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!
Y
olathion 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.