Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) (27 page)

Bringing her second teardrop to Zip’s lips, Aranya smiled at him–a deliberate show of her fangs. “Did we turn you into a greybeard overnight, Yolathion?”

“You destroyed a sixth of Sylakia’s entire Dragonship fleet. You were the earthquake beneath Sylakia’s strategy, turning the invasion of Herimor into an initial exploration.” He made a cutting motion with his hand. “Apparently, the news of your escape was a cruel blow to the son of Sylakia. Some say he has fled the Dragon’s approach. I hear he travelled to Fra’anior in a bid to learn more about Dragons.”

“Look at the Princess’ skin,” Oyda whispered.

In the darkness outside the hut, it was clear to them all that something strange and magical was taking place in Zip’s body. Tiny pinpricks of light rose and faded beneath her skin, as though her flesh had become a window to the mysteries of the constellations above. Yolathion lifted the coverings off of Zip’s arm. It was the same.

“Magic,” said Nak.

Yolathion extended his hand to help Oyda to her feet. He asked, “Where may I place the Princess of Remoy, Oyda?”

N
ow he had manners to match his brutality? Aranya snaked her head into the hut to watch him carry Zip inside, until it dawned on her that she was being silly. As he placed Zuziana in the back room which had become Aranya’s, she transformed and followed the others inside. An appreciative quirk of Nak’s eyebrow reminded her; she snatched up her dress and tugged it over her head at once. When her head emerged from the neck-hole, it was to see Yolathion swiftly averting his eyes. Aranya turned the colour of a fine dawn sky.

“I must go,” said Yolathion, looking hot under the collar himself.

“Must you?” asked Oyda.

“I must rejoin my command before this act of treason is discovered,” he rumbled. Aranya watched with wide eyes as he skirted the table, approaching her. “I hope you won’t disapprove of a little treason, Immadia? I mean, Aranya?”

“I, well, I–”

Rather than lifting her broken wrist high, Yolathion bowed to the point of deepest respect
. He blew over her knuckles, made the sign of the peace twice and kissed her fingers rather than her palm.

“I wish you a speedy recovery, Princess Aranya,” he said, wistfully.

Aranya rather wished he would release her hand, because it was intimately connected to her treacherous heart. Perhaps he would never approve of a Shapeshifter. It must have been a great shock for him when she finally revealed herself.

She said, “I … wish you well in your endeavours, Yolathion.”

“If my words matter,” he said, meeting her gaze without reservation, “and if words could ever make amends for my acts of folly, Aranya, which they cannot, then I would wish to offer my sincerest and humblest apologies for all the harm I have done to you. I deeply regret–everything. Many times I have wished to undo these things; the names I called you, the quarrels I ordered to be fired at you, and much besides.”

His intense, solemn manner dismantled her reserve.

“Not all is to be regretted,” Aranya replied, almost speaking to herself. “You threw me into a future I could never have imagined. Perhaps there is greater purpose in this than you or I imagine.”

Y
olathion’s dark eyes grew wide. As she stared up at him, Aranya felt the fire stir within her, the delicious, liquid fire that only he seemed able to ignite. The room grew strangely still; a moment where even the hearth fire was unwilling to crackle or spit, and even the usually voluble Nak had nothing to say. The bitterness within her, deep-rooted in all he had done and nourished by her animosity, drained away to nothingness. A weight lifted off her shoulders. Aranya realised that she felt free.

She
wondered if he wanted to kiss her.

Would she kiss him back
, or transform and bite his head off?

In the end, he bowed once more, saying in a thick voice, “I really must go. The Supreme Commander awaits my report.”

As he made to depart, Yolathion glanced back over his shoulder to catch Aranya’s wide grin. His head slammed into the lintel.

“Oh, for the Islands’ sake
,” he growled.

“Mind your head,” Nak put in, cheekily.

Aranya raised her hand in farewell. “Watch out that the hunter does not become the hunted,” she said, biting her tongue in mortification as the words slipped out.

Nonplussed, Yolathion stammered, “I shall watch the dawn skies for the sign of Immadia.”

He fled out of the door.

* * * *

Nak teased her until Aranya shouted at him. She did not want to hear innuendoes about placing the Third War-Hammer in her Dragon hoard, hunting warriors for sport and shamelessly disrobing in Yolathion’s presence. She did not want to consider what might have been.

Oyda, in her customary fashion, kicked Nak out of the hut to look after the sheep.

Aranya, feeling Oyda’s regard even though the old woman was cleaning berries preparatory to making a preserve, said, “How’s Zuziana doing, Oyda?”

“Sleeping a healing sleep,” said Oyda. “Much better, methinks. A pinch of colour in the cheeks, a scrap of broth kept down … aye. Aranya, what’s troubling you?”

“Nothing.”

“Indeed?”

She could never hide anything from Oyda. Her father, yes. Oyda–no chance.

“Spit it out, petal. You’ll feel better afterward. Cup of redbush tea?”

“You and your tea, Oyda.” Aranya gazed at the wall.

“Shall I guess?” Oyda busied herself with the teapot. “
You regret parting on good terms with a man who has tried to kill you multiple times. You’re thinking that with one word of apology from that young Jeradian, your heart is soaring over the Cloudlands. You feel weak and silly. No Dragon, least of all she who rocked the very foundations of Sylakia, should be undone by a mere word.”

“Yes, yes, and yes!”

Aranya jumped as fire roared up the chimney. Oyda clucked irritably. “That’s one less eyebrow for me. Here’s your tea, petal.”

“Sorry, Oyda. Thanks. I’m–well, I feel like a thunderstorm brewing over Immadia.”

“Is he so very evil, petal? Is he Garthion, for example?”

She burst out, “He chose duty over me, Oyda!”
Then she stared at the old woman. “Oh, dear. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m insulted because–it’s just plain, ugly vanity, isn’t it?”

“
Aye. That young man chased you all over the Cloudlands, yet at the end, prevented his warriors from injuring you unnecessarily. Now he goes to face the Supreme Commander’s displeasure.” Oyda pointed her spoon at Aranya. “You want him to suffer for making you suffer.”

“I do.” Aranya was appalled. “Am I so … terrible, Oyda?”

“You’re probably looking for the word, ‘Human’, Aranya. Yes, you are still Human, and Human hearts will play us all for fools. I made Nak chase me for seven years, Aranya–do you want to know why? I wanted a taller man.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was, petal. Now, maybe you should think about hunting that young man, however Dragonish that might sound. But I’ve a different idea. Zip’s recovery will take at least a week, even with your Dragon magic. So I’m going to suggest a distraction for you. A little journey–to Fra’anior. Nak and I knew the old King of Fra’anior. Your Islands are allied by marriage. I suspect a Princess of Immadia will be well received. You might learn things about your family even the Supreme Commander of the Island-World will never learn.”

What a wonderful idea.
Aranya’s heart turned over in her chest. Visit the Islands where her mother grew up? She had never visited because of the war between Sylakia and Immadia. After that, she had been exiled. By all the Islands, she was excited!

“But I can’t fly, Oyda. I can’t
travel on my own, surely?”

“You’ll go by Dragonship, escorted by Nak,” said Oyda. “Nelthion has arranged everything.”

“You know Nelthion? The one I know–Tower of Sylakia Nelthion?”

“Better still,” said Oyda, smiling. “He’s our great-grandson.”

T
he following day,
Nak and Aranya took a fast carriage up from the village to a town south of Sylakia, where a trader and his Dragonship impatiently awaited them. Over her bandaged wounds, Aranya was dressed from head to toe in Fra’aniorian finery, including the customary face-veil for an unmarried young woman of rank. Only her eyes showed above the face-veil, which felt unaccustomed and not a little strange. She wondered how her mother and father had met. Prince Beran, he would have been, courting the mysterious Izariela of Fra’anior. She wondered if her amethyst eyes would reveal her identity, but nobody they met seemed concerned.

“We’re late for the morning breeze,” the trader greeted them.

“Thank you for waiting for my grandfather and I,” Aranya said, hiding her hot response. “How many days to Fra’anior, trader?”

“Four. Four with this breeze,” he said. “Five or six for the
homecoming. Will you be staying long, lady?”

“It’s my home. Ha’athior Island, actually, one of the cluster.
”

“Ah, Ha’athior,” he said. “Beautiful place, but dangerous. Home of the dragonets. Fierce little things, but no brains. They can repeat words like the grey parrots of our Sylakia.”

“Dragonets,” Aranya breathed.

The trader’s word was accurate. A straight journey across the Cloudlands with the wind directly from astern, the Dragonship made very good time. The wings were kept fully extended and turned to catch the breeze, while the trader kept his ‘runners’–his crew–working flat-out on the back-breaker that drove the turbines. No wasting money on meriatite for him, Aranya thought, disliking the man. She did not
care for the way he looked at her.

On the evening before they arrived
at Fra’anior Island, Aranya and Nak took their meal in their cabin, as usual. Nak had managed to tell her stories about Dragons for four days running without repeating himself once, which was an impressive feat. Nak checked her wrist and pronounced it much better–the benefits of Dragon healing magic, he declared. Even her torn-off toenails were healing rapidly. But, after dinner, Nak said he felt tired and decided to turn in early. The fish had tasted odd, he said. Aranya had tasted nothing amiss.

Aranya tucked him in with a fond kiss on his cheek. Nak declared his undying love and devotion in twenty lines of verse.

During the night, Aranya heard strange sounds in their room. Voices, far away, sounding as though they echoed down a long corridor. She felt cold manacles snap closed upon her wrists and ankles. A hood covered her face. A strange, cloying sweetness stuck in the back of her throat. There was a sensation of movement, but it seemed to be happening to someone else’s body. She did not care. She was passed from hand to hand before being taken somewhere in a carriage. Aranya giggled to herself. What a nice adventure.

Colours reeled across the inside of the hood. Aranya saw lights; someone checked her ears and commented approvingly. The hood closed over her head again. She dreamed of a Dragon attacking huge balloons filled with men; she listened to the many-headed Black Dragon’s urgent roaring, but did not understand anything.

“One for the Prince,” said a man’s voice, in a harsh accent which rolled over its vowels, squashing them into submission. “At last. You’re going to make me rich, my beauty. Get her changed.”

More hands, female hands, changing her clothes. “You’ll like this, my girl. The Prince will pay a high price for you.”

Time drifted by. The sounds were starting to become more distinct. She was in a carriage, driving somewhere. Aranya felt ridiculously giddy. She sang a silly song. When the man’s voice told her to keep quiet, she laughed at him. The world was filled with colours, filled with Dragons flying around inside her head.

They stopped. More voices, demanding to know their business. They moved
on again, rattling across cobblestones. Hands helped her alight from the carriage. The humidity immediately made her clothing stick to her skin. The clothes felt strange and light, not at all like she was used to wearing. A hand snapped a collar about her neck and she was jerked forward, forced to follow or fall flat on her face with no hands to catch herself. A short chain linked to her ankles forced her to shuffle awkwardly, while her wrists were chained somehow to her waist. Aranya felt she should be angry about this treatment, but instead, she felt happy and carefree.

They waited a long time somewhere.

“Ah, my King,” said the man’s voice. “This is the one. I’ve kidnapped a young lady of perfect nobility and standing to become your son’s wife.”

Aranya burst into a fit of giggles. Imagine–a kid
napping. Hilarious.

“Drugged, Zarbok? You drugged this one?”

“She’s having a strange reaction to the serbial serum, my King. It’ll wear off.”

“
What is this, Zarbok?” said a new, resonant voice. “I told you last time, I’m not marrying some narcotic-addled pretty thing with no brains. We pay you good drals to kidnap the best. An honourable kidnapping is the least you could do. Did you check the ears?”

“Perfect Fra’aniorian ears, Prince Ta’armion,” said Zarbok. Aranya realised he must be some kind of slaver. When she could manage to think about it, she was going to kill him. Zarbok wheedled, “Just take a look at this one, my Prince. She’s a classic Fra’aniorian beauty from
Ha’athior Island. As tall and slender as a volcano, young and naïve, eyes of a brilliant hue–you will be amazed. Stupefied, my Lords. This is the one.”

“Very well. Remove the cloak, Zarbok.”

Fabric whispered off her shoulders. Aranya felt a cool breeze against her skin–but she was not cold. There was a short silence.

“
She’s volcanic, I’ll grant that,” said the Prince’s voice, full of approval. “Although, Zarbok, even volcanoes have more raiment than you managed to put on this one. Thinking to drive a high bargain by appealing to the baser lusts? Admirable subtlety.”

“Look at the muscle on her, Ta’armion,” said the King’s voice. A finger prodded her stomach. “I’ve seen gladiators with abdominals like this. Where’d you kidnap this one, Zarbok? Is there a female warrior monastery we don’t know about?
She’s very pale-skinned for Ha’athior.”

She should be burning them with fire. Fancy poking and prodding her like a prize pet! But her brain would not stop to take the danger into account. Aranya giggled playfully and moved toward the voice of the Prince. “Shall I dance for you, my Prince?” she mumbled beneath the hood.

“Ugh, she’s flying like a dragonet!” said the Prince. “I’ll speak to her if and when she returns with her wits from the Cloudlands.”

“What’s the negotiating position, Zarbok?” demanded the King. “Where’s she from? Which family?”

“Well, she arrived today by Dragonship with her aged grandfather,” said Zarbok. “We’ll start with him. Now, as to her Island–”

“Remove the hood,” ordered the King.

“Father, I would wait–”

“
Now!
”

A hand clapped her head, not gently
. Fingers worked laces behind her neck. Aranya blinked as light entered her eyes. Three faces swam into view–a swarthy man from the Western Islands, probably Zarbok, and two tall blue-eyed men, garbed in sweeping indigo robes of the most resplendent tailoring she had ever seen, one much younger than the other. She guessed they must be the King and his son. The King frowned rather severely.

“Hotter than volcanic!” said the Prince
, stroking his neatly-trimmed beard with his fingertips. He looked ready to marry her on the spot. “Why, Zarbok, you’ve outdone yourself this time! What’s your name, beauty?”

The King put his hand on the Prince’s arm. “Indeed, Zarbok has outdone himself
, and that by an almighty margin. Guards! Guards! Clap this fool in chains and toss him into the dungeon. Find the Dragonship captain and do the same with him.”

“Her? Father, what
–”

“Zarbok,” said the King,
“have you any idea who you’ve kidnapped? And you, my son?”

The men stared at her. Aranya simpered. “My Lords, do I meet with your approval? I can be very accommodating. Is this the Prince? He’s very handsome. Want to go flying with me, my Prince?”

The King sighed. “With your leave, Lady, may I remove the face-veil?”

“You can do anything you like with me, o King.”

The Prince snorted. “Zarbok, are you certain it was serbial serum you gave her? This one sounds like you found her in a Sylakian brothel.”

The King unclipped the face-veil
and drew it aside delicately. “Now do you see, Ta’armion? Think of the painting in the Hall of Mirrors; consider our Island-allies. Where have you seen such eyes and features before?”

Ta’armion puzzled over this, rubbing his neatly-trimmed beard with his fingers. “Father, I’m baffled,” he admitted. “Which Island rulers married Fra’aniorian women
? Oh! No. She’s dead. Can’t be Immadia, who married from Ha’athior Island–”

“Ooh, Immadia!” cried Aranya, clapping her hands together with a jingling of chains. “Clever
Princey. Clever boy. You need a great big kiss for being so smart.”

“I don’t,” said Ta’armion, fending her off despite her insistence on a kiss. “Father …”

“I love Immadia. And I love you, nice Princey.”

The slaver Zarbok had turned a pasty
shade of grey. He said not a word as two guards escorted him out of the great hall.

The King kissed his fingers,
before touching them to Aranya’s forehead, left and right cheek, and chin. For a moment his mien was grave, but it soon gave way to a broad smile. “Welcome to Fra’anior, Princess–it must be Aranya. You can be none other than Izariela’s daughter, or I’m a senile, chattering old dragonet. This is a delight. I must apologise; I’m mortified by these events. We’ll find you clothes, of course …”

Just then, there came a great commotion at the door of the King’s hall. “My King, we couldn’t stop him, sorry–my Lord, please.”

Nak adroitly tripped the flustered herald with his cane and kept right on coming. “My King, there’s been a terrible mistake. The Princess of Immadia has been kidnapped,” he cried. “Break out the Dragonships! Sound the warning gong! Ban all marriages across the Islands. Scour the city for a sight of–oh, my poor old heart, now there’s a revelation. Who art thou, the delight of mine eye, thou paragon of surpassing magnificence?”

“Nak!” Aranya danced in delight. “My old friend, my Prince, my saviour and rescuer. Give me a kiss, thou mighty warrior of yore.”

Nak glared at her. “Stop pinching my ideas. Aranya, why are you wearing just your underwear?”

“The better to seduce my Prince,” she said, sidling up to Ta’armion again. He dashed around to the other side of his father. “Oh, Prince Ta’armion, I crave for but the touch of your hand.”

“Father,” wailed the Prince.

“She’s high on serbial serum,” the King advised. “Nak–you aren’t
the
Nak, Dragon Rider, who rescued my grandfather from an erupting volcano?”

“I am he!” thundered Nak, swiping the air dangerously with his cane. The herald, sneaking up behind the old man, received a firm poke in the eye. “I am the Nak, the only Nak, and only he who shall ever be the Nak, friend to Fra’anior, and protector of the virtue of Immadia’s Princess, here most scantily and, might I add, fetchingly clad.”

“Er–yes,” agreed the King. “Can we get the Princess decently clothed before my Queen sees this, not to mention King Beran sending envoys demanding reprisals for this insult to his daughter?”

“Aha,
” cried Aranya, clutching Ta’armion’s robes. “I have you now.”

“She’s mad!”

Nak grinned hugely. “I’d give her that kiss, pup, before she turns into a Dragon and you have to kiss her fangs.”

The poor Prince cried, “Not by the trees of a thousand Islands!”

“I’m a Dragon?” asked Aranya. “Oh yes, now I remember.”

I
n a wink, a Dragon leered toothily at the unfortunate Prince. The manacles pinged off in several directions. The pitiful scraps of her clothing fluttered to the marble floor. Prince Ta’armion fainted right into Aranya’s paws.

“Ah,” said Nak, sidling forward, “I forgot to tell you, Aranya, that these Fra’aniorians are notoriously sensitive. Perhaps turning into a Dragon wasn’t the friendliest move, not to mention ruining my enjoyment of what was truly a stupendous choice of outfit for the occasion.”

Aranya looked around her, clear-minded for the first time that day. “Can someone tell me what’s going on? Why’s this King worshipping me?”

* * * *

Aranya thought the Fra’aniorians would never stop apologising. She tried her best to be gracious and had no end of chuckling over the incident later in the royal visitors’ chambers with Nak.

T
he following day, Prince Ta’armion arrived early at her rooms to escort her and Nak by Dragonship to Ha’athior, her mother’s home Island. He appeared to be over his panic; now the Prince only flinched every time she looked at him. Perhaps he expected a Dragon to leap at him again.

Serve
d him right, having her kidnapped.