Night was an endless twilight, a hazy half-light that clearly unsettled the forest’s denizens as much as those who passed through it. Allory anxiously found herself watching the treetops so high above for any glimpse of Middlesun, and she slept poorly and in fits and starts, constantly aware of the movement, the humming of thousands of wings, the whisper of bodies through leaves and the stillness of the night. The Deepwoods should have been alive. This was not so.

  It was toward morning that she heard Yaarah say, “Mrrr-frrr, I’ve worked it out.”

  “Worked out what, Yaarah?” Sabline asked sleepily.

  “Why the sky is as it is.”

  “And how is the sky, Yaarah?” Allory piped.

  “Smoky.”

  “The Shyraiama Dragons?” she asked.

  “Mrrr-hrrt, I do wonder. We should fly up to observe.”

  His movement immediately drew another dark shadow from amongst their number. Sabline. Always close, ever alert. With her came Ashueli and Jhoranyal, who trailed a stream-like tributary of Quellsteel Pixies, all carrying Dark Elf warriors who had run very far into the night, before eventually being ordered to rest in the arms of the unsleeping Pixies. And behind them, the fearful obsidian angles of Monsteron were easy to make out amidst the softer shapes of bough and foliage, but to her surprise, he bore upon his back Varzune and a contingent of Chameleon Fae. An unexpected partnership.

  Shortly, their heads crested the eight-hundred-foot treetops and they flew up into the early morning. It was not cool.

  “Ambient temperatures are rising.”

  “What was that, Allory?”

  “Oh, did I – I did?”

  “Mrrr-prrr,” he declared firmly. “That is definitely one more factor to add to the equation.”

  A good thing that Furball knew what he was talking about, because Allory most emphatically did not follow what was cooking inside that bewhiskered noggin. The unnatural twilight cast the Deepwoods in a sombre, very slightly ruddy glow, she saw. When her eyes rose to the heavens it was to clearly see the perfectly circular outline of Middlesun high in Centresky, shielded as ever by the faithful Shyraiama Dragons. Would it be possible to find those original desert sands and birth more of the Dragons, she wondered? Was Ehlshinoi bigger or smaller than others of her kind? Certainly, she must be the most beautiful.

  And it struck her as she gazed as far and wide as she could, seeing the great dusky pink towers of the nearest Sentinel Trees rising several miles above the general treeline of the Deepwoods in this place, that there was an essential balance to her world that the Wraith must be seeking to alter or destroy. It was never possible to see to the far side of Spheris, but the haze that Yaarah had spoken of lay over everything. Odd. It did smell smoky and tickled the back of her throat. A sort-of haze, she decided, on the second sip of the nectar gourd, so to speak.

  She blinked and rubbed her eyes a few times. Aye. One could see through the haze. Surprisingly so. Was it … natural?

  Rising higher and higher, she saw more of the Sentinel trees and then, at least to the sun-spinward direction, she noticed at the farthest reaches of her eyesight a phenomenon of faint orange patches that seemed to glow a little, if she saw rightly.

  “Allory? Focus your eyesight by magic.”

  “Ah, Master Barakunal.”

  He regarded her sternly, then immediately shattered that image with a broad wink. “More action and less dithering. You are an Elemental. You can see far farther than you imagine.”

  “Eep –”

  “If you say so, but I would prefer demonstrable strength in your heritage.”

  Allory tried, she really did. “Eep! Uh, sorry, Master Barakunal. It is something of a reflex sound. So, what are we looking at?”

  “The distance,” Yaarah murmured.

  She would not lack for more detailed instruction, Allory thought, but the Master was apparently not the sort to fetch nectar for his students. She strained her eyes but to little avail. She commanded her magic to see farther and better and failed with the utmost aplomb. Meantime, she became distracted by Yaarah saying:

  “What do you scent, Long Nose?”

  The creature inhaled deeply. “Isss much burnings of woodsss and more – ssss! Yeeeessss.” He sniffed again. “Iss tasssssty fleshssss … but thisss ssstrange tangssss … isss enough?”

  He flinched as Monsteron paw-tapped his shoulder.

  “Issss … more. Isss … ssssicknessss?”

  “What kindsss of sssicknessss?” Monsteron snarled.

  “Issss –”

  “SSSPEAK!”

  “Issss – deep. Old. I doesssn’t … knowsss!”

  Yaarah with impatience and Monsteron with his typical bombastic force questioned Long Nose for several minutes on the matter. Allory spent her time sulking. No extra-sparkly sight for her. No revelations. She tried to gauge the heft of the soul locket while being desperate to avoid any possibility of being sucked into its environs for another game of chase with the Ancient Septuani, those bloated horrors. Memories rushed through her. Thoughts. Speculations.

  Her mind began to hammer out heartbeats of realisation: if she carried the soul locket, it was only because she was broken and that breaking had led to dissociation which might give her, paradoxically, an advantage in carrying the existential weight of souls; for what the lifelong torment had achieved was somehow to create in her a dissociated self – or many such, General Allory and spy Allory and explorer Allory, travelling along Middlesun only knew how many timelines – and that very dissociation or fragmentation of self was what prevented her from being utterly overwhelmed. Perhaps, many selves carried many burdens. It was no longer a question of which Allory was the boneyard girl. Like the tactical projection she had seen, all were merging into one. Layer upon layer beyond imagining. All were merging into this one, into this … she paused, struck by a sudden insight.

  “Opportunity,” she whispered.

  “You spoke, yrrr-trrr?” Sabline purred at once, beating Yaarah by a whisker and making Allory start. “What opportunity?”

  “Opportunity?” her mate mewled.

  It was at that instant her vision changed suddenly, and the soft, cloudlike orange patches seen over Master Barakunal’s shoulder resolved into clusters of orange fireflies, impossibly far away. “Ooh, pretty!” she squealed.

  “Pretty?” Barakunal growled.

  “Pretty? Sparkles?” Yaarah yowled.

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  “Not pretty!” Sabline roared.

  “Eep! What? What did I say?” Allory gaped about her in astonishment. Clearly, she was sipping a different nectar to everyone else. “The orange lights –”

  “Fires!” Yaarah corrected. “Those are fires, Allory Fae.”

  “Fires? I don’t – oh. Fires … made by armies, to cook their nasty flesh?”

  Yaarah said gently, “Not that sort of fire. Think bigger. Considering the distance, the fires we see are more likely to be jungle fires – entire forests or jungles aflame.”

  She gaped wordlessly at him.

  The Felidragon shook his ruff slowly. “I feared this. After seeing the dryness of the Deepwoods for ourselves and breathing of its too-dry airs, I fear we must already know what comes next. The Wraith has no need to march upon Ahm-Shira after all. This ancient realm can simply be burned root and branch until all that is left, is ashes upon the wind.”

  “Where did all the moisture go?”

  Sabline’s innocent question caught her mate napping. He began to answer, backtracked, and then offered a superlatively golden shrug. “No idea.”

  The Sable Sabrefang Felidragon offered him a ten-thousand-degree before baring her fangs with startling speed.

  “Frrr-hssst? What?” he yelped.

  “No idea, Yaarah? You?” Varzune explained helpfully. “Water – where it go?”

  Even the unflappable scholar found himself bristling, “Jokerbro!”

  Claws flashed but met only a sable shoulder. Sabline forced him back.

  “Not funny, but a reasonable question,” Jhoranyal said, somehow arriving between the pair to calm everything down. “We are all concerned, but let’s try to remember who the enemy is, right?” Allory would not have picked him for the diplomat in the group, but the Dark Elf seemed to be revelling in his contractually entrapped status. “So. Water problems. Air problems. Invading army problems.”

  “Wobbling Middlesun problems,” Ashueli put in.

  “Problems,” Varzune summarised for them all, but all levity had vanished from his tone. “Only Xiximay will enjoy these conditions. Speaking for myself, I do not enjoy it when the debate is about what will kill us fastest.”

  Allory heard herself say, “Oxalbarykyoitic organs.”

  Everyone turned to gape at her.

  “Begging your pardon, your sparkleship,” Varzune chuckled, “but are we even speaking the same language right now?”

  Allory nodded eagerly. “Aye. Allow me to shed a little light –” everyone groaned “– suggids! Sorry. An unintentional pun.”

  Varzune said, “Puns display only the most sparkling wit.”

  He promptly had to duck and dodge a few friendly flying headlocks and educational strangleholds.

  Meantime, Yaarah persuaded Allory to ignore the interruption as Xiximay threatened to fry his antennae.

  She said, “When we were learning about skyfires from the Pixies, we had some help from Pixie Amaboxi, who was teaching us about how, in the language of the records, it suggested that Middlesun called the skyfires to herself, perhaps from beyond our world, via the mechanism of the Sentinel Trees. I was just asking myself how exactly one transports all that heat and energy into or out of Spheris and it struck me that water is the most likely mechanism. We already surmise that the trees might serve to balance Spheris’ gravitational forces – please, don’t ask me to explain that. Ask Yaarah.”

  “At a better hour for all our brains,” Hansanori groaned.

  “Her hypothesis certainly holds water,” Yaarah offered, earning himself a mild offer of murder from Sabline.

  Allory quickly added, “So, let’s say that the Sentinels likely channel vast amounts of water through their roots and trunks in order to circulate heat down toward the shell of Spheris and bring coolness back up again. What if something disturbed that cycle – Long Nose, is the sickness in the trees?”

  The creature bobbed its head, appearing crestfallen. “Allory’sss nossse isss better than minesss!”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed at a sickness –”

  “Hush, learn to take a compliment,” Varzune said. “So, anyone want to bet that our friend the Kera-du-Kerakarool has anything to do with this?”

  Jhoranyal said, “That thing’s just a stooge, a thug. No. This bears the Wraith’s handprint. All the more reason for us to hurry to Ahm-Shira and avail ourselves of the libraries there. They are said to house the most ancient texts known to Elvenkind.”

  “A scholar hunting in his native environment is much to be feared,” Ash said stoutly.

  “I – by my whiskers – indeed,” Yaarah spluttered, stroking said whiskers rather furiously as he processed the compliment. He must think he looked sage but truly, his expression came across more as slightly constipated.

  Allory whizzed over to scratch him behind the ears anyways. “Plan of attack, Scholar Yaarah?”

  “Ah! Aye! I must ruminate upon these realisations – aye, aye – we must investigate the environmental vector at once by engaging with the right scientists, and send a skilled team to investigate the Sentinel Trees; we shall draw up tactical projections for the military deployments in the hope that Prince Hansanori can find a way to prevail upon the King, and find a way to monitor the underground environment; we have several hundred thousand delightfully lethal Pixies to throw into battle and we need to make a plan to protect Ahm-Shira in the case of wildfires – you squeaked with portentous eloquence, o most scintillant of Elementals?”

  “Ah – aye. I did. I merely thought that we should ask the Forestal Dragon Elders to carve a firebreak for us around Ahm-Shira.”

  “And do tell, what are these Forestal Dragon Elders?” Yaarah asked loftily.

  “Oh, small Dragons,” she said, illustrating with her fingers.

  “Small ones?”

  “Aye. Small, as mountains go.”

  “Mrrr – Allory Fae! Are you pulling my whiskers again?”

  “Would I?”

  “I’m afraid she isn’t,” Master Barakunal said drily. “You befriended the Elders?”

  “Of course. They’re a bit loud, but very nice.”

  * * * *

  Monsteron Realm-Waster was one sneaky monster. He was neither loud nor nice, so when he snuck up on Allory for a private conversation, he very nearly frightened her out of the last sparkle of her life. Naturally, being a creature of not inconsiderable ego, Monsteron found this result very much to his liking and his chest-popping, wing-swaggering show of self-congratulation went far beyond what anyone could consider reasonable or polite.

  Most vexing.

  It spared her the inevitable litany of insults. Just one or two to warm him up, before he wanted to talk about the Raptor eggs but, this time, his question was different.

  Allory nodded slowly. “What I understand from the histories was that early on in the history of Spheris, the Wraith sought to bring the Dragons onto his side.” She hoped the small lie was forgivable. “He struck against the Shyraiama Dragons in the belief that they protect Middlesun in more than merely physical ways, is my best guess, and he has done that again more recently with the attacks that wobbled Middlesun. Many, many Shyraiama Dragons were slain in the skyfires.”

  “Isss true.”

  “The Wraith has a very long history of trying to enslave Dragons and Raptors. It tricked and trapped Frakkan the Furious and Lumbarax Plagueborn into giving up mental control –”

  “Famousss.”

  “Aye, and that seemed to be the start of its experimentation with Dragon armies and such. The Wraith liked to send them rampaging across the realms, killing indiscriminately and subjugating nation after nation, and it was said that the Wraith taught them powers which made them invulnerable in ordinary battle – powers that came at the cost of becoming thralls to the Wraith’s might. It was slow. Insidious. It consumed them from the inside. When they thought they were strongest, they were at their most vulnerable and that was the moment the Wraith could not fail in its purposes. That’s what I think it wants with your eggs, see –”

  “Nooosssss …”

  Allory pulled up in surprise at his long, almost wistful hiss. “What do you mean, Monsteron?”

  “Alwaysss, we thinksss ssso.”

  “Uh – aye?” Largely, because it was the truth, she wanted to point out, but something in his manner stayed her words.

  “Alwaysss. All generationsss. All warsss. Long Nosssesss – thisss alwaysss he believesss, Allory Fae. One questionsss.” He raised his paw, a single, massive talon twice the length of Jhoranyal’s favourite spear outstretched as if to spear the very heart of Centresky. “What it wantsss, Allory Fae?”

  His hiss faded into the semidarkness.

  She waited.

  “What it wantsss, more than anythingsss?”

  Her mind lurched into motion. Sparkles seemed to draw together within her from an uncountable number of places and times, from now and just now and just then and long ago and the first laughter of the dawn of Spheris and the glint that ignited the darkest, coldest night of all … and each brought a unique note of knowledge, of understanding, to the fore. Thousands of notes, then millions, more notes than had ever existed or could yet exist.

  “More than powersss?”

  “More,” she echoed.

  “More than all kingdomsss?”

  “More.”

  “More than all magicsss?”

  “More?”

  Monsteron’s monstrous maw dipped very, very slowly. “More than lifesss.”

  Suddenly, in an amalgam of all that knowledge, all the shades and nuances of all she had learned across time, a single answer shone in her mind, “Immortality.”

  The mighty creature nodded slowly. “Immortality.”

  Always, she had understood that the Wraith’s plan involved the Scintillants and their unique magic, drawing upon the stored souls in the soul locket – that was all she had ever known, had ever considered. Was that not what it had pursued above all else?

  Yet in his solemn pronouncement, she heard something else. Something that struck her cold with dread. What if there was more than one way? What if there was a unique quality about Raptor lives, too, that the Wraith sought to leverage in its quest for an eternity of being? Something related to the way that Long Nose seemed able to scent her out across multiple lives that spanned untold generations in the history of Spheris: the nose scented true, with what she had taken to be something as simple – and profound – as a racial memory of scent.

  What if … there was more?

  Would the Golden Purrmaine Felidragons have been so deeply involved, for so long, if there were nothing to it? What secrets were they yet hiding?

  “Monsteron Realm-Waster,” she said shakily, “we must speak urgently with Scholar Yaarah, and we must secure those eggs.”

  “Yesss. The eggsss.”