded as if he were pacing past her prone body as he continued to expound, “You were carrying books that night, but to where? That is the question, isn’t it?”

“Music,” she managed to slur, but it came out more as ‘moo-thick.’

“Oh, but we know better.” Ra’aba resorted to his habitual sneering. “Put together a Dragon Library reference in the forbidden section, stolen by someone’s father, connect that to the daughter’s presence in the Library that very day, and add a scent trace found upon leggings abandoned in the garbage midden and a soldier’s testimony … aye, we have looked far, girl. Far and deep. So you will tell what you have hidden and where it is. You will reveal all.”

Despite the fogging effect of the herbs or drugs on her mind, Auli was thinking very rapidly now. The kind of thinking motivated, as Razzior had correctly pointed out, by that incredible desire to see herself and her father survive this fell pass.

She goaded them, “Unfortunately, Razzior destroyed the Lib –”

Human and Dragon bellowed simultaneously. Through the fading and returning billows of her consciousness the expressions of their fury sounded eerily in tune with each other, as if one single voice spoke at two different timbres, and one issued from a rough Human throat while the other boomed from a Dragon’s vocal resonators, chords and articulation structures. Linked. Strangely, their mental accord reminded her of Azziala and her disparate voices. A work of magic had been wreaked in their lives, fey and binding and fearfully powerful magic, and it drove them to perilous extremes – beyond the bounds of ordinary Human or even draconic hubris. She wondered dully what consequences would visit this uncanny duo; what travails and torments they would doubtless inflict upon the Island-World …

“Speak!” Razzior and Ra’aba snarled in concert.

The beginnings of a desperate, crazy plan began to formulate inside of Auli’s pain- and drug-pickled mind. She too could make connections. Many connections. The uncanny link between Razzior and Ra’aba. Lore based on the magical properties of Dragon blood. They had exchanged blood and perhaps more, the two of them, coupled with incantations of vile lore. Perhaps Ra’aba had something of a Dragon about him, now. Something borrowed or stolen from the Orange, and vice versa. Would it not kill them? Was this type of magic even stable, or was this the reason that they sought the power of ruzal, to seal or deepen their pact?

The key was to deflect their attention away from Hualiama. To protect those dearest to her.

“Father life?” she whispered.

“You want his life?” growled the Orange. “No problem – depending on how helpful we deem you to be.”

“Both our lives in exchange …” Auli slurred.

Xa’an groaned.

Did she know what she was doing? No. Most definitely not. This was a matter of deep Dragon lore, deeper than the Cloudlands could ever be. She had seized upon a glimmering of an idea. Maybe if she played it with the mastery of a Zanthrillior upon his Dragonharp, she might stand a gnat’s chance of landing on the caldera floor and living.

“We agree to spare your miserable lives once we get what we want,” Captain Ra’aba said, with a disgusting smacking sound of his lips. “Promise.”

“Same,” grunted the Dragon.

She was shaking now, shaking so hard and trying not to vomit because she knew it would likely just become stuck behind the swelling in her mouth and choke her. What would become of her distorted jaw now? Would she ever be able to eat again? Corral the crazed-windroc thoughts flapping about inside her skull. Concentrate. Play the harp-strings of fate.

As clearly as she could, Auli stated, “The child is not a literal child. It is a figurative usage, as in, the brainchild of Dramagon. It is his essence, his magical core, the stuff of who Dramagon is … or was …. and it is called ruzal.”

Yeeeeesssss, Razzior crowed. More. Give us more!

Both of them must be looming over her now, for Razzior’s foetid breath warmed her face and Ra’aba, disturbingly, panted in exact time with the Dragon just nearby.

Auli said, “It is a living type of magic. Ruzal assumes its own forms and ways, and so in this sense too, the magic is the Child of the Dragon. It is passed down as some form of extract from the original essence of Dramagon’s fearful fire-life, but is no mere copy –”

“We don’t need some stupid scholarly lesson!” snapped Ra’aba. “Where is it?”

“I hid it.”

“Where?” Both man and Dragon growled simultaneously now.

“That night, I hid it. You’re right.” She forced out the words, hoping by some miracle that they would take the bait. “I buried the book of its lore where you will never find it. It’s describes a magic so foul, a perversion so –”

WHERE?

Razzior’s blast struck her so hard, Auli distinctly felt the broken bones of her jaw rattling together. Yet the painkillers must be very strong, or dangerous, for the pain was still as dull as a blunt knife quarrying holes in her skull. She swallowed a few more bits of bone or tooth, she could not tell. Don’t cough! Please …

She must give this pair just enough information to hang themselves … oh, she was so mixed up. Did any of this even make sense?

The thread of your father’s life lies tenuously upon my talons, Razzior purred.

No! “Concert …” she moaned.

Ra’aba hissed, “What? What concert? That one you told me Zanthrillior gave? Is it a musical key? Speak, girl!”

“Silence, you withering numbskull,” snorted the Orange. “Let the girl speak.”

“Concert Hall.”

“What? What’s in the Concert Hall?” The huge Dragon stamped his foot, jolting her head. That was too much for Auli.

Black waterfalls crashed over her awareness.

About the Author
www.marcsecchia.com

Marc is the bestselling author of over twenty-five books and is published in five languages. Born in South Africa, he lives and works in Ethiopia with his wife and 4 children, 2 dogs, a rabbit, and a variable number of marabou storks that roost on the acacia trees out back. On a good night you can also hear hyenas prowling along the back fence.

When he’s not writing about Africa or dragons, Marc can be found travelling to remote locations. He thinks there’s nothing better than standing on a mountaintop wondering what lies over the next horizon.

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.com. Every review matters and I read them all!

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Email: marcsecchia@gmail.com

Other Books by Marc Secchia

Shapeshifter Dragons: (Young Adult and older readers) Four allied series of bestselling Dragon adventures. Prepare to wing away to a unique world of mighty Dragons and volcanic Islands above the deadly Cloudlands! In chronological order (Island-World timeline):

Dragonfriend series: Dragonfriend, Dragonlove, Dragonsoul and Dragonstar

Scrolls of Fire series: The Dragon Librarian

Shapeshifter Dragon Legends series: The Pygmy Dragon and The Onyx Dragon

Shapeshifter Dragons series: Aranya, Shadow Dragon, Song of the Storm Dragon and Beautiful Fury

Shapeshifter Dragons linked book, read after Song of the Storm Dragon or after Beautiful Fury: Chaos Shifter

Standalone Book: Dragon Thief

Set in the same world as the Shapeshifter Dragons series, join Zhialeiana in an oceanic adventure with Whales and Sea-Dragons:

IsleSong series: The Girl who Sang with Whales, The Girl who Loved the Whales, and The Girl who Swam with Whales, after which this series connects with Shapeshifter Dragons above in Dragons of Sea and Sky, coming soon.

Whisper Series (Teen and older readers)

Conjured by the sadistic Warlock Sanfuri, Whisper faces a stark choice. Run with his message, or die. Bound by the Warlock’s unbreakable magical imperative, Whisper is forced to navigate the tortuous pathways of a labyrinth twenty miles deep, riven by Dragon-infested canyons and scorched by sunstrike. An extraordinary legend is born.

Whisper Alive

The Equinox Cycle: (Young Adult and older readers)

Trapped in a car wreck, crushed by a train. In seconds, Zaranna’s world is torn apart and she must start life anew, as a survivor. A double amputee. Yet why does this promising equestrienne remember a flash of sulphurous fire, and a crimson paw hurling her mother’s car onto the train tracks? Why does a tide of beguiling butterflies flood her increasingly chaotic dreams?

As Zaranna Inglewood adjusts to life minus legs, plus gorgeous Alex, the paramedic who cut her body from the wreckage, she learns the terror of being hunted. Relentless and inimical, the enemy lures her to a world where dreams shape reality. Equinox. A world of equinoctial storms; lashed by titanic forces of magic, dominated by the Pegasi and their centuries-old enmity with Human Wizards and the Dragons. This is a world where a girl can Dream her destiny. Where her soul can fly, or be chained forever.

She is Zaranna, the Horse Dreamer. Survivor. Fighter. A girl who doesn’t need legs to kick an evil fate in the teeth. All she needs is courage – the courage to Dream.

The Horse Dreamer (Equinox Cycle Book 1)

The Shioni of Sheba series: (Middle Grades and older readers) Unique African historical fantasy adventures set among the myths and legends of ancient Ethiopia.

Shioni of Sheba #1: The Enchanted Castle

Shioni of Sheba #2: The King's Horse

Shioni of Sheba #3: The Mad Giant

Shioni of Sheba #4: The Sacred Lake

Shioni of Sheba #5: The Fiuri Realms

Shioni of Sheba #6 – The Night of the Hyenas

Shioni of Sheba Box Set – Books 1-5

Epic fantasy (New Adult and Adult readers) Epic length tales of unique worlds and powers.

Feynard

The Legend of El Shashi

Foreign language editions

Italian – Dragonfriend, Il Drago Pigmeo

Spanish – Dragonfriend

Portuguese – Aranya, Shadow Dragon, The Pygmy Dragon

Chinese – The Pygmy Dragon (US, China) Aranya (US, China)

Appendix

Distances and Navigation

For converting between leagues, miles and kilometres:

1 league = 5.556 kilometres = 3.45 miles

1 mile = 5280 feet

Given the five moons in the skies, dominated by Iridith (the huge yellow moon), navigation by the stars is unreliable. Therefore the Islanders north of the Rift have developed the method of navigating by the suns and moons, which have reliable if complex orbits and periods in the sky. Distance is generally expressed in terms of days of travel between Islands. Leagues in the air are measured by a process of general agreement (called a Dragonship Captain’s measure) rather than an accurate scientific measurement, due to the difficulty of calculating distances across the ever-shifting Cloudlands. This changed with the rediscovery of the league-logger at Immadia Island.

Flying and falling speeds

Human terminal velocity is around 124 mph or 200 km/h. When Aranya was thrown off the Last Walk she would have reached even greater speeds, given as she was chained to a block of stone and so was falling in the vertical position with minimal body resistance to the air. Experienced skydivers can reach velocities of over 180 mph or 290 km/h in the ‘bullet’ position.

A Dragon’s long distance flying speed is 6 – 8 leagues per hour (21 – 28 mph / 33 – 44 km/h) but over short distances they are capable of sprints of over 40 leagues per hour (138 mph / 222 km/h), especially if this is combined with a swoop from a height. They are highly streamlined, especially with their wings in the furled position. When travelling longer distances Dragons are similar to migrating birds in that they are able to convert body mass into energy to fuel their flight. Larger Dragons are able to spend up to two days or more in the air if they rest at appropriate intervals, covering hundreds of leagues in this time.

A Dragonship usually travels at 4 leagues per hour (14 mph / 22.2 km/h) as the large dirigible balloon, despite its oblong shape, generates significant wind resistance. The meriatite-powered engines provide sufficient thrust for higher speeds, but generally Dragonships excel at distance rather than speed. Before the development of the meriatite furnace engine Dragonships were powered by wind and Human effort, employing a system of heating an air balloon similar to hot-air ballooning.

How high can a person or a Dragon fly?

The higher Islands of the Island-World lie approximately one league (3.45 miles / 18200 feet) above the Cloudlands, which is a gaseous cloud layer much denser than the Earth’s atmosphere. Air pressure around 1 mile above the Cloudlands is equivalent to Earth’s sea level, but oxygen levels are higher (23% of atmospheric gases). Humans have adapted to living at altitude. Comparatively, they have higher red blood corpuscle counts and better lung capacity and cardiac output levels than average Humans living on Earth. Aranya of Immadia grew up at the equivalent of 13000 feet above sea level in Earth terms.

Dragon Riders have to be especially wary of hypoxia and hypothermia at altitudes over 1.75 leagues (6.04 miles / 32000 feet) above the Cloudlands. Many Dragon Riders in the past undertook high-altitude training, and the dangers of hypoxia were well documented. Accepted wisdom is not to fly over heights of 1.5 leagues above Cloudlands level due to impairment of the senses, especially night vision, reasoning and judgement, and general nausea and vertigo which develop.

Dragon lungs and their triple-heart cardiovascular systems are highly adapted to flying at altitude. The ability of golden Dragon blood to become saturated with oxygen is orders of magnitude better than that of Humans, allowing the lungs to absorb sufficient oxygen even at low atmospheric pressures up to 4 leagues (13.8 miles / 72865 feet) above Cloudlands level. Dragon musculature is remarkably efficient in terms of resource consumption measured against physical output, allowing Dragons to fly at great heights and for very long distances, while replenishment of resources is also rapid. Energy and oxygen are stored in the body in special, additional organs and tissues. However Dragons do suffer from hypoxia symptoms similar to those experienced by Humans – euphoria, dimming of vision and impaired judgement. They need to be careful of decompression when swooping from a great height, similar to Humans experiencing the ‘bends’ or the formation of gas bubbles in joints and capillaries.

A Dragon can hold its breath for around 15 minutes, depending on the level of physical activity. A record of one hour underwater was achieved by a small Red Dragon. Further, Dragons with the ability to shield (semi-permeably) are able to learn how to provide additional oxygen to their Riders, protecting them from the effects of hypoxia, and even, legend has it, to heat a ‘bubble’ of air around a Rider to protect them from the deadly low temperatures of high altitude flying.

Why is a Dragonship so big?

Dragonships are large because of the huge volume of hydrogen gas required to produce lift. Airship engineers calculated on 68 pounds (30.9kg) of lift per 1,000 cubic feet of hydrogen gas. Garthion’s flagship, at 400 feet in length, is less than half the size of the ill-fated Hindenberg. This size yields an approximate gas volume of 4.5 million cubic feet with a lifting power of 139 tons – assuming the airship is a regular cylinder with a large radius of 60 feet. Dragonships are torpedo-shaped for streamlining, but still generate considerable drag in the air.

Hydrogen for Dragonships is produced by melting mineral meriatite before dumping it in an acid bath. The resulting reaction produces hydrogen. However, hydrogen is highly flammable and dangerous, as Zuziana and Aranya teach the Sylakians. Hydrogen is relatively easy to produce, but helium would be inert at the expense of some lifting power – making helium the safer choice.

Dragon types

There are four major Dragon families – the Ancient Dragons, the Lesser Dragons, Shapeshifters and dragonets. Many varieties exist within each major family; varieties of colour, shape, size and magical ability. Certain colours and abilities are more common than others. All Dragons speak Dragonish to a greater or lesser degree.

Lesser Dragons – descendants of the Ancients, they are commonly Reds, Greens, Oranges and Yellows. Their primary attack is Dragon fire but this is usually combined with one or more special attacks or abilities. Greens are renowned for their healing abilities and poison or acid attacks. Their favourite habitat is woodlands, forests and especially jungles. They are often long and lean in body shape, and reclusive by nature. Reds, Oranges and Yellows excel in various categories of fire breathing, fire shaping, fireballs and special attacks such as molten lava. Reds are usually the most massive of the Lesser Dragons, achieving wingspans of over 120 feet. They are gregarious and love to live in large colonies. The Blue and Grey-Blue spectrums tend to dominate in the lightning and water-based abilities, and higher-level magical abilities such as shielding. They are fond of roosting in high places or near water. Zuziana, as an Azure Dragon, is a rare colour and is among the smallest of Dragons in physical size. Grey-Black to Black Dragons, such as Fra’anior (an Ancient Dragon), usually have lightning and earth powers such as earthquake, or the much rarer powers of storm and shivers. They often prefer living in caves.

Dragonets – first found on the Islands of Fra’anior, the dragonets are generally thought to have lesser intelligence, but the largest dragonets (up to four feet in length) do communicate well in Dragonish. They love to live in large colonies and are highly sociable. They become easily attached. Sapphire, a blue dragonet, becomes attached to Aranya and travels with her. Dragonets have as wide a variety of colours as Dragons. It is agreed that dragonets only breathe fire and have none of the other abilities of the Lesser or Ancient Dragons.

Ancient Dragons – those who first colonised the Island-World and are said to have created the Islands and Humans. Little is known about the Ancient Dragons. One in particular, Fra’anior, a huge, multi-headed Black Dragon with Storm powers, plays a part in our story. There are also Magma Dragons which live in volcanoes and Land Dragons who roam the Cloudlands, although it is unsure as to whether they are flying, walking or swimming. The Land Dragons are said to chew on the roots of the Islands.

Shapeshifters – most scholars agree that Shapeshifters are a race of their own, being neither Dragon nor Human. Shapeshifters may have been the result of scientific experimentation by the Ancient Red Dragon, Dramagon, but this is uncertain. Shapeshifters are able to transform between their Human and Dragon forms. Most Shapeshifters are bound to a single Dragon colour.

Dragons which defy classification – magic being what it is, there are those Dragons and Shapeshifters who defy classification, as is the case with Aranya and her mother Izariela, and Fra’anior’s soul-mate Istariela. Izariela and Istariela are Star or Silver Dragons, Dragons tending from silver to the purest white. No-one knows if they are Ancient or Lesser Dragons, nor exactly what their powers might be. Aranya, an Amethyst Dragon, is also of indeterminate classification, although she evidences a number of abilities across the spectrum such as Dragon fire, healing power, lightning and storm.