“I wasn’t looking for a slave, Hualiama–except earlier.” A softer yellow entered his eyes as he spoke, Lia noticed, a gentle refulgence similar to candlelight. His voice dropped to a low, beguiling throbbing. Grandion said, “If I were to speak honestly of my soul-fires, I have dreamed about keeping you for my own, impossible as that is. How can this be? You’ve neither wings nor tail. I have seen many Humans upon many Islands. Yet nothing in my nineteen summers has ever made me feel this way, Lia. You stir things in me … deep things.”
She whispered back, “Other girls dream of Fra’aniorian lace finery and grand weddings. I dream of standing on mountaintops with a Dragon, or flying to the farthest horizons.”
White fire sheeted across her vision.
Lia started. How long had she been gazing into Grandion’s eyes, mesmerised?
They broke eye contact awkwardly, Lia mumbling something about needing her swords to shave his toenails, while the Dragon discovered an urgent itch requiring his attention.
And so she sharpened the Dragon’s metallic talons, and tried not to dwell on her sense of foreboding. This wondrous season in her life must draw to a close, shadowed by the march of time.
When Flicker returned from hunting and Lia had completed her work on the three foreclaws of Grandion’s right forepaw, and moved on to the two opposing hind claws of that foot, she called the dragonet over. “I’ve something special to share with you both,” she said. “I dreamed of my mother–my real mother–today. I learned her name.”
The dragonet smiled, “Hence your joy. Oh, Lia. My fires soar for you.”
Hualiama said, “I feel as though my life is coming together, piece by piece. I don’t like all of the pieces, but I wondered if Ianthine’s ruzal magic corrupted my father–if he might not have been a good man, once, or if there might still be good in him now.”
“Ra’aba is not your father,” said Grandion.
The tip of Flicker’s tail twitched in irritation. Lia was glad she was not the only one affronted by Grandion’s confident statement.
The dragonet said, “But Lia, there is a certain naïveté about that statement. Some creatures turn to evil, or are born evil. I know you love the Island-World and expect it to love you back without reservation, and see good where others see only darkness and despair–”
“No creature is irredeemable,” Hualiama protested, anticipating where Flicker was leading with his thoughts.
“Nor are some creatures lacking in stubbornness,” said Grandion, gently enough that Lia did not quite contemplate trimming his entire toe off his foot. “What’s your plan for Ra’aba, Lia?”
“He’s probably at the Royal Palace,” she said. “There’s a secret entrance into the dungeons I doubt even Ra’aba knows about, which my brother Elki and I discovered a couple of years ago. You, Grandion, must fly to Gi’ishior to fetch a Dragonwing so that we can counter the Green Dragons allied to Ra’aba. Meantime we infiltrate the palace building together with the monks, demolish his cronies and defeat Ra’aba.”
“And when you face him, and have to slay your own father?” asked Flicker.
“Pray that I find the courage of a Dragon.”
* * * *
It was only in looking back that Hualiama spotted a curl of smoke.
The day following their overnight stay at the blue pool, they spent twelve hours criss-crossing a sea of Islets off the north-easterly tip of Ur-Tagga Cluster, little pockets of copper-headed vegetation dotting the Cloudlands like a peculiar form of the pox, which was due to being overrun by a larger relative of the prekki-fruit tree which abounded in these parts. Golden eagles nested in the coppery treetops, while crimson flycatchers inhabited the lower reaches of the rugged cliffs of each Island in their millions. Lia had never heard such a monotonous cacophony of birds. Fra’anior enjoyed variety. This corner of the Island-World enjoyed two things: flying insects and birds to eat them.
“My belly is going to pop!” Flicker declared. He had taken to riding atop Grandion’s shoulder, the better to simply hang his mouth open and enjoy the airborne offerings.
Lia ducked away as another flurry of iridescent flying beetles bombarded her body. Maybe she should face backward. That might save her the indignity of copying the dragonet in his bug-munching exploits.
That was when she saw smoke.
“Grandion! Flicker! Down there … I saw something.”
“Where?” asked Grandion.
“Just trust me and turn around, would you?”
The Tourmaline Dragon flicked his wings to execute a neck-wrenching screamer of a turn, evidently irked by her request, but seconds later, he stiffened.