Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) Read Online Free

Don’t keep Ignathion waiting.”
    Her dour-as-mud captors fell in with her, one before and one behind, to conduct the Princess of Immadia to the Dragonship’s beautifully-appointed forward cabin–the navigation room. The door stood ajar. Through it she saw the First War-Hammer of Sylakia, conqueror of her homeland, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring with a brooding mien out of the floor-to-ceiling crysglass windows over an Island she realised belatedly must be Gemalka. His stature was so imposing, his short-cropped hair nearly brushed the ceiling.
    Aranya’s throat bobbed. Straightening her back, she crept in, soft-footed on the thick pile rug. As he did not turn immediately, she stole several glances about Ignathion’s quarters. Her gaze took in the navigational charts and instruments, the ruler-neat stacks of logbooks and almanacs so necessary to navigating correctly and reading the air-currents and weather, the moon-charts detailing every aspect of the complex interactions of the five moons, and a further library of hand-bound books on the shelf opposite. She realised that if all this belonged to him, Ignathion must be a well-educated and intelligent man. A well-educated brute. Her eyes tripped over to the table, set for two, appreciating the artistic perfection of a spray of white wildflowers gracing each setting. White for friendship, she noted. How unexpected. Plates of the finest, most delicate porcelain, fluted glasses of workmanship her father’s table would have been proud of–the artist in her perceived the tiniest details.
    The warriors withdrew. To her further surprise, Aranya heard their footsteps recede down the narrow corridor which led aft. Not protecting their commander? Or did he need no protection from the likes of her?
    “Aranya, Princess of Immadia,” he rumbled, turning. His movements were lithe for a huge man, but circumscribed as though he were constantly aware of his great size.
    Aranya’s right hand extended automatically. Placing his left palm beneath her proffered hand, Ignathion raised it aloft, blew once upon her fingers to signify no ill intent on his part, made a circle of peace with his right forefinger twice before his grave, bearded face, and then he kissed the precise centre of her palm, between her life-lines, thrice.
    Above his scarred cheekbones, mutilated in the manner of Sylakia’s warrior elite with the hard-earned symbol of the windroc, Ignathion’s eyes were as grey as a storm brewing over the Cloudlands.
    He said, “It accords me great pleasure to finally make acquaintance with the daughter of my most honoured and greatest opponent, King Beran.”
    Arching her eyebrows ever so slightly, Aranya replied, “First War-Hammer, I am honoured by your invitation even in this time of grief and loss for the Kingdom of Immadia.”
    “Even so,” he said. With perfect courtesy, he seated her himself. “Call me Ignathion, please.”
    “And for me, Aranya will suffice.”
    Aranya had been trained in the minutiae of courtesies and courtly behaviour common to the Island-World, and spent time in several other Courts and Governing Houses, so she read the signals easily–and was thus disconcerted. Why treat her as an equal? Why show such honour and respect to one younger than him in years; moreover, to his captive, soon to be mouldering in the infamous Tower of Sylakia, the comfortable prison palace where Sylakia incarcerated its political hostages? A fair number of hostages, she understood, given their rash of recent successful conquests. Why was King Beran his ‘most honoured’ opponent? Surely, Immadia Island was as the miserable dust crushed beneath his conquering boots? Although, she smiled to herself, King Beran had led Ignathion a merry chase for twelve summers and caused untold vexation to the Sylakian Supreme Commander, Thoralian.
    Ha! Her Dad might be honourable, but he was also wily. So was his daughter.
    So she schooled her features, and fenced