is small. To hide a pregnancy would be nigh impossible–and where would Ianthine fit into the puzzle, in that case?
Hualiama wished she had the courage to trust him with her dream of a tiny Lia running to the Red Dragoness Qualiana and her mate, Sapphurion. One phrase in particular stuck in her mind, ‘Where did that ruzal-breathing witch find her?’ Grandion was right. The mystery of her birth would not be solved at Gi’ishior. She could not disclose her dreams yet. They were woven inextricably into the fabric of her soul, precious chords of a yearning too delicate to risk breaking. And, people did not remember dreams from so young an age. Her mind must have concocted a sweet fantasy to cover for the grief and loss of that time. Inwardly, Lia wilted beneath a devastating burden of sorrow.
With his paw, Grandion gradually raised her chin, a gentler touch than she had imagined a Dragon could possibly achieve. Hualiama tried to resist, furious with herself for appearing so fragile before him. Could the past not be content to remain in the past? Must it always shadow her present? Her eyes slid aside from his burning gaze, coyly and not without anxiety. Should he choose force, how could she resist?
Let not the storm-Dragons of despair ravage thy spirit, he breathed. Magic lapped against her senses, bringing comfort.
I fear this journey. She gazed unseeing over the Cloudlands, a rippling ocean of cloud pinked by the setting suns. Grandion, I fear what we might discover. There’s a kind of peace in not knowing … if only one could ignore the pain.
The Dragon said, But you are not such a person, are you, Hualiama?
At last, her smoky eyes dared to meet his. No, I am not. The old saying pounded through her mind, ‘Never trust a Dragon.’ She must guard her heart.
Grandion added, I sense your strength, Hualiama, and this I promise: I shall stand beside you. Tomorrow we shall fly to the heavens, and find your dragonet. Pray our enemies do not spy us–Yulgaz the Brown and Razzior the Orange are their names, and many are their minions. Before darkness wreaths the Isles, would you help me by picking a load of flara-fruit? I sense there’s something nurturing in them that I require.
Hualiama sprang to her feet, absurdly grateful for a task to distract her from the intensity of that draconic gaze, and how Grandion seemed able to read her like an open scroll.
Whatever she had imagined of Dragons, this was different.
* * * *
At daybreak the following morning, Grandion powered up into the skies above Frendior Island with a new snap in his wings and a song of fire pulsing in his hearts, leaving Lia gasping and clutching at his spine spike in alarm. Whatever foresight had led her to lash a vine to the spine spike at her back and tie her belt to it, she was grateful. Perhaps a wasp had stung him in the tender underparts? It would have had to be a wasp with a sting the size of an armour-piercing drill–because this Dragon revelled in his flight. What a thrill! Revelation! Steadily, the Island-World spread out beneath them.
Unexpectedly, the Tourmaline Dragon began to play. Whipping around a white cotton puff of cumulus cloud, he dived suddenly, making his Rider whoop in surprise, before he jinked left and right and then whizzed vertically up through another cloud, bugling softly as they broke free of the grey once more. Now he spiralled in ever-tightening circles, taking care not to turn upside-down and unseat her, before he suddenly furled his wings.
Hualiama yelped as her stomach leaped into her throat. Grandion pulled out of his dive with liquid ease, screaming between battalions of clouds as though affrighted of touching them, left, right, a bounce! She laughed until she was breathless, and the Dragon too.
Now, he sauntered further aloft.
“And how is your second flight thus far?” Grandion inquired.
“Fantastic! Aren’t you supposed to be looking where you’re going?”
The Dragon chuckled, “O innocent maiden, whom I have snatched away to distant Isles, what might I crash into up here? A fast-flying ralti sheep?”
Lia quipped, “A bouncing Island?”
She meant it as a joke, but Grandion replied, “Apparently Herimor has floating Islands. No Dragon can sleep on the wing there!”
Higher and higher they rose, a mile, two, three. With the keen regard of a Dragonship pilot Hualiama noted a storm looming on the northern horizon, a characteristic band of coppery dark clouds promising a fine squall