Ri’arion closed his eyes. “Open your mind, Princess.”
Strength flooded into her almost instantaneously.
Can he afford this?
Aranya asked Zip.
He says he must afford it. Now, transform.
Many times, when driven to exhaustion or extremity, Aranya had found a transformation subtly more difficult than when she was well rested. Now, she wrestled with her fears. She searched within for the courage to summon her Dragon. The connection, so weak. The magic, showing only the faintest glimmer of life. Yet this would bring her one step closer to Ardan. One step closer to being able to confront Thoralian with real power at her command.
Aranya began to strip off her clothing, before pulling up with a curt inward rebuke. Yolathion was dying! Who was she to wait? Aranya wrenched herself past the point of no return.
A long, deep groan escaped her lips. Dredging up her magic from the most enigmatic recesses of her being, Aranya drew the Amethyst Dragon close, welcoming her to her old abode; yet should the wavering magic give way to nothingness … she quashed that idea. She could afford no self-doubt now.
Usually, a transformation proceeded at the speed of thought. This time it took an eternity, lingering in a quasi-complete state that threatened to become her new reality. More! More! Aranya mined deeper, despairing. Remember Izariela! Remember the Star Dragon, leading her home. Fra’anior, roaring at her … Thoralian’s gimlet-eyed enjoyment of her pain … the storm, surrounding her with elemental power. And that was where she found the power to break what needed to be broken, to burn away the last effects of the drugs and the magic-suppressing Lavanias collar, and to trigger her beguiling, transformative power.
Solidity!
Dragon-Aranya’s first exhalation was a thunderclap.
Zip pushed away from the wall, rubbing her ears. “Roaring rajals–well, we have a Dragon! My darling, petal, you’re back.”
Aranya stared at her paws. Oh, the faithful replication. Her scales were raddled and uneven–but undeniably a Dragon’s scales. And her magic was present, thrumming faintly in her veins as her triple Dragon-hearts took up their work. There was an expanding sensation, a knowledge of multiple stomachs and flight and deep wells of magic, of secret Dragon lore collected in the recesses of her mind, a crashing in of feedback from the ultra-sensitive senses of a Dragon, as if all was new and glorious, a world painted in fresh, vibrant colours … and oh! The scent of her friends, so well-remembered! A soft bugle of joy escaped her lips, swiftly stifled.
She had much to accomplish. Joy was premature.
Ignathion and Jia-Llonya brought the stretcher into the room and laid the young man down before her.
“Yolathion,” she whispered.
The Dragoness loomed over the Jeradian, taking in his condition with a Dragon’s eye for detail. As if stormy thunderheads swelled within her being, dark and distended with wind and hail, so her sorrow took form and developed. Poor, broken Yolathion. Bloody spittle flecked his lips. His cheeks, grey and sunken, moulded to his cheekbones as though a death’s-head had already begun to emerge from his dying flesh. The monks’ power had been insufficient to sustain him.
Aranya drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and said, “Yolathion, you did nothing to deserve this. It’s wrong. If you ever wondered, I did forgive you for throwing me off the Last Walk, for by doing your duty, you became an unwitting tool of destiny. I loved you dearly, with your silly Jeradian poetry and your handsome smile, and your character which knew no bending. We can all forgive you for seeking a solution that would keep your family alive. It was foolish, aye, but in a sweet, misguided way.”
She dared not look at Jia-Llonya as she eulogised the still-living. There was a tingling in her cheeks, a feeling akin to grit lodged in the corners of her eyes. Aranya recalled weeping for Zuziana. She clasped that feeling to her breast.
Give me strength, Izariela, to walk this road, even if it’s the wrong one for Yolathion. Grant him strength. Restore that which was lost.
“Now, Yolathion, you must live,” she said. “There’s one here who loves you more than I ever will, who would move the Islands but for your smile. Live for her. Live joyously.”
Aranya raised a talon to her eye, bringing away a tiny, glistening drop. One drop from each eye, no larger than a Human tear, but this was pure, distilled Amethyst Dragon power. So little? It would have to suffice.
Stretched out her paw, Aranya said, “Open his mouth.”
Jia-Llonya pressed against Yolathion’s clenched teeth. “He won’t.”
“Here.” With great care, Aranya inserted the tip of her talon between his teeth and twisted slightly, opening a quarter-inch gap. She tilted her paw. The shining droplet hesitated, as if having second thoughts of its own, before trickling down to vanish into his mouth.
She repeated the operation with her left foreclaw, and stepped back.
“What now?” asked Ignathion, his eyes agleam.
Yolathion’s throat worked. He took a shallow, labouring breath, and then lay still. No rattle from his chest. No pulse apparent in his neck. Utter, deathly silence enveloped the room. The Amethyst Dragon thought she saw a strange light rising from his body. A vision, or was this a man’s soul taking flight upon the winds of the Island-World?
Jia-Llonya pressed her knuckles against her mouth, stifling her sobs. Ignathion moved to place his arm around her, his massive shoulders hunched over with sorrow. “Is my son … is he …”
“No,” said Aranya, shivering. “Look. It has begun.”
Magic, luminous beneath his skin. Yolathion gulped air, his chest creaking like a blacksmith’s leather bellows.
He lived again.
* * * *
In the pale first light of the dawn following Aranya’s administration of the Dragon tears, the morning of their assault on Yorbik Island, Zuziana stared at her friend. “What the … Aranya? Is that you?”
“Nothing like a dye bath, Western Isles armour and a new hairstyle for disguise, is there?”
If Ardan were here …
Stow it, Zip-Zap. Indecent but effective is Nak’s motto. And the dye hides the worst of my blemishes.
“I’ll bet Nak declared himself well pleased with the result. Mount up, Rider.”
Zuziana craned her neck curiously as the now dark-skinned Princess of Immadia, clad in brief body armour, hair dyed black and braided tightly to her scalp, mounted up. Uncanny! She was far too skinny for a Western Isles warrior, all bone and sinew and a neat double row of abdominal muscles, but still–unless Thoralian’s magic could penetrate the disguise, no-one would know who her Rider was. Nak was full of surprises.
From the edge of the Dragonship’s upper platform, King Beran saluted them. “Fly strong and true, Dragon and Riders.”
Aranya mounted up behind Ri’arion in Zip’s double Dragon Rider saddle. Part of her wished her father would worry less, but it might be helped if he had a daughter who caused a heap less trouble. The monk twitched at her soft chuckle behind him.
“I asked Ri’arion to find the Pygmy bow for you,” said Zuziana, as the monk passed it to her. “I don’t understand, Aranya. It’s a less substantial weapon than the Fra’aniorian bows.”
“But it’s just as powerful, I can reload quicker, and the lack of length helps if I have to switch sides,” said Aranya. “But mostly, I like the association with the Pygmy Dragon. I’ve seen her–in a vision, at least, and Fra’anior did tell me to seek the Onyx.”
“Waving a Pygmy bow about isn’t going to satisfy the Great Dragon.”
Aranya scowled at Ri’arion’s dour certainty. “Then I’ll just smack you over the head with it, shall I? Let’s burn the heavens, Dragon.”
The Azure Dragon chose to launch off a smooth three step run-up, flexing her flight muscles so powerfully that her Riders were pressed back against her spine-spikes. She felt Aranya wriggling about, checking her weapons, double-checking her straps and buckles, plucking the bowstring restively. She felt the same way. Always, before battle, the back of her throat felt dry and a dull headache would develop, which vanished as soon as the action began.
Her gaze zoomed in on the crowded sky above the shipyard.
Do you want to see what I see, Aranya?
I’d be grateful.
Aranya’s mental touch was much less formidable than Ri’arion’s, but far more mysterious and nuanced, to Zuziana’s surprise. She knew Ri’arion had been working hard with her friend. The touch of Aranya’s mind was deft, silk to the monk’s steel, depthless and ever-shifting, reminding her of nothing more than the changeable vapours above Fra’anior’s caldera.
Oh mercy … oh, Zip. How many Dragonships?
I make it over two hundred,
said Ri’arion.
And if I read the situation correctly, I’d expect more surprises from inside Thoralian’s pit. That’s where he’s hiding, I’m convinced.
Zip’s Dragon-sight brought the shipyards into sharp relief. A towering stack of Dragonships drifted above the hills to the height of a league. At least thirty of the vessels had Dragons resting atop of them–Dragons too fat to fly, or just resting until they were needed. She narrowed her eyes. Those catapult emplacements had not grown any smaller or less numerous, nor had the ground defences done anything less than multiply in every conceivable direction, sprawling over the surrounding hillsides, manned in uncountable numbers by Sylakian troops. Ten thousand crimson robes? Twelve? They covered the ground like a bloody tide.
The ground forces, led by Kylara, had already been deployed the previous evening under cover of darkness, and had spent the night making a forced march to the shipyards.
Do you think Ardan made it inside?
Aranya asked, through the mind-meld.
Ri’arion shook his head.
Thoralian’s too tricky for that, I judge. But do I see Commander Darron’s fleet flying in from the north, Zip?
Aye. Ardan and Kylara must have reached them. And our Western Isles friends and Jeradian troops should be down there somewhere.
“Then it’s time to knock on the Sylakian door,” said the monk.
“I’d prefer to kick it in,” said Zip. “Fire arrows at the ready, Riders. Let’s go pick a quarrel.”
“And groan at the terrible pun,” said Aranya.
The Azure Dragoness made no attempt at concealment, flying straight for the stack of Sylakian Dragonships, high enough to take the ground emplacements out of the equation. Behind her, two oil pots caught aflame. The tailwind arising from Aranya’s storm brought the smell of smoke curling into nostrils. Zip gathered her power. To think she had once been just another child in the vast Remoyan royal brood, a petite Princess chosen largely for her lack of distinction, to be Remoy’s hostage in the Tower of Sylakia.
Now she soared as free as the winds.
She said, “Thank you for making me a Dragon, Aranya.”
Her friend chuckled in surprise. “You started the war on Sylakia. It was your idea.”
“Who burgled the Tower first?”
“Fine. Can we at least agree to share the blame?”
Zuziana accelerated to attack speed, over thirty leagues per hour. The Dragonships waited. They rocked on the breeze, but did not otherwise move, trusting in their massed firepower to down a lone Dragon.
“Shield,” said Ri’arion.
The Azure Dragon screamed a wild, ululating challenge.
* * * *
Every hair on Aranya’s arms and neck stood to attention as the Dragoness voiced her challenge. Such bestial hostility! With the benefit of Dragon sight, she saw the engineers readying their weapons, heard the rising shriek of the meriatite engines as they poured steam into the explosive gas canisters feeding the new-technology catapults. Through the mind-meld, she and Ri’arion picked targets at the speed of thought–the new dirigibles, of course, and ones with Dragons resting on top of them.
They were in for a flaming surprise.
Aranya swallowed. Approaching a battle of this magnitude in her Human form gave her a wholly new appreciation of her Dragon’s power. She felt antlike. The firepower massed against them was immense, far greater even than the fleet which had assailed Immadia. New, more powerful technology. Ground emplacements manned by over ten thousand troops. Thirty Dragons were ranged against them, and Thoralian himself lurked somewhere.
She remembered the soul-chilling blast of his breath, of his evil delight in her predicament. Could she find a way of bringing that lizard low and stealing his secrets? Otherwise, Izariela was as good as dead. Should it come down to a choice between Thoralian’s death and her mother’s doom … Aranya only prayed she would be steadfast of purpose. The Sylakian Emperor had to be destroyed, no matter the cost. But please, oh please, by all the powers that existed, let Izariela not die by her paw.
Aranya steeled herself inwardly, drawing together and shaping the threads of her power. Forget what was past. Only this moment mattered, the hour that she must embrace the destiny for which she had been formed in the womb, and had chosen to make her own. She must stand against evil in all its forms, and defeat it.
As they approached firing range, Aranya steadied her bow. It took courage to trust in Zip’s shield, but she could see and appreciate the construct in the two minds holding it steady. A double shell to protect against fire and flying objects. Unbelievably clever, the physics behind the shield having a simplicity that bespoke hundreds of years of refinement.