The Onyx Dragon (18 page)

After that, Shimmerith decreed a ‘healing snooze’ for everyone. Pip had the impression that Dragons were rather partial to snoozing in warm places, like a pride of vast, scaly rajals slumbering in their lair. She slept, and dreamed of jungles.

* * * *

For the leg to Telstroy, Cinti rode Dragonback with Pip and Silver. Her Human manifestation was a tall, iron-haired matron clad in Kaiatha’s spare blue tunic top and Dragon Rider trousers, standing strong and unbowed despite her great age, with bright, laughing green eyes set in a fine-boned face of startling symmetry. Gazing into her eyes, Pip saw flecks of burnished bronze, as though a furnace had spit molten metal onto the green palette of her irises. Clearly, Dragoness. Clearly, beauty was not solely the province of youth.

And she had a special hug for Pip. “I hope you don’t mind my interrupting matters with Silver,” she whispered. “I know my arrival’s a nuisance. But I never dreamed I’d find my egg again, and it warms a mother-Dragon’s heart to see him with you, Pip. You’re gold. A jungle treasure.”

“Silver and I both wish you’d be more of a nuisance, Cinti.”

Pip wondered what it must be for a Dragoness to learn how she had given the Marshal unwavering and willing service for five years. Grief’s dark-fires shadowed her fires. Dark magic had etched its mark upon her hide, changing not only the colour, but the very nature of her scales–making them rougher and developing multiple spikes on the downward-pointing edges. Her talons were as gnarled as a vulture’s, her lips hard and prone to cracking, and her gums black. Foul magic indeed.

Traversing the Cloudlands to Telstroy was a matter of several hours’ flight courtesy of a stiff following breeze, by which time night had fallen and the climate had changed so radically, Pip was tempted to shuck her fur-lined flying jacket. She could not imagine wearing the garment in the Crescent–indeed, how would her people receive her if she arrived wearing actual clothes?

Pip rubbed her shoulder thoughtfully. Tingling. A good sign?

Suddenly, with a start, she realised Silver was making moon-eyes over his shoulder. He said,
Ready for a date tonight, Pipsqueak?

Date?
To her intense annoyance, a mental squeak popped out.
Of course. What shall I wear, o bright-eyed muse–scales or skin?

Scales.

Really?
Drat! Another squeak. Silver had the cheek to chortle up an involuntary fireball. She growled,
Are you yanking my hawser? Or is this a serious proposal, noble Silver Dragon?

How would Nak put it? Skin, skin, there can be only skin?

Pip folded her arms and pretended to blow his smoky breath back in his face.
I am not that kind of girl.

I beg to differ. You most definitely are, jungle girl. And I would not have it any other way.

I think you’re culturally confused.
Pip pushed a mental image at him.
How’s about you in a loincloth, Herimor boy?

Hey!
The Dragon lurched in the air.

Mmm, I’ll have a slice of lightly clad boy-Shapeshifter,
Pip teased.
But Silver …

I’m as serious as an Island firmly sat upon its foundations,
he replied.
Shimmerith and Chymasion both think you’re ready. I think you’ve been able to shake off the poison’s aftereffects. You’re ready, Pip.

But what if fear ruled her heart?

* * * *

That evening the Dragonwing camped in another place Emblazon and Nak knew, a nameless Islet just a Dragon’s hop southeast of Telstroy, where a grove of mighty jinsumo trees planted by Dragon Riders three hundred and nineteen years before served as a memorial to a famous pair who had died in battle at that spot–Asturbar of Erigar and his Green Dragoness, Iridiana. Jinsumo trees were eastern giants, reaching heights of over four hundred feet, and their sap-sweet fragrance pervaded the grove tucked beneath those mighty, spreading boughs. Pip felt Silver’s eyes upon her and knew what thoughts preoccupied his mind.

Transformation. Simple. Think and become.

She ducked away. Wandering around Tazzaral’s hindquarters, Pip bumped into Oyda, who took one look at her and said, “Better out than in, Pip.”

Oyda had that kindly but implacable mien that served her well in many situations, not least in dealing with Nak’s hijinks. Pip hurriedly netted a few of her scattershot thoughts.

“I … well, I used to think it a kind of wisdom to charge into situations without much forethought, Oyda–as you know. I’d blame it on innocence, ignorance, or the zoo. Punching Shimmerith’s tooth loose. Sauntering naked up to the school buildings just because I was spitting mad at a few silly hatchlings. It was even fun annoying Master Kassik for a while, because it seemed I could do nothing right and there was just something ridiculously inevitable about that–and, I’ll admit, I enjoyed the attention. I was starved of real attention. Not the looking-through-crysglass sort, either.”

Pip gulped, realising Oyda had just received more of an earful than she had bargained for. But her friend only nodded encouragingly. “I understand.”

“And now I’ve become a Pygmy Dragoness–
the
Dragoness–and suddenly everyone has expectations and I can’t just rush in because I know better and I’ve learned a few things since then and oh, Oyda, I don’t know what to do with a boyfriend and I’ve no idea where I belong anymore and if one more person thinks I can just fix the ruddy Island-World with a powerful Word then I’m going to scream at them, I swear I will!”

“Hey,” said Oyda, hugging Pip warmly.

“If this is what growing up is supposed to mean, can I rather suck on a few haribol fruits? Even worse, the Marshal’s his father, Islands’ sakes, so what happens if we encounter him in battle? Am I supposed to kill him? And how by all five moons and most of the stars, for that matter, do we expect to defeat a beast whose chief power is the diametric opposite of any magic this Island-World understands?”

“Hey.” The hug tightened.

“And what is this foul magic Leandrial hinted at, which Shurgal is supposed to have mastered? Could it be the same power which summoned the Shadow-beast here? Even if we stop the Marshal–which is as likely as stopping a Cloudlands tempest in its tracks–how will we destroy that beast before it strips our entire Island-World bare of magic?”

“
Hey.
It’s not all up to you. Fates, stars, Land Dragons, genocide prevention … honestly, Pipsqueak, you do have a way of trying to deal with all the world’s problems at once.”

Pip tried to keep a straight face, but the way Oyda was smiling at her–tender, funny and irresistible–was too much. A gruff chuckle waylaid her crabbiness. “Oyda!”

“Ay, that’s better.”

“I guess I’d need Leandrial-sized shoulders.”

“Trust me, petal, not even Leandrial could carry those burdens. But you’ve Pygmy-sized shoulders and those are good for a surprising load–of mischief.”

“Oyda!”

“Great, at least you’ve worked out my name by this stage of the friendship, jungle girl.” Oyda touched Pip’s cheek gently, her green eyes crinkling in the fondest of smiles. “You’ve one thing that poxy old Marshal and his pet beast will never have. Can you guess? Courage, disproportionate to your size. I know Kassik lectured you about great deeds, true greatness–but did he say that the heart knows no boundaries? Neither limitations of size nor heritage nor nature? Ever wondered if you’ll need shoulders like Fra’anior, the great Black Dragon himself?”

“Seven pairs?” Pip put in. “Sounds mighty useful.”

“Only the heart can carry the Island-World’s burdens, petal. The heart breaks, but carries on. It can shoulder the most impossible burdens. Kassik taught me that.”

Pip gaped at her friend, shocked by the waves of hurt radiating from her words. Remembering Oyda’s story, her pain.

The Dragon Rider ducked her head, taking a moment to dry her eyes. Pip gently pulled Oyda’s head to her shoulder, saying, “And shall we speak of a heart’s true beauty? That’s what you taught me, Oyda.”

Her voice emerged muffled. “The other thing about hearts? They can join together. One may break, but others gather around, and from that fellowship stem healing and a manifold strength that creatures like the Marshal will never understand.”

“Humanity in community?” said Pip. “Ay, that’s beautiful. So, what
do
I deal with, Oyda? Which bit of the puzzle? You know me …”

“No, Pip cannot possibly sit still,” Oyda agreed, waggling her eyebrows to emphasize her point. “Tonight, you must claim your heritage, petal. Go be with your boyfriend. Be the Dragoness you truly are. Two manifestations of one heart.”

Pip’s eyebrows crawled at this word-play on the nature of Shapeshifters.

Oyda gave her a playful push. “Go shake a wingtip, Pip. Have fun. Bite that boy. He deserves it.”

They cackled together like a pair of conniving parakeets.

Tazzaral’s left eye cracked open near Pip’s shoulder. “Alright, I’ll stop pretending not to be listening,” he rumbled softly. “How can we Dragons help you, Pygmy Dragoness? Do you need Jyoss, Chymasion or Shimmerith to assist with the transformative magic? I could always provide a suitable fanfare, since with all immodesty, I do have the loudest voice in this Dragonwing.”

“Oh, Tazz!” Pip patted his scales near the eye. “You could teach Ancient Dragons a thing or two about nobility of heart.” Switching to Dragonish, she said,
Shimmerith, Jyoss, Chymasion … will you help?

And me?
asked Silver.

She paused in the act of undressing.
Uh … yes, please. No peeking–mentally or physically.

Oh, the joys of Shapeshifting, which had a way of destroying forgotten clothing as the Dragon-form emerged from whichever plane of existence it vanished to during the ‘between’ times. It was both impractical and embarrassing.

And Silver was thinking …
What was that, Silver?
Pip shivered with rage.

Sorry. Involuntary memory.

Should she be impressed or dismayed at his accurate remembrance of her nakedness in the Natal Cave?
Stow that mental smirk before I slap it over the next Island!

But I shielded … you still saw?
Silver sounded awed–which mollified her. Slightly.

In sing-song tones, she teased,
You think I’m gorgeous.

Ay, you precocious little flirt!

Before she could formulate a suitably caustic response, Pip found herself catapulted into a realm of Dragon-minds. Radiant, magical fires surrounded a tiny girl, who viewed them with unaccustomed, shy wonder. Were Dragons truly luminous, transformed in her inner sight into fiery, almost blinding incarnations of draconic existence, their fires ever coursing and ever-renewing, a song of life rooted in the white-fires of which Yaethi had spoken? She realised she saw according to Chymasion’s magic, for the hatchling had joined the Dragons’ powers together in ways she could hardly begin to understand. Strength gushed into her being, imperative and overwhelming. As if from a slight distance apart, Pip saw the watching girl glowing like the Dragons. She was Dragon.

Transform, o child of mine spirit!

Who had spoken? Pip had chosen to withhold, momentarily at least. Yet that command allowed no place for fear and inanition. Helplessly, Pip triggered her transformation with the words,
Let Onyx flower!

At once, she tumbled amidst devastating torrents of star-fire flowering from within every fibre and iota of her being, while simultaneously, her humanness folded inward as if rushing home to fill and indwell fonts of a different type of magic. Waiting. Untold, unknowable potential, waiting for her summons. Yet Pip knew also an elemental wrenching at the very roots of her being, as though the Onyx Dragoness must not only be summoned, but must writhe and struggle to break free of those poison-forged, numinous chains which imprisoned her spirit.

One cord stood apart from the others. Not binding, but nourishing, pulsing with a rhythm that reminded Pip of a draconic hearts-beat. She recalled the peculiar Pygmy ceremonies which centred around the umbilical cord, that most enigmatic and beautiful connection between a mother and her womb-bound child. According to folklore, Pygmies did not sever the cord for months after birth, preferring to treat the placenta with special herbs before wrapping it in gum-treated cloths. Cord and placenta travelled everywhere with the infant. It was regarded as a curse to allow a child’s foot to touch the Island’s surface during its first three seasons of life; Pip had several times attended the ‘touching’ ceremony of first footfall, when the cord was blessed and finally severed.

Could this extant connection explain her draconic heritage? Somehow, amidst an omnipotent rush of power, the eyes of Pip’s Dragonsoul turned to trace that life-bearing cord back to its source. Mother. Spiritual-umbilical cord. And it seemed to her, for a mere splinter of time, that she saw in the unknowable distance, a great, brooding draconic presence. She sensed pride. Majesty. An ineffable
knowing.

And then, a telepathic blast,
ARISE!!

Never had she heard a Dragon’s battle-challenge bell out as wildly and powerfully as this. Not even Leandrial could shake the Island-World so.