Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) by Marc Secchia

forests of the interior. It took two whole Hammers to defeat him. He killed thirty-two men. They thought it so glorious, Aranya. He was old, blind and could not fly.”
    Aranya digested this for a long time before she asked, “Zip, the dates in my head don’t add up. How many summers have you spent here in the Tower?”
    “Only two,” she said. “My older sister died here. Blood fever. I’m her substitute.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “I wished I had died, too, Aranya. But then I realised they’d only demand another member of my family. Maybe it’s better this way.”
    Aranya could think of nothing to say to this, so she resumed painting.
    Zip was right. She packed away the Dragon. It would only end up roaring at her in her dreams.

Chapter 6: Changeling
     
    W ith the arrival of spring, three months after the attack on Zuziana, Supreme Commander Thoralian organised a banquet to be held at the Tower of Sylakia in honour of his conquest of the Island-World north of the Rift. It was rumoured he intended to announce his impending invasion of Herimor, and to make a spectacle of two notorious pirates, forcing them to walk the Last Walk.
    Aranya would unveil her portrait of his son Garthion at the banquet.
    She dreamed vividly and often of the great Black Dragon, but could not understand what he was roaring at her. Every time she thought of Garthion’s impending arrival at the Tower, Aranya burned something–clothes, hangings, or one of her paintings. Often, small whirlwinds of fire developed in the corners of rooms she was in. She saw Beri and Zip watching her wide-eyed. But she had no choice. She could not escape. She would have to attend the Supreme Commander’s ball. Every exile who attended would be chained to a Sylakian warrior, so that escape was impossible. That was Nelthion’s command.
    Only Zuziana was excused. Beri had negotiated her release from the evening on the grounds of ill health. Zip did not say it, but Aranya knew her friend would rather die than face Garthion again.
    “Immadia was not invited,” Aranya groaned.
    “But I’ve arranged a surprise for you.”
    She gazed at Zuziana, eyebrows raised. “ What? I thought you were going into hiding?”
    “I am. Wear your new heels.”
    “You haven’t stopped teasing me about Ignathion and Yolathion’s attendance, Zip. Is your family coming from Remoy?”
    She shook her head, and withdrew like a mountain tortoise into her shell.
    On the eve of the banquet, Aranya could not stop fidgeting. She wore a fine Helyon silk gown which matched the amethyst of her eyes, floor-length even over the stylish and no doubt outrageously expensive four-inch heels Zuziana had directed Beri to purchase, over Aranya’s protests. She positively towered over Beri and her friend–not that she could see them. To her great disquiet, Zip had blindfolded her.
    “Wait here,” she had instructed.
    Aranya fretted.
    What luckless guard of Nelthion’s cohort would she draw for the evening? And what dancing could she manage, chained to a fully-armed escort?
    The door opened and creaked shut.
    Footsteps approached. Boots, she thought, swallowing down the fires of fear. Unseen hands fitted the prescribed chain about her waist and left wrist. She heard the clicking of oiled locks being snapped shut. Why the mystery? What had Zuziana arranged? Did she hear breathing above her? Above her height?
    “Incomparable Immadia,” a voice whispered in her ear. Her right palm tingled at the customary three kisses. “We meet again.”
    Aranya shivered right down to her toes. “Yolathion!”
    She blinked as he removed the blindfold. “Aye,” he rumbled. “Will you consent to accompany me to this ball, Princess Aranya?”
    A brilliant smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “What choice has this poor captive, o dread pirate?”
    The deep tan of his skin made his grin flash unexpectedly. Aranya was grateful for that, because the way he overshadowed her was not entirely comforting. He said,