Dragonlove (49 page)

Duality. Insanity. I’m two in one, like your precious mother.
Ianthine read her unspoken question effortlessly. Abruptly, her roar struck like a clap of thunder in the Human girl’s mind,
That’s the gift and the curse Sapphurion and his kin left me, after banishing me to the Spits! Accursed, ignorant fools!

Lia pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling as though her veins were about to burst.
Don’t, please …

A word, Hualiama! Help me. Just a word from the Scroll …

Wait, Ianthine.
How could she judge what portion of the
ruzal
knowledge she feared even to examine in the smallest iota, might be safely entrusted to the Maroon Dragoness? Fool! Never trust a Dragon.

WAIT? YOU PROMISED!

This time, Hualiama was ready for the blast. She had stood up to Grandion. Bracing herself against the stormy wash, she summoned the courage to keep her promises, no matter the consequences. She must not continue to be beholden to Ianthine. There lay the Island of a different madness.
Ruzal
knowledge budded at her tentative touch, eager to interact, quivering, guileful. Mercy. And while the power seduced her, a velveteen veil concealed a monster beneath, a Dragon-like shadow so oily-dark, it seemed the emptiness turned in upon itself to devour all that was good and real and worthy.

Finding a
ruzal
construct which allowed a Dragon to burrow through almost any shield, Lia bundled it up and flung the knowledge at the Maroon Dragoness.

Ah!
With a triumphant screech, Ianthine’s projection vanished, leaving Lia alone in the darkness.

N
EXT HUALIAMA KNEW,
Azziala’s hand shook her shoulder. She awoke, groggy from the nightmares filled with Ancient Dragons bickering and biting, thundering and fighting over her. Numistar, Fra’anior, Amaryllion and Dramagon. Four Ancient Dragons sporting eleven heads between them. Somehow, just before her mother’s touch, they had merged into a single beast who ravaged the Island-World …

“Islands’ greetings, daughter,” chirped Azziala, so cheerily that Lia tripped over the bed’s edge and measured her length on the rushes with an inelegant grunt. “Never a finer morning to start a war, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Er–delightful, mother.”

“I know just the medicine for you, grumpy girl. We’ll have some lovely mother-daughter bonding time. Aren’t I just the sweetest and loveliest parent ever to tread the Islands?”

Collecting her person and her jaw off the ground separately, Lia hastily assembled a smattering of cogent thought. What had bitten Azziala? The Enchantress quaffed a large goblet of fresh Dragon blood. She practically buzzed with energy and weird … exuberance. Mistrustful, Lia glanced about the room. No monsters of
ruzal
lurked in the corners. She felt remarkably refreshed considering the gigantic reptilian battle which had made her head its stomping ground for most of the night.

“Eat,” said her mother, thrusting a dark rye bread-roll into her hand. “Council meeting first thing. Snip snap, dear daughter.” What had snapped was her mother’s mind. “Oh, we’ll stop by and see your father first. He should know his old cronies will arrive in my realm today.”

That was vintage Azziala, her words swirling with malign undercurrents.

“The Maroon Dragoness escaped last night.” Lia choked on her bread roll, but a hard-handed slap between her shoulders from the Empress dislodged the offending crumbs. “Slipped away like the cold mists of a Lost Islands night. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, my little star?” Before Lia could do more than feel cold sweat break out on her neck, Azziala laughed, “I could Reave you again and find nothing. Isn’t it so? Because you’re like me, aren’t you?”

“A secret twin?”

Lia winced. Always, as the pressure ratcheted up, her secrets began to leak out of her. But Azziala only threw back her head and laughed coldly, making the pair of Enchantresses guarding Ra’aba’s cell, stiffen in fear. They must imagine their nemesis stalked the corridor.

“No, Hualiama. I mean that in the mind-meld, you’re able to share selectively. Oh, I enjoyed your carefully edited account of your doings you gave us during that first interrogation–my twelve swallowed it all, like fat lake trout guzzling down a swarm of tantalising dragonflies. Even now, you appear blameless.”

“Rightly.” Lia swallowed a lump the size of an Island. “I didn’t free–”

“Deceit does not become you,” snarled her mother. “You’re exactly like me. Cold logic coupled with warm intuition. My enchantresses are all logic. No, you did nothing. Nothing detectable. But my bones ache, daughter. I
know
you’re involved.” She gripped Lia’s upper arm with fingers as clawed as a Dragon’s talons, stopping the blood. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other after this little war is done. You weren’t planning to cross your dear mother, were you?”

“No.” Fly as far as humanly possible from her power-mad mother–aye!

“Good. Because I want to show you how serious I am, daughter. Deadly serious.” Arriving at Ra’aba’s cell, she snapped, “Open the door. And the inner one. Come.”

To her surprise, Lia found two further Enchantresses seated within, in the section separated from Ra’aba’s living area. Shazziya lifted a grim eyebrow. The other was Gyrthina, a fierce warrior and leader of the Enchantresses in battle. When the inner door opened, Gyrthina marched within, seized Ra’aba by the scruff of his neck, and cast him at the Empress’ feet. Ra’aba whimpered, but said nothing.

Why the silence? Lia’s gaze leaped about the cell like the fluttering of a trapped bird. What force gathered around them as though a storm-front of fate bore down upon the room? What was this tension pregnant in the smile curving Azziala’s golden lips, Gyrthina’s alert stance and the expectant glitter deep in Shazziya’s shadowed gaze? Superimposed upon the trio, she saw dark-fires pouring from their inner beings and her own white-fire rallying in response. All about, the shadowy forms of Ancient Dragons writhed and reared in monstrous battle. Mercy! She was a mote in this draconic cosmos. The strain changed her consciousness, peeling away the layers of reality until she knew the stone beneath her feet was just the physical realm and the powers of the Ancient Dragon-Spirits she had once so glibly evoked to turn Sapphurion back to the Receiving Balcony, were real and awesome …

“Ra’aba.” Azziala’s brow darkened. “I suppose you fed her that lie about Razzior forcing you to do it?”

The man trembled. “Burning orange, lava in the mind …”

“You believed this wretch, Hualiama?” Azziala’s scorn could not pull her away from the chaos enveloping her mind. Numbed, she simply nodded. “The truth is, Ra’aba was a powerful Enchanter discipled by Razzior, but the pupil became greater than the master. Ra’aba dominated Razzior. He filched what he needed from that lizard, and shaped Razzior into his tool. Ra’aba’s mind was a tower of strength until we broke him.”

Draconic mind-power. Control eerily similar to what Azziala’s people achieved in their command-hold over Dragons, Hualiama realised. She said, “He possessed the Scroll of Binding.”

“His father. A renegade from Fra’anior.”

Ruzal
twisted all it touched, Ianthine had warned her. Aye, the touch of
ruzal
upon Razzior’s life had twisted the beast, were Azziala’s version of the story true.

“I was a young Enchantress. Ra’aba had all the power of
ruzal
at his fingertips, all he had stolen from Razzior to make himself strong. Let this be a lesson to you, daughter. He overpowered me.”

Still kneeling, Ra’aba raised his hands, imploring, “She took what she wanted from me, Hualiama. You have to believe me!”

Power was attracted to power, Sapphurion had warned her. Now she knew the truth of it. Standing over Ra’aba, Azziala’s face seemed diamond-hard, carved in grief. Her hands were locked white-knuckled upon her belt. Blood-father and blood-mother faced her, equally reprehensible.

“You abused your power,” Azziala hissed.

“You found no viable seed in me,” Ra’aba returned, cackling his insane laugh. “Who knows how the likes of you brewed this vile whelp!”

“No.” The Empress loomed over him, vengeful. “From that day, she swelled in my womb. Am I not an Enchantress? I knew the instant of conception. I recognised the new life within me. For months, I fought the desire to terminate her nascent life–for do we not say, ‘created in hatred, whelped in sorrow?’ After six months, I received my wish–and what a sweet relief it was. She died.”

“What?” Lia’s knees failed. She crashed to the stone.

“What?” gasped Ra’aba.

“You died.” A tic twisted Azziala’s cheek, pinching the muscles as she stared wild-eyed at Hualiama. “Four midwives and twelve Enchantresses confirmed it–your spirit had flown upon the Island-World’s winds. It seemed the child but slept, yet her heart lay unmoving. After the prescribed two days, we prepared to remove the body. We made the drink we give women to bring on labour.”

Hualiama felt as though she had been stabbed afresh in the gut. “Y-y-you’re lying!”

“Stillbirth is not uncommon.”

“I’m here. I’m your flesh, alive …”

“Are you?” The Enchantress gripped Ra’aba’s wild, greasy black hair in her fist. “Bastard whelp of a windroc! What inhuman spawn of your blackest
ruzal
did you inflict on me that day?”

“Mother …” Lia’s throat closed. Truth. It blazed in Azziala’s eyes, a colder, more reaming fire than she had ever known. All she could do was raise her eyebrows in mute query.

“Nothing, no … you did it …” Ra’aba babbled.

“We had laid out the birthing cloths upon my bed. Singing the mourning song, the midwives dressed me in the white of death. That was when you moved. You began to
dance
.”

Suddenly, the Empress’ countenance seemed to melt. A new voice, a cackle like a windroc’s screech, issued from her mouth. “And you call me the mad one?”

“Shut up, sister.”

Hualiama gaped as though ensorcelled. Her body shook with every great, pounding drumbeat of her pulse. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears and flee, but the madness kept playing out before her, on and on as though it would never end.

The other voice said, “I always wondered if that child died of a broken heart.”

“I know nothing,” her father moaned.

Azziala screamed, “Stop it, stop it, stop
meeee!
”

The Enchantress’ right hand blurred. Ra’aba made a sound like a stifled gurgle. Hualiama, who had blinked, saw an unaccountably peaceful expression cross her father’s face. He tried to speak, but blood bubbled on his lips. Then, as though a ghastly brush-stroke had painted his neck, crimson welled in a long, thin line and spilled down his chest. Ra’aba slumped.

Crouching, Azziala cleaned her dagger-blade on Ra’aba’s trousers. She said, “You were such a tiny babe. Bursting with life’s fires. I had to give you to the Dragoness, don’t you see? I had no choice.”

Ra’aba had said exactly the same.

Now he lay in a spreading pool of blood, the hole of his windpipe clearly visible inside his slit throat.

The Island-shaking outrage of Ancient Dragons filled her mind. Azziala was speaking, her lips moving, but Hualiama heard nothing as she pitched forward down Fra’anior’s long, long throat and into a void of blackness.

* * * *

Hualiama awoke to the sight of Shazziya dipping her forefinger in Ra’aba’s blood and tasting it. “So, Azziala found her courage at last. No magic left here. Shameful end for an evil man.”

Azziala and Gyrthina had departed. Lia pushed to her feet. Wandering over as though dazed by her father’s demise, Lia reflected that this was the first thing Shazziya had said she agreed with. Without a word, she raised her foot and kicked Shazziya squarely in the jaw.

The cobblers made Lost Islands boots square in the toe, stitched from reinforced Dragon hide. Shazziya’s teeth clacked together with a horrible sound, but she remained conscious. Sickened to her stomach, Lia had to kick the groaning woman twice more before she subsided next to Ra’aba. She marched out of the unguarded cell door, then paused. One last thing.

Lia said, “I’m sorry it ended like this, father. I cannot say I feel much pity for you. Your pain is ended. May you rest in the peace you never enjoyed in life.”

Words. Why should she comfort this man, either in death or in life? Or did the living speak over the dead to assuage their conscience, or conceal a wounding grief? Maybe she should tell Shazziya she had rather enjoyed kicking her in the head? That would balance the fates appropriately. Suppressing a wicked-Enchantress chuckle, Lia slipped down the empty corridor toward Azziala’s chambers. She could not bear to abide among these Dragon-Haters one second longer.

Armed, re-shod and wrapped in a midnight-blue Enchantress cloak, Hualiama prepared to break out of the fortress-Isle of Chenak, Azziala’s stronghold. Drawing deep from the Juyhallith and Nuyallith lore she had learned, she formulated a shield and a disguise. Midway, the
ruzal
shocked her by offering a different solution–to alter her appearance. No. The path to the inferno began with just such a temptation. Easy. Small. Almost no thought required. Grim-lipped, the Princess braided her long, easily-identifiable hair, coiled it up, and tied the bundle with a leather thong. She put up her hood, and padded to the doorway. She loved these monk-slippers–soft and tacky, a silent invitation to nefarious doings.

Time to go rescue her Dragon. Again.

Hualiama had lifted the fortress’ schematics from Feyzuria’s mind–a vaster network of Burrower-excavated caverns and tunnels than she had ever imagined. Now, straight of back and arrogant of stride, a woman who looked much like Feyzuria slipped down through the fortress, wondering how exactly one avoided the detection of telepathic mental giants in their own territory. How long would Shazziya remain unconscious?

She received her answer within three minutes. Lia had barely descended four levels in the metal cage-lift when it ground to an abrupt halt. Her mind rang with a mental summons.

“FIND MY DAUGHTER!”

Line-of-sight, Ianthine had said. Hualiama glanced up and down the shaft. Thick rope hawsers connected the cage to a winch system above, much like a certain mine she had once burgled. There was a small gap in the centre of the platform through which the hawsers ran, allowing the trailing end of the hawser a free run. Usually, everything in this place operated to a tightly-monitored schedule. Lia had counted on the turmoil of war preparations to be her ally. Not so. Someone approached the shaft, above, to check the stalled lift. Soldiers sprinted to their posts, carrying out the checks within their remit of responsibility. Lia blocked out the chaos impinging on her mind. Go!

Thank heavens for a tiny frame. Wriggling into the platform’s central hole, Hualiama wrapped her legs around the rope and swarmed downward with the skill of an adept Dragonship pilot. She hoped nobody looked up.