Hualiama stood, moved a little to the kitchen area, clasped her hands beneath her sternum, and filled the room with song.
Look at how they appreciated her performance! Yualiana closed her eyes with a soundless sigh of pleasure. Master Ga’athar balanced on the edge of his seat, his eyes alight and his blunt hands clasped in his lap. Hallon and Rallon sat bolt upright, as though a sly dragonet had stuck them each with a claw. And Ja’al? His eyes were alight, fixed upon Hualiama as though he wished to devour her.
In the fifth stanza, Master Jo’el’s head finally snapped up. He gaped at Flicker, who cocked his head aside. Did the twin suns dawn within your mind, Human?
Hualiama’s song faltered as she took in the Master’s response.
“Repeat that!” snapped Jo’el.
She sang:
The whirl of swords in ancient dance,
Did the terrible Fraga entrance,
‘Nuyallith!’ roared he, ‘what dread power is this …’
“Master,” Lia gasped, “I always thought ‘Nuyallith’ a proper name. But if Fraga the Red is fighting Johoria Dragonshield at this point in the tale, it doesn’t make sense. The word sounds … Dragonish, really. Isn’t that right, Master?”
Jo’el shook his head. “Perhaps it’s a dialect of Dragonish, Lia–the histories hint at a secret draconic tongue which expresses words of extraordinary magical power, words which raised the Islands from the Cloudlands, for example, and separated the good air from the poisons below. I do know that there’s an ancient martial art called Nuyallith, which used to be practised by the predecessors to the monks who follow the Path of the Dragon Warrior.”
“Nuyallith?” Master Ga’athar echoed. “Isn’t that just a legend?”
“What are the old names for our arts?” Jo’el challenged.
Blank looks around the table preceded Inniora saying quietly, “Ullith, the open hand. Fuyallith, the way of staves, Xarallith, for thrown weapons …”
Chapter 14: Into Hiding
“A TOUCH ON the starboard ailerons,” Hualiama instructed. “The other starboard–Islands’ sakes, and your other left foot!”
Her trainee pilot overcorrected. The Dragonship groaned and shuddered as the crosswind caught the balloon side-on. Lia said, “Like this, you rustic oaf.” She tapped rapidly on the foot pedals while simultaneously supplying thrust to the port turbines, returning them to an even keel.
“Sorry,” said Inniora. “We peasants of the realm don’t exactly grow up piloting Dragonships.”
“Get your grubby paws off my nice clean Dragonship controls, peasant,” said Lia.
“Is that a royal order, your infinitesimal tininess?”
Lia scowled unconvincingly up at her new, head-taller friend. “Are you as clumsy as you are deaf? Don’t make me come up there to shout in your ear.”
Flicker twitched his wings in befuddlement. Humans. Worse, Human girls. Trying to fathom them was like trying to grasp the Mystic Moon as it sailed by. This banter had continued for over an hour while the Dragonships plotted their course to the monastery. The day was bleak and squally, with low clouds shrouding the Island-massif ahead, and dull grey Cloudlands roiling below under the impetus of capricious winds–not the sort of day to be piloting fat, lumbering balloons between the Islands. He perched on a mound of supplies–sacks of vegetables, spiced dried meat and coils of rope–stacked neatly either side of the navigation cabin. Each Dragonship had to bear their share of the load, Lia had explained, given their limited lifting power.
The entire notion of Human air-travel between the Islands struck him as a hazardous affair.
The dragonet’s nostrils smoked with jealousy as he watched Lia explaining which controls worked the ailerons one more time, showing Inniora the precise level to make her settings, before clipping the lines in place. “Once they’re set, there’s no need to fiddle with them,” she instructed. “It’s like playing a harp. You manage that much with your work-roughened fingers, farm girl.”
“Shall I till your ribs with my hoe?” suggested Inniora, indicating the towering two-handed sword scabbarded on her back.
“By the time you reach that weapon, I could have carved my initials on your churlish intestines ten times over.” Lia smiled at Flicker. “You’re rather quiet over there, o jewel of the skies. Those turric-root sacks can’t be very comfortable. Come here.”
Flicker exhaled a curl of fire, crisping a stowaway giant pincher beetle. He snapped up the paw-sized insect and crunched indelicately, burgundy legs waving from his mouth, as he destroyed his snack.
Such a male, Lia teased.
That’s what all the females say, he agreed readily. You know, if you chose to display more of your hide, you’d have that handsome monk sharing fresh kill with you.
Er … His mental picture evidently puzzled her.
Why reject him?
It’s the honourable