Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) (14 page)

“Hmm,” said Oyda. “I’ll have to teach you to look less of a Princess of Immadia. We need to think about your disguise. Maybe a young noblewoman would work better. Meantime, I’ll teach you how to fix your hairnet and headscarf like a peasant woman.”

“Ah, maiden most comely,” Nak called out, but went straight back to his snoring.

They both jumped, and laughed.

“So, tomorrow will be your night flying training?” Oyda asked.

“Yes,” Aranya agreed. “He wants to cover landing on vertical surfaces like cliffs or battlements. Nak also says I need to make a few longer flights before I try anything as daft as raiding the Tower of Sylakia. I think he’s also hoping for some bad weather to provide harder testing.”

“He’s
just concerned about you, petal.”

“You worry too much. Oyda … oh, I don’t know.”

The old woman sighed. “Ask your question, Aranya. But I cannot answer it.”

“Oyda–how, of all the places in the Island-World, did I happen to crash-land on
your
doorstep?”

Oyda’s smile, at that moment, seemed as old and wise as an ancient Dragon. She shrugged. “I can’t say, Aranya. It just
is
.”

N
ak scowled at
the Dragon, who glowered in return. “I’m trying, Nak.”

“Trying with the wrong brain,” said Nak. “Try to appreciate, my
delectable damsel, how much more brain there is behind that thick Dragon skull of yours than a Human will ever enjoy. Islands’ sakes, your head and muzzle are longer than I am tall. A Dragon’s brain is designed for flying.”

“
I understand that, Nak.”

“But does it penetrate that impervious shield of
armoured Dragon bone about your cranium?” Nak smacked her muzzle for emphasis. “The instant Human-Aranya tries to fly, you resemble a blue-speckled marsh stork stuck in a glue trap, flapping up and down in a panic. Dragons glide, Aranya. They soar. They do not flap straight up and down like a child playing Dragonships, they tilt the wing to minimise drag on the forward stroke and maximise power and lift on the backward stroke. A figure of eight is basic to good flying.”

He demonstrated with his arms–for the tenth time, Aranya thought, crossly. The real problem
lay between her ears, precisely as he said, in her inability to disassociate her Human brain from the business of flying. Don’t think. Just fly. Easy as breathing.

She followed his instructions
yet again, showing the maximum extent of her incredibly flexible wing joints. She made her wing tips touch together ahead of her nose, then way above her back, before spreading her wings to their maximum extent, her struts straining and her muscles quivering as she held the required position.

Nak marched along her wing, tapping the salient points
with his cane. “First joint, the shoulder. The second–your elbow, if you prefer–brings the wing bone forward again, although you can reverse it and lock the joint for the gliding configurations. Eleven flight struts, your primary struts, lie between the shoulder and the elbow. They are a light and flexible form of Dragon bone. Seven struts lie between the elbow and the third joint, your wrist. These provide power when used properly. All of your struts can curve with these ancillary muscles to provide additional shape to the wing’s surface. From the wrist to the wingtip we have five thinner struts. These provide manoeuvrability and fine control in the air. Now, the tail–”

“Nak. You’re filling her brain with technicalities,” said Oyda. “The poor girl’s mired worse than your stork in a glue trap.”

“Ha!” snorted Nak, resting on a boulder. He waved his cane. “Your pupil, master.”

Aranya glanced between them. They were so familiar with Dragons
. So experienced. Nothing about Dragon-Aranya seemed to surprise Nak and Oyda. It was hard to believe that the rest of the Island-World did not feel the same way.

Advancing toward her with a posy of wildflowers
held in her right hand, which she had been collecting, Oyda said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Thinking is
precisely the problem around here,” Nak interrupted.

Oyda quelled him with a
fierce scowl of her own. “Right, my fledgling. Memorise these flowers.”

“I–um, what’s this got to do with–”

“Now, or it’s none of my honey biscuits for you later, you churlish wretch.”

Aranya studied the wildflowers. Five meadow daisies, a sprinkling of tiny blue
-tinkles and three each of peonies, red anemones and tall bursts of fireflowers, made up her posy.

“Now, you will make a pass above the dell,” Oyda instructed. “While you fly, you will tell your Human brain to paint these flowers in every detail.
I will question you afterward. And–do shut your yawning trap, petal. You’re catching flies.”

Grumbling to herself about how direct Nak and Oyda could be at times, Aranya thumped four-pawed over to the edge of the cliff, to her favourite outcropping, and threw herself into the air. This bit at least she had grasped. As usual, the moment she was aloft, her Human and Dragon brains went to war in her head. She immediately wallowed in the air. Every wing beat was a struggle.

Fine. She would paint flowers.

Aranya shot through the morning air
. The deep golden sunbeams of a partial eclipse, the twin suns almost completely hidden behind Iridith’s bulk, seemed thick enough to swim in. She wheeled a thousand feet out and spun back on her wingtip for the required pass over the dell, where the figures of two tiny old people watched her intently.

She shaped meadow daisies. She concentrated on the finely bearded leaves of the fireflowers.

And she flew like a Dragon.

She raced across the sword-grass of the dell, almost brushing
the blade-tips with her wingtips, before corkscrewing up above the forest bordering the heights and doubling back for a graceful landing that barely disturbed the still morning air.

Nak and Oyda smiled mysteriously at Aranya.

“Well? How was that?”

Nak wipe
d his eye. “Got a gnat stuck …”

“You old
charlatan.” Oyda clipped the back of his head fondly. “That was Dragon, Aranya. Pure Dragon.”

* * * *

Two nights later, an hour before midnight, Aranya launched herself off the Sylakian bluffs at the edge of the dell. After drifting downward a thousand feet or so, Aranya trimmed her wings and swung to the north. Nak had advised two wingspans of clearance to guard against sudden changes in air currents as they swirled around the cliff’s rough outcroppings. “When you’re a better flyer, you can cut it finer,” he had advised. Despite the clear effulgence cast by the White moon and a sense of dangerous exposure, she stuck to his advice. Her nostrils flared in the flow of cool night air across her streamlined body. Night flowers? What was that scent?

Aranya ran Nak’s guidance on her mission through her mind. She stretched her wings and tried to find the most efficient way of harnessing the smal
l amount of tailwind available. Human-Aranya painted flowers. Dragon-Aranya adjusted her wing struts; she surged through the air as though she had released an anchor. This would be the longest flight she had ever attempted, culminating in the minor issue of avoiding Nelthion’s guards on the walls and roof, and inside the Tower of Sylakia. To that end she carried a dark cloak in her right forepaw. She agreed with Nak–the awkwardness of transforming into a nude Human form was a problem for a Shapeshifter.

He rather fancied the idea, however.

For about two and a half hours, Aranya flew northward and a touch easterly around the bulge of mid-Sylakia, up toward the midway point of the large Island on its western edge. She noticed the ground rising steadily to her right hand–wing, she corrected herself silently, marvelling at the appendage as the White moon’s light shone through the thin membrane of the main surface, highlighting the bone struts and secondary and tertiary arteries that fed the skin and the flight muscles. This was beyond her dreams. This was Dragon flight, crossed by a windroc! She pulled up alertly. But the windroc went about its business without apparently noticing her. Aranya let out a long, gusty breath. Her Dragon instincts had immediately primed her body for battle. Time to calm down.

Suddenly
, she saw rock out of the corner of her eye. Aranya flapped frantically, taking the sting off a glancing blow against the cliff-side. Idiot. Just when her attention wandered, she had allowed the breeze to push her against the cliff. She recovered with a few angry flaps of her wings. It was growing more blustery. She sank lower and gave the cliffs a greater berth. Oh, look, there were mountain goats down there. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively.

No time to hunt, she told her Dragon brain.

Her eyes narrowed, focussing with the incredible binocular power of Dragon vision. There, perhaps a league ahead, was a jutting rock she recognised. She saw torchlight upon its tip. The low, squat form of the painfully misnamed Tower of Sylakia became clear against the background of stars. Her hearts thumped painfully, all three at once.

But Aranya did not turn aside for one wing beat. She eased into a long glide, preparatory for timing the vertical climb that must take her fast, over the edge
and into a place where she could Shapeshift into Human form. She was ready.

Now!

She flapped powerfully, extending her wings for maximum acceleration, pushing so hard that she felt blood drain toward her tail under the gravitational forces. Aranya shot upward, wholly concentrating on the target. She came in close to the rock face, flying in a perfect vertical, before she furled her wings suddenly to slow down. A lash of her tail and a small wing-adjustment flipped her over the edge and rapidly down the other side. Aranya landed perfectly.

Right in the rajal pit.

Her Human brain squeaked in terror, but thankfully, her Dragon form had mastery and so she made no sound. A shadow stalking toward her with leonine menace was met with an equally menacing show of her fangs. Aranya flared her wings. The rajal pulled up short.

Aranya listened carefully. Boots, retreating. A guard on patrol, she assumed. There would be a man on the door nearby the Last Walk. Yes, she heard his breathing.

She leaped out of the rajal pit and into the shadows behind a large ornamental tree, and transformed. Snatching up the cloak, she covered herself and crouched, listening intently. Darn, now she could not hear the guards any more. Nak had not mentioned that. Could she listen with her Dragon brain through Human ears? Well, it gave her a headache, but it seemed to work to a degree. The night’s sounds suddenly became sharper and more distinct. Aranya picked up two stones.

Moving forward stealthily, she found an angle where she could remain hidden but see the doorway into the Tower. There was a guard there, she knew. Her Human eyes could not see him.

Overarm, she pinged the place she thought he was standing with the pebble.

Clink
.

“Ouch! Eh, what’s the matter with you lot?”

The guard rushed out of the doorway. Aranya tossed another pebble down the walkway to her right. The man instantly oriented on the sound.

“Guys? Who’s the joker? Show yourself.”

He trotted away from her, loosening his war hammer just in case.

Aranya darted into the doorway. Unlocked. Good.
Left open a crack, even better. She eased the door open and sneaked inside.

After listening for a moment, Aranya slipped down the corridor toward the secondary staircase, which was sometimes left unguarded. The
Princess’ room was up one level. She could not wait to surprise Zuziana. This was going to be great.

She had no idea how she was going to explain about being a Dragon.

Danger! She shrank into a shadow as a pair of guards rounded a corner and marched toward her. Once they had passed by she scuttled up the stairs, trying very hard to listen with her Dragon senses. Nothing. Good–which probably meant Nelthion had stationed men at other points on the residential floor. Pulling her dark cloak about her, she tiptoed past two branching corridors, pausing each time to peek around the corners in either direction, before braving the open ground. Here, a right turn should take her to Zip’s apartments.

She sidled soft-footed toward the corner. Oh–flying sheep dung
. Nelthion had stationed a man right outside Zuziana’s door!

Well, that meant switching to her backup plan. Holding her head high, Aranya marched around the corner and made directly for the Princess’ door.

The guard startled. “Who goes there?”

“Princess
Ramalya of Renidia,” she said, softly. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“Princess who?”

She smiled at him and laid a coy hand on his arm. “Renidia. I’m new, but you won’t hold it against me, will you? I like men in uniform. They make me … purr.”

“I, um, I, what?” spluttered the guard.

“I’m just visiting my friend. Girl talk, you know.”

Aranya rapped on the door. Please let Zip be sleeping lightly. She always said she did.

After a second knock, she heard a sleepy stirring within. “Who is it?” Zip’s soft footsteps approached the door.

“Your friend,” called Aranya.

The female voice did the trick. A bolt squeaked; the door drew open. Waving at the guard, Aranya slipped within.

“Who is it?” Zip repeated, holding up
a lantern.

“Please don’t scream, alright?” Aranya pushed back her hood.

Zuziana gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth, muffling a shriek. “Aran–no, it can’t be. How? How did you … are you real?”

“Pinch me and see.”

“I think I need to sit down.” Zip retreated to the bed, watching Aranya all the while with huge eyes. She put her hand to her heart. Poor Zip was panting; wide-eyed, as pale as the sheet she sat on. “This isn’t some cruel–no. No, you died.”

Aranya smiled at her friend. “Zip, it’s me. Truly. You aren’t dreaming. It’s Princess Aranya of Immadia. The one with the crazy hair, the fire–I healed you, Zip. I can tell you that you have a birthmark right there, just below your left collarbone. I can recite the names of your eight brothers.”

Zuziana said dully, “But I saw you fall. I cried for days, I cried … Beri’s gone home, gone to Immadia. Nelthion said she should go. But it’s your hair–I know that hair, and it’s Aranya’s voice …”