Defeated. The Dragon’s chances of survival diminished by the day.
Back in their cavern, Inniora greeted her with the clink of a manacle meant for her ankle. “Master Khoyal said you were not to be trusted.”
“You’re not putting that on me!” Lia declared.
“Aren’t I?”
One ill-tempered and undignified wrestling match later, the Princess of Fra’anior found herself chained to their gymnastic bars, with a wrenched elbow and a fresh bruise on her cheek.
Inniora dusted her hands cheerfully, but Lia noticed she moved with a limp. Served her right. “May your dreams be filled with Dragons,” Inniora smiled. When Lia only growled at her, she added, “Wrestle me any time. I’m only being your friend.” She stalked off.
“Bully,” Lia sniffed, but her heart was far from in it. “The peasants have revolted.”
Hualiama dreamed about being trampled by the Dragon who had attacked her on the ledge where she lived with Flicker. That was followed by a dream of fleeing endlessly through the caverns beneath Ha’athior, being chased and burned by more angry Dragons. Their thundering turned into Dragons fighting over a yowling infant. Was that a Maroon Dragoness fighting another Dragon? They clashed in the darkness, roaring challenges at each other. Lia moaned in her sleep, knowing a deep-seated fear which always lurked in the dark recesses of her mind. Dragons were evil, never to be trusted. Dragons had shaped her fate. What would she become?
She stirred to find Ja’al squatting patiently nearby. His blue eyes twinkled at her. “Keep the little rajals chained up, say I.”
“Save me, o handsome monk.”
His grin widened. “I think I’d rather keep you like this, Princess.”
Well, that would not do. Failing miserably to keep a flirtatious tone out of her voice, Lia said, “If you had any idea how inappropriate that sounds, Ja’al, you’d free me immediately.”
He flushed pink. Crimson. Purple. The veins on his tattooed head almost popped. Finally, he managed to splutter, “Master Khoyal is ill today and has sent me to teach you the basic forms, Lia.”
“Thank you.” She gentled her heart. “Inniora has the key, so unless you wish to wake her …”
“I’d rather wake a windroc. Open your mind.”
Reaching out, Ja’al placed his hand upon her forehead, and a velveteen-wrapped sledgehammer walloped her between the eyes.
Lia gasped. Inexplicably, she smelled mint–a strong, fresh scent of mint.
“Sorry,” Ja’al grunted. “More gently; more control. I’ll offer up his memory … thus.”
A boy stood in the cavern, watching a small, supple man dancing, spinning, weaving forms in the air with dazzling speed and grace. Swords flashed in his hands, cutting the air so rapidly that the blades moaned a song of beguiling fatality. Faster. Higher. Lia saw a dance wreathed in the beginnings of that white-golden fire she recognised as magic, coalescing around his leaping form as though drawn there by a mysterious compulsion. Every hair on her nape stood to attention.
Suddenly, stillness enveloped the cave. The man crossed his swords, bowed to the boy, and lowered his defence. His bare torso was covered in a sheen of sweat, yet he showed no other outward sign of the ferocity of his exercise.
“I will teach you the forms, Khoyal,” said the man.
“With my crippled hips, father,” said the boy, without rancour, “how can I ever learn the art of Nuyallith?”
“It is not for your benefit, but for another.”
The monk looked directly at Hualiama, and his deeply furrowed cheeks creased into a smile. The memory spiralled into blackness.
Next she knew, Ja’al was slapping her cheek gently. “Lia? Lia, come on … did it work? Did you see something?”
“Aye, it worked. Don’t kiss me.”
“Some girl I met told me I’m incorruptible,” he announced, but a pensive expression tightened his jaw. “Though, I’m not sure I’ll ever be where you’re concerned, Lia.”
“Are you trying to make me cry, Ja’al?”
He gulped. “It’s a grief, isn’t it? A process of letting go; of mourning even as one looks to the future.”
A profound silence gripped them. Lia searched for words to express the sorrow she felt, to express her certainty without causing further hurt.
She said, “You hoped that taking your vows would cure what you perceive as weakness, Ja’al. But I say that the heart is an untameable beast, a Dragon of passions that can sweep over us as a Cloudlands storm lashes the Islands, or ripple as gently as a dawn breeze upon a still terrace lake. If my time with the Masters at this monastery has taught me anything, it is that passion both refines and nourishes discipline. Discipline can