Dragonlove (45 page)

* * * *

Frigid water laced with herbs bathed her heavily bruised face.

“If seeing you pop out of the Empress’ birth canal counts for more than a dragonet’s chirp, then aye, chicklet, I know you’re her daughter, and one of us.”

One of them? A Dragon-Hater? Lia lay abed–such as her mother’s people called this bowl of rushes lined with animal skins and piled high with large, soft cushions which apparently doubled as blankets and padding–having her wounds treated by Yinzi, a woman who effortlessly defined the word ‘motherly’. She was built like a Dragonship, broad in the beam, but clearly had a heart to match her frame. Hualiama eyed the woman curiously. These people had a distinctive look, much paler of skin than Saori’s people, but also black-haired and angular of facial features. Where the residents of Kaolili were predominantly petite and small-boned, these Lost Islanders appeared to vary widely in build, but were so similar in visage, she had the impression of a large family of brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. People stamped of a single mould? Perhaps their isolation, even inbreeding, had contributed to this uniformity in appearance?

And the overlarge eyes. Lia considered her attendant. Yinzi had beautiful, lucid eyes, framed by long eyelashes that gave her a girlish air, despite her iron-grey hair. She had always thought her own eyes a few fractions too large for her elfin face. To see her own eyes looking back at her from Azziala’s visage had been a shock.

“And how do I look?” Yinzi smiled.

“Just as I remember you,” the Princess smiled back. “Yinzi, isn’t it impossible for a days-old babe to remember such details?”

The old midwife and healer paused to glance at the three Enchantresses standing guard at the door of Hualiama’s small chamber–her cell, more accurately–before sighing. “Chicklet, I suppose it won’t hurt you to know.” Hualiama wrinkled her nose. “It’s the eyes, as you were thinking.”

Was the woman a mind reader? Now she felt as though she had swallowed a spear of ice.

“One examines the eyes to know the bloodline,” said Yinzi, sounding as though she were quoting from a scrolleaf. “The Second Protocol lays out the desirable traits and the means of honing the genetic potential of our people, until the wheat is separated from the chaff, and the High Ones rise to claim their birthright, the throne of the world. With your magical power and half-Fra’aniorian heritage, you’ll make a fine addition to our breeding stock.”

Yinzi delivered her speech so sweetly that it took Lia several moments to work out its import, and be rattled to her core. Did she know what she was saying? Nauseated, almost unable to bear her touch, Lia stared at the woman. Yinzi did, and believed it utterly.

“What are these Protocols? Who made them?” she managed to ask.

“Mighty Dramagon codified our lore,” said Yinzi in the same sing-song voice.

“Wasn’t he a Dragon, Yinzi?”

“An ancient heresy,” she cut in. Again, her eyes flicked to the watching Enchantresses. Lia wondered what would have happened, had the woman dared a wrong or unsuitable answer. “Dramagon was a Human, the greatest leader of the former age, when Humankind rose up against our Dragon overlords and cast off the paw of draconic tyranny forever.”

“Of course. Yinzi–” she wet her lips “–if you’re Dramagon’s favoured people, why do you live here in this faraway corner of the Island-World?”

The midwife intoned, “A harsh people for a harsh land. Here, among the bitter snows at the end of the Island-World, we wait and grow strong. We are tormented by the cold and movements of the Islands and tempered by the cunning lizards of these Isles, who winnow us with their powerful magic. But the time is coming, chicklet. With Azziala’s ascent to the hallowed crown, may her holy name forever inspire us, the Lost Islands people have developed the skills to overcome these wicked reptiles, to strike them down and use their body parts as we will–their hide clothes our airships–”

Lia’s aghast gasp made Yinzi break off with a motherly frown. Gently, she touched the Princess’ forehead with three fingers. “Soon, you’ll understand these things, my chicklet. Dramagon’s enlightenment will brighten your mind. Rest now; don’t fret. You’re home. All will be well.”

All was a monstrous irony, she wanted to scream. The Dragon-Haters swore by a manual handed down to them by none other than the infamous Ancient Dragon scientist, Dramagon, and continued his scandalous experimentation with the bloodlines of their own people! Breeding stock indeed–may her womb shrivel at the thought! Mortification struck her instantly. She should neither mock the childless woman, nor the gift of life itself, even if the idea of being bred like livestock was repugnant … she touched her stomach fearfully, invoking the ancient blessing, ‘guard this belly, guard this womb, guard the fruit of life’s great loom.’

“Is that what they’ll do with my Dragon?”

Her plaintive question earned her another gentle frown. Yinzi made a superstitious gesture and spat on the rushes beside the bed. “That Blue lizard has beguiled and blinded you with his powers, Hualiama. Tell me you grasp his devious ways. No? Your mind must be acutely sensitive. That’ll be a definite boon when you follow in the mighty footsteps of your mother. Can you do magic without Dragon blood, chicklet? Can you? Are you the one we’ve been waiting–”

“SILENCE, YOU BABBLING FOOL.”

Azziala! Lia startled, wrenching her neck.

In a flash the large woman knelt, head bowed to the rushes. The Empress growled, “If your work is done, Yinzi, return to your duties. I would speak with my daughter.”

Her tone made the midwife’s dismissal clear. Yinzi fled.

How had Azziala entered the chamber without her hearing? Lia knew she had slept for some interminable period after being interrogated for an hour before being summarily removed from the Chamber of Counsel, as Azziala referred to their meeting-place. The meal she had eaten in this room had contained unfamiliar herbs. How long had she slumbered? Had they drugged her? Were they planning to perform some horrific Dragon-Hater ritual that would turn her into one of them?

More upset than she cared to admit, Lia snapped, “You clothe your Dragonships in Dragon hide? Truly?”

The golden face remained serene, despite the tension so thick between them, it seemed to flow and crackle like cooling lava. “Of course, child. Our hold over a captive lizard is absolute. Once the command-hold is established by a Dragon Enchanter, a Dragon will do his bidding without question, be that to peel off his own hide, destroy his soul-bonded companion or fly headlong into a cliff.”

“You don’t fly them in battle?”

“What for? Lizards are too treacherous to be trusted, even as helpless slaves to an Enchantress. And who would grant them the glories of battle promised in the Seventh Protocol? I’ll be glad to capture these other Dragons you’ve promised us. They’ll be helpless fodder. You see, the Eastern lizards have developed skills that allow them to resist our powers. Dramagon said we would be tested, and we are. Those vicious animals raid our villages, steal our livestock and murder our children. But your precious Dragons of Gi’ishior have no such resistance.”

“Which you established by travelling to Gi’ishior,” Hualiama realised aloud.

“Aye. Those who would Ascend must prove themselves worthy.”

All within her was turmoil as wild as the storm which had driven her Dragonship from Merx to the Eastern Archipelago. This woman feared nothing. She feared not to walk the very Halls of Gi’ishior, despite her heritage and powers. The Dragons must have known. No wonder the Lost Islanders had removed her chains and not replaced them. A person who exerted absolute dominion over Dragons could hardly fear one girl, Dragonfriend or none. How could she hope to escape the jaws of this trap she had willingly entered?

Azziala’s eyes glittered as though she were privy to Lia’s fears. “I stole from the Halls of the Dragons the secret lore of Dragon blood–a branch of
ruzal
called
dorzallith
in the
old tongue, or ‘the way of inheritance’.”

“And gained a child.”

“Who lacks the most elementary respect!” Seizing the front of her daughter’s tunic top, the Enchantress shook her violently. “That fool Yinzi presumes to teach my daughter precepts about which she knows not the first iota. Address me with respect–”

“Respect? Unholy windrocs, you abandoned me to Ianthine!”

No inhuman strength, nor the fear searing her gut, could keep Hualiama from screaming right back in her mother’s face.

Azziala spat, “You will join your people, or die.”

“If you hurt Grandion–”

“Your precious lizard?” she sneered. “You’re incredible! You come riding in on the breeze, blow up five airships and destroy half of our cargo bays, and you think we’re just going to cosy up, make friends and let you go? Child, I’m not here to bargain with you. Nowhere in this Island-World can you ride a Dragon without paying the penalty, but especially not here in the Lost Islands.”

Clamping Hualiama’s cheeks with her free hand, Azziala peered into her eyes. After a moment, she shook her head. “Plain as suns-light. The child of my flesh could not be less the child of my spirit! Well, we’ll soon remedy that. You’ll learn my true power, and join us heart and soul.”

“Let my Dragon go, and I’ll–”

“No craven bargains will be tolerated here.” The dark blue eyes appeared to moisten unexpectedly, before she hurled Lia back against the bed. “Whelp of a windroc! You’ve no choice, my dear, long-lost daughter. There is no Scroll of Binding. It was stolen by the Maroon Dragoness when she stole you. Of course I bargained with that lizard. Of all of their hell-spawn, that one is the closest to understanding our ways. She gave me words; with the words, we are able to extract Dragon powers from their blood and feed ourselves. Feeding ourselves, we become strong. Becoming strong, we shall overcome!”

Dragon blood was the source of their power. It turned their skins this peculiar golden colour …

Lia shuddered in concert with her mother, who seemed gripped by some unholy ecstasy. The woman was mad–either power-mad, or simply insane. She could not make sense of the emotions sparking and raging within Azziala. What she had learned so far was too patchy to draw conclusions, or even to stitch together into a coherent picture. She had only succeeded in throwing accusations at her mother, she recognised now. She blew hot air across rock instead of mining for truths that might point a way out of this vortex of hate.

Her own emotions seemed dangerously unstable and untrustworthy. One moment she wanted to weep, the next, she wanted to pounce upon her mother with her claws bared and fangs agape … but for poor Grandion. She had to help Grandion.

Quaking, she said, “Mother, I will agree to–”

“Empress!” roared Azziala, striking Lia backhanded across the cheek in a ghastly repetition of what King Chalcion had done; only, Lia saw the blow early and chose to receive it. Physical abuse had no hold over her any longer. She was stronger than that girl, and it must have shown in the steel of her gaze as she refused to flinch, even though her cheek exploded with heat and she tasted blood in her mouth.

Perversely, Azziala seemed to approve. She said, “Until your mettle has been proved in the Reaving, I’m no mother of yours. I’ve a better idea. Would you care to see your father?”

Hualiama sat down with a bump. “He’s alive? Ra’aba’s alive?”

A hateful smile proclaimed Azziala’s pleasure at her reaction. “Aye, Ra’aba’s alive. Want to talk with him?”

F
ouR times a
day, the Dragon Enchanters came to renew the command-hold. “Dragon, obey. You are our slave. These are your instructions.”

The Tourmaline Dragon knew only contentment. He knew to eat and grow fat on the rancid, fatty meat of a large quadruped the Islanders called orrican, shaggy beasts well suited to the blasting cold that sometimes swept through the caverns. He heard other Dragons come and go, some weakened by the process called harvesting, but he thought nothing of it. There were no questions to be asked. He had the warmth of a roost and other Dragons for companionship.

In the pre-dawn hours as the magic-induced haze over his mind weakened, the Dragon dreamed of one who spoke gently to him, a sprite with hair like fire and laughter that reminded him of tumbling through the air in joyous play. On the third day they found him perched in a cave mouth, and two Dragon Enchanters led him back to his broken pen with many unkind words and additional commands.

“He is strong, this one,” said a male voice.

“He resists our commands, Kaynzo. The Empress should harvest him, and soon, by the Tenth Protocol. What’s she waiting for?”

“Don’t question the Fire of the Dawn, Jurizzak,” cautioned Kaynzo, sanctimoniously. “She penetrates all, even the innermost thoughts of our minds. Cleansing will follow.”

“Should we add command stations for the night? We could consult the Interpretations for guidance.”

“Bah. My nights are better occupied–”

Jurizzak snorted, “Warming the furs with golden Xerzia? Mind she doesn’t harvest your brain cells, boy. Me, I’d give my gonads for a run at that foreign girl, lizard-lover or none. Killed my brother.” In a voice grown thick and moody, he said, “When the Reaving’s done, she’ll be one of the High Ones. Best kill her before–”

“Jurizzak! Shut your fumarole!” Kaynzo gasped.

“Too Ninth Protocol for you, boy? Revenge is a sacred duty. I’ll flay that Hualiama with my own skinning knife–”

HUUUAAALLLIIIAAAMAA!

The Dragon Enchanters whirled as the Dragon bugled her name. The Dragon felt blood as warm as his satisfaction spurt over his talons. Sweet.

The one called Kaynzo babbled, “Dragon, obey! Dragon, obey!”

He obeyed the instinct to destroy those who would eliminate the beautiful laughter. Then, the Dragon returned to his pen, and let his own bloodthirsty mirth thunder out over the Dragons crammed into a cave far beneath a cold mountain. He sniffed out a haunch of meat, and ate until he was replete.

* * * *

Ra’aba. Father. Would-be throne-stealer and murderer. What did one say to such a man?

Thoughts mobbed Hualiama as though her mind were fresh kill ripe for the carrion birds. She had imagined this moment a thousand times, yet found herself unprepared. Mute. Punch-drunk, even, in the way of a former warrior-monk apprentice who had fetched one too many blows around her aching skull. Too much was happening at once. Perhaps this was Azziala’s plan, to traumatise and scar her daughter, to take away her Dragon-companion and her freedoms, to mould Hualiama into whatever this despicable mother desired her to be?

The Empress was petite, but not as petite as Lia. They stood before Ra’aba’s barred cell door, the mother’s hand on Lia’s shoulder in a familiar gesture that made her skin crawl. Within, a solid metal grating separated the chamber into two halves, one half occupied by two of the gold-skinned Enchantresses, and the other, by a shattered husk of a man.

She would not have known him, save for the distinctive scar on his left cheek. It remained unchanged.

“What does this to a man?” Lia breathed.

“Torture,” said Azziala. “It’s what I do to those who oppose my will. Go speak to your father, girl. For certain you’ll find the experience instructive.”

A soldier unlocked the door. The Empress’ hand impelled Hualiama within. She was dimly aware of Azziala moving on, her retinue of councillors accompanying her. Both men and women could be Enchanters, she had learned, but the men worked with the lower magical functions specified by the Protocols–enchanting Dragons, husbanding the crops, hunting and mining and the like. The Enchantresses were more powerful, dominating their Island society from their positions in leadership and warfare. The magic users comprised the highest class. The middle class were men and women like Yinzi, who had a craft or skill lauded by the Protocols. The lowest class were menial workers and soldiers. Where did villagers fit into this structure?

Ra’aba continued to rock back and forth in a corner where he had built himself a meagre nest of furs. His gaunt face peeked at her. The grossly distorted knuckles of his right hand hugged his knees like gnarled roots wrapped about a boulder. His whimpering rose and fell, as though he wanted to sing, but could not find words to express his brokenness. Of the powerful, lithe swordsman who had fought his daughter for the Onyx Throne, no trace remained. How had he survived?

Appalled, Lia began to weep.

She hated herself for weeping over this man. Yet for all his evil, he remained her father.

Glancing up, Ra’aba cringed. “No, not thee, Enchantress,” he mumbled. “Come to torture old Ra’aba? What’s left? Not even his teeth. Crushed them with pliers, see? All these stumps in my mouth, I should be a woodsman.” Ra’aba sank what remained of his teeth into the knuckles of that ruined hand. “I won’t speak! You can’t make me! Didn’t you steal it all already? Vile Enchantress. Slug spit to your vile
ruzal
, I hope it eats you from the inside like cancer.” Blood trickled over his fingers. Feebly, he cried, “Get away from me! Vixen! Spawn of a goat …”

“Father, don’t,” Lia whispered.

His head cocked to one side like a fowl regarding a tasty worm. “Father? What trickery is this?”

“Father, it’s me. Hualiama.”

“Lia? Nooooo … she’s dead. Never lived. She hurt me. Then the Dragons, oh mercy, the Dragons and the burning, so much burning …”

“Father.”

“She isn’t here. No. Can’t be–run away!” His abrupt, spittle-flecked shriek made her jump. “Flee while you can. Too late, oh, too late. Pity you. Despair, despair, despair, little one.”

“Father, it’s me. Lia, not Azziala. Focus on my voice.”

“Lia? Little Lia?” Standing, he began to shuffle toward her, hunched over like a wounded windroc. He sobbed, “Forgive me … no!” The voice changed again, his mood shifting like clouds racing over the suns. “You’re lying. I see you there, with your Enchantress’ eyes.”

“Father, I need to know what happened back at Gi’ishior.”

“They questioned me, those Dragons. So many Dragons. Always the burning. Burned my thoughts right out of me, don’t you see?” He squinted up at her, the left eye focussed, the right rolling wildly in its socket, repeating ‘don’t you see’ numerous times. Spittle dangled from the corner of his lower lip.

“Father, about my birth–”

“Lia? Little Lia? A prophecy, aye–I must kill you!”

Suddenly, he charged at the bars. A paralysis birthed in horror kept her immobile for a second too long; too late, she realised Ra’aba had been stalking her with the cunning of a wounded rajal. The grotesque hands clamped about her neck with a measure of the inhuman strength Ra’aba had enjoyed before. Lia chopped down with the tough edges of her hands, but his madness multiplied that grip. She could not break it. He shook her, bruised her lips against the cold metal.

The two Enchantresses spoke in concert, “Back!”

Ra’aba reeled as though struck, but did not release his chokehold.

“Back!”

A sliver of tooth popped out of his mouth, followed by a gobbet of blood. Freed, Hualiama stumbled backward, holding her throat.

Her father began to cackle, “Afraid of old Ra’aba, are we? I’ve the strength of a Dragon!” And his cackles continued, eerie gasps of mirth that made the Princess of Fra’anior imagine maniacs dancing across her grave, such was the soul-lost chill it evoked in her spirit. Evidently she was not the only one, for one of the Enchantresses cursed and lashed out with her magic, only to be stilled by the other. Panting, they faced Ra’aba. Magic stung Lia’s senses. The laughter choked. He turned purple as they cut off his air supply.

“Enough,” Lia rasped. The women glared at him, identical stares from identical golden faces. “He’s suffered enough.”

One said, “No Cloudlands ocean of suffering is enough for one of his ilk.”

She only calmed Ra’aba after a considerable effort. He kept pawing at his throat and cursing the Enchantresses and the Lost Islands and Azziala in particular with curses so vile and sordid, Hualiama could barely bring herself to listen–but listen she did, in the hope of learning something new.

At length, when she judged the man somewhat returned to reason, she said, “Ianthine insisted that you were my father, Ra’aba. Is that true?”

Ra’aba hunched in his corner, and groaned, “Child of the Dragon. Child of the–”

“I have to be the child of a Human man and woman,” said Lia, trying to force the deep distress out of her voice. “Human seed and Dragon soul-fire cannot mingle. Thousands of years and Dramagon’s foulest abominations attest to that truth. Yet both you and Azziala claim I am your child, or that I may be, or am not. Why deny it? What’s the truth, Ra’aba? I’ve a right to know.”

“Rights?” The maniacal laughter belled out again. “You don’t want to know. You can’t handle the truth, little Lia.”

His use of her hated nickname sealed the matter. Anger fizzed in her veins. Between clenched teeth, she hissed, “I have to know, Ra’aba. If it’s the only good thing you do in this life, do good now. Speak the truth.”

“Confusion, conundrum, mystery so humdrum,” he cackled.

“The truth!”

“Little Lia doesn’t like puzzles?”

Before she knew it,
ruzal
slithered out from beneath the barricades she had built with such care and patience.
Speak!
she commanded.

The two watching Dragon-Haters exchanged glances. Lia groaned. Oh for Grandion to sit on her chest for that mistake! Now, Azziala would hear of her abilities, of that she had no doubt. Ra’aba began to slam his head against the bars, over and over, each blow like a sickening strike of a gong. The Human Princess looked to the Enchantresses, stricken, but the identical gestures of their left hands informed her that this was normal behaviour. Slowly, his guttural moans resolved into intelligible speech.

“Get him out, out, out,” he snuffled. “Don’t hurt me again, Dragon. Don’t make me do it. I’m a sick man, so sick, I can’t get him out of my head … make it stop, please, someone help me.”

This speech descended into meaningless babble, before being repeated with a greater level of distress than before. After the fourth time, unable to bear his misery any longer, Lia burst out, “Who? Who’s making you do it, father?”

“Him. The Dragon. Him. The–”

“Razzior?”

Ra’aba nodded, the words seemingly obstructed in his throat.

As she had guessed! Dragons could dominate and possess Human minds and bodies–nobody could know that better than her. Razzior had done the same to Ra’aba, not a simple projection as Grandion could do, but the whole Island. Body and soul. She could only imagine the opportunities for a Dragon of Razzior’s skill in the art of
ruzal
. Had the Orange Dragon secretly controlled his fellows, through the vessel of Ra’aba? Mercy.

Aaaaa-ooooo-aaah!
Ra’aba keened, taking up his rocking again.

After some minutes of this, he looked up between his fingers, childlike yet guileful. “He made me do it.” His manner changed again, becoming furtive. “He made me. Twisted me like a hawser, see?” Licking his lips, Ra’aba said, “He made me do it to them.”

“Them?” she echoed dully.

“Forty-seven of them,” said Ra’aba, eyeballing her with the lustful glee of one who revelled in knowing exactly how much damage his words would wreak. “Forty-seven women. Azziala was one of many. So strong. So … worthwhile.”

“Monster!” shouted the Enchantress who had lost control before.

Ra’aba only laughed. “Some, I kept captive for years. Shall I tell you how it felt, little Lia? Razzior made me. I had no choice. He lived through me.”

Hualiama found herself shaking the bars, shouting incoherently, but Ra’aba simply kept laughing at her with that sickening, draconic smile lingering on his lips. “Oh, how the truth sears, sears her soul, the conundrum always grows, and here it comes–she cannot be Ra’aba’s child. Devastated, little Lia? Traumatised? Better I stuck that Immadian forked dagger in your gut than hear this, eh?”

The old double puncture marks on her abdomen and the huge crescent scar on her back throbbed as though freshly opened. Ra’aba had been right. She had opened the cesspit and jumped right in, with her obstinate desire to understand her heritage. But she could not believe him. Lia shook her head repeatedly.

She insisted, “It had to be you, Ra’aba. There was no one else.”

“Forty-seven, not counting the willing ones,” he chuckled. “I kept track, see? Ra’aba never sired another child, not by any woman. Azziala’s a liar. It must’ve been someone else.”

“You’re infertile? But there’s still a chance, surely …”