Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) (9 page)

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 H
umans 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.

W
ith 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.”

F
lame 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 d
id 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.

W
hat 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 v
oice 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 unexp
ectedly 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 s
mell filled her nostrils; her head spun.