Dragonlove (47 page)

Observing her reaction minutely, her mother said, “This privilege is not for you, child. Not yet.”

Freaking feral Dragons! Lia flinched. Since when had she developed a taste for–oh. Since the Reaving.

The Enchantresses received their chalices in solemn procession, before turning toward each other, chanting, “We drink. We feed. May our portion increase!” They quaffed their drinks with evident satisfaction.

Azziala said, “Join hands. You too, child.”

Feyzuria protested, “Is she ready? The imprint cannot have … aye, Highness.”

Imprint? So the Reaving had a sinister motive–or a loving one, depending on one’s perspective. What did that mean? How was she expected to behave? Lia cautioned herself inwardly as she joined hands with Azziala on her right and Feyzuria on her left, completing a circle of ten, with four Enchantresses absent. An eerie force rippled around the circle, akin to Dragons’ telepathic speech, she realised. But Lia had to snatch her hands away, yelping as a shock like lightning struck her palms.

“Sorry.” She wrung her hands.

“Come, Hualiama,” Azziala encouraged. “Feyzuria, I know what you’re thinking. I suspect my heir will prove remarkably adept at this skill, as she is at much else.”

Lia frowned at the threat veiled within her mother’s compliment. Grasping the dry palms either side of her, she closed her eyes, and found a mental representation of the group waiting for her. At once, one of the women, Gyrthina by name, showed them the results of her investigation. Lia saw a village razed, as if massive worms had erupted out of the ground beneath the low log-built lodges, tossing them about like kindling, before Dragon fire had scorched the remains. No living thing remained.

A migraine blossomed between her temples as the narrative deepened, adding layers of meaning to clarify her confusion. Their telepathic communication was so different to the draconic method. Less efficient, Hualiama noted privately, but multiplied to dizzying proportions by the presence of ten. One Enchantress noted that the Lost Islands had four different types of Dragons. Another put in, with accompanying images, ‘Burrowers, Grunts, Overminds and the Swarm.’ Information blossomed at the touch of Lia’s intellect. All four Dragon types were subclasses of Lesser Dragons. Grunts were massively armoured with what one of the Enchantresses pictured as great ridges of metallic hide, virtually impenetrable. They were so heavy that a fully-grown adult could barely fly a league. New data flickered past her awareness. Tonnage. Wingspan. Lifespan. Strategies to combat … her mind leaped. Overminds controlled the other three types. They were smallish Dragons, mostly of a Jade colour with a smattering of Browns and Blues, possessing telepathic capabilities similar to the Humans’ own, the goal of Dramagon’s breeding experiments. The Overminds were long and serpentine in the body, with four wings rather than two, and short, stubby legs that made them appear much more lizard-like than Grandion. They shied from combat, leaving that to their minions.

Knowledge poured into her. Hualiama staggered, but Azziala squeezed her hand, steadying. “Control the flow.” She barely heard, occupied with accessing population numbers and maps and invasion plans for the Eastern Archipelago and rosters of soldiers and logistical arrangements–the levels of available detail seemed endless. Each Enchantress had her specialties and responsibilities. They documented nothing, storing it all in the minds of their people, as if each Enchanter or Enchantress were a walking archive of lore and information.

The Burrowers were short, stubby Brown Dragons with massively oversized forepaws which gave them a mole-like appearance. As Gyrthina flashed up images of a different village under attack, Hualiama realised how powerful they were. Writhing Dragons exploded out of the ground, ripping half of the village off the edge of an Island and tossing it into the abyss.

Ruzal
flickered beneath Hualiama’s shields, rising in response to the minds surrounding her, dark, calculating minds bent on the Dragons’ destruction. So much hate! The concerted labours of an Island-nation working toward the Dragons’ downfall!

Unconsciously, her tone mimicked their hatred as Hualiama arrested the circle, demanding, “Why do I stand accused?”

Was this her? The new, Reaved Hualiama?

“Show her,” Azziala intoned.

A single image stabilised amidst the chaos. Lia bit her lip sharply. The Dragons had left a personal note, constructed in runic script made of charred bodies and timbers from the former village. It said, ‘Hand over the Dragonfriend, or perish.’

She tore away from the circle, panting, quivering as though she hung once more, naked and defenceless, in the mountain’s arctic cold. Her stomach heaved. She could not prevent it, stumbling to the firepit to expurgate the remains of her last meal. Though she was not part of the circle, the Princess of Fra’anior sensed their approval. Aye, the imprint was working. She gagged again, fighting to swallow down the lurking, power-hungry
ruzal,
which sang to her spirit the ability to one day conquer these women, to seize power for herself, to rule over Dragons and Humans alike, for she had the gift and the power … desperate to distract their attention, Lia lashed out with an image of Fra’anior thundering amidst his storm. The Enchantresses threw up their hands and cried out in momentary terror.

“Leave me alone,” she muttered, sickened by what she had glimpsed within herself. This was the Dragonfriend? This twisted, greedy, grasping thing?

“What light does the Dragonfriend shed upon these developments?” asked Shazziya, unmindful or uncaring of Lia’s debility. Her tone made it clear that using the title ‘Dragonfriend’ was a personal swipe at Azziala.

“Razzior,” said Lia.

Feyzuria said, “Razzior? He can’t be here. None of our intelligence indicates it.”

“Yet the pattern of the attack is new,” said Gyrthina. “The lizards have never acted in such a coordinated fashion before.”

“Can you show me?” asked Lia.

“None lived, who observed the attack,” replied the Enchantress.

The mental link touched Lia again. Judiciously, she imbibed their knowledge, noting how they could trace Dragons over vast distances–especially the movement of large numbers of Dragons, by the magical wash or disturbance they generated in the fabric of the Island-World. Feyzuria in particular was adept at tracking Dragons. She saw them as rippling lights, as if the Dragons were the aurora of the far north she had read about. But none of these Enchantresses had detected Grandion’s approach, a tiny counterpoint voice pointed out in her mind. She saw two groups. One had to be Razzior and his kin, hurtling in a flat-out sprint for the Lost Islands. Behind them, Sapphurion and his Dragonwing?

“If the level of co-ordination and precision execution you posit from the evidence is true, my instinct would identify Razzior as the culprit,” said the engineer within Hualiama, coolly. “Are you certain–”

“Quite,” said Feyzuria. “Highness, there must be a link.”

Lia growled, “I was not aware of chatting to the Dragons on that mountaintop, Feyzuria, unless those Overminds detected your little showpiece. Magic isn’t as predictable as you think.”

“Insolent puppy!” spat the old women.

Aye. She had learned conversational tactics from a Dragon.

The Empress’ psyche jabbed them both, not gently. “We’re in a war situation. The intelligence my daughter shared with us is rapidly becoming clear. Two mighty Dragonwings approach. Feyzuria, revisit our detailed preparations lest our Dragon Enchanters be overwhelmed by the sheer number of lizards as they approach. We must assume these Dragons, mortal enemies or none, will band together to overrun us–for they fear us enough.”

Lia observed the ebb and flow of the mental conversation with interest. So the Dragon Enchanters could be overwhelmed? Swarmed, as the name suggested? Establishing a command-hold took time, she ascertained from another Enchantress’ brain. Those minutes could be vital. Feyzuria pinged off mental commands to her subordinates to file new reports, to check the defences and disposition of the troops and to inspect the Dragon holding pens–mercy, how many Dragons did they keep, on how many Islands? At the speed of thought, Lia sourced Grandion’s location. She reviewed the feedback from Enchanters tasked with long-range Dragon tracking, and had to admit, the two groups were distinct. Could Sapphurion be chasing Razzior? Or was the Orange Dragon playing a deeper game?

Azziala recaptured Lia’s hand. “So, daughter. Found out all that you need to know?” The Empress’ eyes glittered with magic as she skewered her daughter with the import of her question.

“Just overawed, honestly,” Lia spluttered. “I had no idea–”

“How powerful we are?”

Everything, she wanted to say. Magic. Power harvested from drinking Dragons’ blood. Command but a thought away. Lia was aware of the other Enchantresses focussing inward, directing the activities of the nation as if they plinked stones into a pond, the ripples spreading outward seemingly forever. Somehow, the cold calculation of this mental machine terrified her more than the sight of Shinzen’s giants rampaging across an Island–they were yet to come, she reminded herself. Here were two opposed forces which could turn the Island-World upon its axis.

Time to pull no punches.

She said, “So, mother, I do know one way to advance our cause.”

“Oh?”

“Why don’t we consult the Maroon Dragoness?” Lia turned her most ingenuous smile on Azziala. “You were planning to tell me about Ianthine, weren’t you, mother?”

She hoped to shock Azziala, but the perverse maternal pride her goading provoked was more shocking by far. The golden visage cracked into an openly avaricious grin. She said, “Oh, we’re not quite the ingénue we pretend to be, are we, my little star? Very good. Let’s you and I go question the Dragoness about your unexpected flair for the dark pathways of
ruzal
, shall we?”

Despair turned her hopes to ashes. Lia knew she was embroiled in a battle for her soul.

W
HY, AFTER ESCAPING
from her prison in the Spits, would Ianthine choose to return to the Lost Islands? This question throbbed foremost in Lia’s aching head as she walked with her mother to the Dragon holding pens, many levels down into the bowels of her underground stronghold. Was this Ianthine’s cunning in action? It had to be deliberate. What did she stand to gain? If the Maroon Dragoness knew she would be enslaved, the reward must be commensurate with the sacrifice, according to most draconic logic–but Ianthine was no ordinary Dragoness. She was a maverick. A loner. Quite possibly insane.

Ianthine was also the only Dragon Azziala had referred to with a modicum of respect. Hualiama puzzled away at the similarities she sensed between her mother and the Dragoness as they traversed a floor of extensive Dragonship engineering works–preparations for war roaring along twenty-nine hours a day–creating a ripple of stiff, respectful bows. Lia was dressed in an old tunic top, dark leggings and a deep blue robe borrowed from Azziala’s trunk of cast-offs, with her Nuyallith blade belted at her right hip. Time and again, the Islanders they encountered mistook her for the Empress, before taking in her wealth of white-blonde hair and doing a double take. Not encouraging for someone who might be planning to skulk in a few dark corners …

The ripe, spicy odour of many Dragons corralled in close quarters attacked Hualiama’s nostrils as they took a cage-lift down a further eight levels to the holding pens.

“To your right, the harvesting pens,” said Azziala, playing the guide.

Disguising how dizzy she felt, Lia coolly watched two Dragon Enchanters tapping into the artery of a Red Dragon’s wing–a Red of the southern Archipelago Dragons, she realised, as sleek as Mizuki and half as large again. He stood by stolidly as his golden blood spurted into a large bucket.

“We ration a litre per day per Dragon Enchanter,” Azziala said. “Five litres each for the Empress and her Councillors. We require no further sustenance.”

Lia nodded. “And the incantation–”

“Draws out the Dragon’s magic and binds it into the blood,” her mother explained. “The process is key to
dorzallith
and the mainstay of our power. Aye, it weakens the Dragon and eventually kills him. We keep our stocks fresh. As you saw, my Dragonship fleet nears full readiness but there are many vessels yet to clothe in lizard-skin.”

A fate worse than death for Dragons, drained of magic as though they were no better than sagging wineskins. “Aye mother.”

This test she would not fail. Raising her chin and denying her incipient tears, Lia followed in her mother’s footsteps. They passed many pens, open chambers separated by iron frames and thick stone archways that gave the vast, low underground cavern an air similar to the dungeon beneath King Chalcion’s palace. Lia learned that the caverns had been dug out by captured Burrowers, but Azziala dismissed their usefulness for harvesting. Too small and weak. Remembering how the Dragons had overturned the Human village, she could not agree.

“I believe you know this beast,” said Azziala.

Hualiama had half-expected such a test, but assumed Azziala would not risk the fate of her two slain Dragon Enchanters. “Oh, Grandion,” she said, as neutrally as possible, but she could not disguise the warmth that rushed to her cheeks at the sight of the Tourmaline Dragon, nor the sweet clenching sensation deep in her belly. “He looks well. Sleek.”

“We do not name the reptiles. Names carry power,” Azziala warned, watching her charge narrowly. “Watch. Beast, this is Hualiama. Do you remember her?”

Before she could blink, the Dragon’s entire ninety-foot length tensed up, shuddering with pent-up power. His belly-fires roared as if thunder rolled in the distance, muted.

“DRAGON, BE STILL!” the Empress snapped, lashing out with her magic. Grandion subsided.

With all her heart, she would have run to her Dragon, but Lia caught sight of an additional posse of Dragon Enchanters observing the encounter from the shadows beneath one of the archways. They were taking no chances with Grandion. Could she conclude that he remained strong?

“Our command-hold upon these beasts is absolute,” Azziala continued, her dark blue eyes unblinking. “Dragon, prepare to tear out your first heart.”

Grandion unsheathed his claws and raised his forepaw to his throat.

“No,” Hualiama breathed, dipping her gaze.

“What was that, daughter?”

Her voice faltered. “We’ll need his strength in the upcoming war, mother.”

“You seem disturbed.”

“Unnecessary bloodshed always disturbs me.” Hualiama hardened her jaw. “We can use this beast as leverage against his shell-father. Come. The Maroon Dragoness can offer us more. I’m convinced of it.”

If she practised the ways and the language of hatred, it became easier. How could her pure white-fires coexist with the shadow of
ruzal?
That was the question she had for Ianthine. She had never learned the vile magic. It simply existed.

Hualiama preceded her mother down the hay-strewn corridor leading between the Dragon pens, listening to the conversation of dull, defeated beasts all around. Comments on the quality and quantity of meat they had consumed. Wishes for flight and fresh air, or battle. Gi’ishior’s vitality of draconic community was utterly absent. These were herd animals, being milked for their lives.

At the cave’s end, massive stone doors guarded egress to the frozen night and presumably, protected the caves from attack. Hualiama risked only the briefest glance at the doors’ mechanisms. Azziala’s regard burned the nape of her neck, making Lia picture a cobra salivating over a tasty rat.

Her mother’s voice formed in her mind. “Aye. You sense the lizard, don’t you?”

Wary of Azziala’s telepathic powers, Lia returned, “Last cell on the left. Is she subject to a command-hold, like the others?”

“Aye.”

But there were no additional Dragon Enchanters to subjugate Ianthine, if needed? Almost instantaneously, a command issued from her mother’s mind, summoning a dozen Enchanters at the behest of the heir to the throne.

The Empress’ depthless eyes, shadowed to the point of blackness, fixed upon Lia. “Allow me to teach you the command structures, daughter dearest. Say, ‘Dragon, obey’.”

“Give me the knowledge.”

Her counter-challenge brought a touch of a smile to Azziala’s lips. “Here.” A mental touch sufficed to convey what she needed to know, although Lia might have bet half of Fra’anior’s jewels that the information was incomplete. Some secrets must remain the Empress’.

Suppressing a crazy urge to dance around the final column–wishing to cast aside necessary inhibitions–Lia stepped forward to face Ianthine. Six years became as a moment. Here was the monstrous Dragoness, almost rivalling Yukari for bulk, still blighted and unsightly, powerful and … enchained? Perplexed, Hualiama took a moment to assemble the knowledge she required. What part had
ruzal
played in a Human baby’s life? Was she
ruzal
-spawn, as her own father and others had accused her? Only Ianthine knew the truth. This was a Dragoness notorious for her cunning, one of a race of creatures who prized cunning and practised it with their every breath.

Instinctively, Lia moved to the commands. “Dragon, obey. Positive identifier required: Hualiama of Fra’anior.”

“Princess Hualiama.” Ianthine’s dry whisper echoed in the chamber. “It has been too long.”

From the corner of her eye, the royal ward saw Azziala’s hand twitch with readiness. Aye. Her mother also knew this for a strange answer from a Dragoness subject to the command-hold. Defying the shadows that perversely seemed to collect around Ianthine’s ulcerated bulk, her eye blazed darkly orange, bursting with the fires of Dragon life and power.

The Human girl wet her lips. “Dragon, answer my questions.”

“Yours to command, freshly anointed heir of these accursed rocks,” sneered the Dragoness.

“DRAGON, OBEY!” Azziala snapped. Was that a note of panic?

“As you command, Highness,” Ianthine bowed her great muzzle in mock-subservience. Or was it? Tenuous as the magic’s control over her might be, that was all they could rely upon.

“Dragon, do you still hold that Ra’aba is my father?”

“Is it still scarred?” The Dragon sniffed toward her. “Ah, it slithers within, delicious, delicate, devious
ruzal.
”

“Aye or nay, Ianthine!”

“So similar to the mother, it is.” Ianthine cocked her head playfully, as a Dragon hatchling might during a game of wingtips. “Did she tell you about the twin? Which is the mother?”

“Silence, Dragon!” Azziala ordered.

“Now she won’t answer anything,” Hualiama pointed out, placing a quelling hand upon her mother’s arm. “Dragon, obey. Is Ra’aba my father?”

“One must have a Human father.” Ianthine tapped her foreclaw thrice, an ancient form of Dragonish agreement. “He scarred thee. He sired thee. One must know, who stole the seed from–”

“Silence, Dragon!”

Frustration boiled out of Lia. “Mother! Shall we ask our questions or not?” Mercy! And the implications … that was another issue. That whole stinking Dragonship-full of windroc entrails would have to wait. “Dragon, obey. Answer my questions. What became of the Scroll of Binding? Was it truly stolen, as you said?”

The fires danced in Ianthine’s eye, mocking. “Aye, it was stolen.”

“Stolen by whom?”

“Ianthine.”

“Roaring rajals, answer my question honestly, Dragoness!” The Maroon Dragoness’ chuckle, awash with malevolence, stilled the other Dragons nearby. Lia fought for calm. “Who stole it first?”

“Ianthine.”

“What is the Scroll of Binding?”

“A scroll of Dragon lore said to outline the knowledge of–”

“I know that. Did you read it?”

“In part.”

“Outline one of those parts for me.”

“I’ve forgotten.”

Azziala cursed unhappily, but Lia found her mind racing back over the information she knew, the conniving ways of Dragons, identifying and discarding possibilities … her mother might be stymied, but her daughter had reserves of stubbornness one could build an Island’s foundations upon. “Dragon. Who wrote the Scroll of Binding?”

“It is unseen. Many generations of Dragons lived before Ianthine’s time. You have power, child. Spend it wisely.”

The exact phrase flung Hualiama six years back in time. Suddenly she saw herself in that stinking, faeces-smeared cavern, listening to Ianthine taunting her, Flicker and Grandion. Intuition struck her with the force of forked lightning. The Maroon Dragoness wanted to remind her of the bargain Lia had unwisely made. Did that bargain still hold? Further, Lia established the most likely source of her knowledge of
ruzal
–he whom the Lost Islanders worshipped as father, benefactor, law-giver and Human most noble.

Dramagon.

She had power. Knowledge was power. Knowledge was also peril.

Unconsciously, Lia’s left forefinger wrote a rune up her belt, beside where it had come to rest upon the hilt of her sword.
It is remembered,
the simple glyph stated. The Dragoness allowed fire to fill her mouth but kept it behind her fangs, then snuffed it out and blew the smoke aside from her visitors.

“Hualiama.” Azziala nudged her impatiently.

“Dragon, obey. Where is the scroll now?”

“Lost.”

“Where is the knowledge of the scroll?”

Ianthine’s eye-fires brightened as if Lia approached the nub of the matter at last. “The knowledge resides within the souls of all those who practice
ruzal.
You. Me. Ra’aba, Razzior …”

“Where would I find the greatest concentration of
ruzal
in this Island-World?”

Now, the brow-ridges drew down. “It is unseen.”

“Unseen, but clearly present,” the Fra’aniorian Islander retorted, recalling her tutelage at Grandion’s paw. “Knowledge is unseen … aye! Ianthine–” Azziala hissed at her usage of the Dragoness’ name “–confirm hypothesis: Ianthine stole the Scroll of Binding. She caused herself to forget its contents and even its location. When she flew to Gi’ishior with the babe, nothing could be proven during the Dragons’ interrogation, because self-evidently, Ianthine had forgotten everything to do with the Scroll.”

“Thus, it is forgotten,” agreed the Dragoness, examining her paws.

“Can it be un-forgotten?”

“A logical fallacy,” the Dragoness reproved her. “Complete forgetting implies a forgotten method of retrieval, otherwise there’s no point in forgetting.”

Azziala growled, “This is ridiculous double-talk! She stole the accursed Scroll before we could learn its secrets. Now she has forgotten everything? How propitious! We’ll learn nothing here, daughter.”

“No,” said Lia. “Ianthine did steal the Scroll of Binding.”

“Windroc droppings!”

Hualiama gritted her teeth. “Mother! Don’t you understand–I told you Ra’aba accused me of being born of
ruzal
, of being … oh, mercy! Oh no. Tell me it isn’t true. Mercy, mercy, mercy …”