Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) (29 page)

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.

Th
e 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 t
o her head, Aranya unpinned the unfamiliar skullcap 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 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.”

A
ranya’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 she 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, convey
ing 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 serv
ice.”

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 reside
s 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 had 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 a 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.