With that the young king drew himself up and hurried to the fire, which rose high before him, wild, red and orange, crackling and pouring smoke into the air. He raised his arms high, his fingers stretched wide, and the fire grew bigger while the flames grew hotter. The onlookers shielded their faces, and the king calmed the flames so that they reached little more than twelve feet high.

  He held his arms out wide and the flame grew wider.

  He spun and lifted a leg and raised only one hand and the flames in the middle stilled. The fire shrank back, and then a piece of it rose up.

  It was a bird and it flew among them in a wide circle.

  While this happened, Clement danced. He danced a dance like the elves had danced when Windston first saw them. He hopped in circles on one foot, switched it for the other and turned the other way, his head wavering and then banging forward and back, his fists clinched and his arms moving as though he was jogging.

  The bird, which was about the size of a horned owl, returned to the fire with an explosion of sparks and a cloud of smoke that rose and then stayed. It was lit bright by the fire beneath it. And then it lit even brighter so that it was light gray, and then white.

  Images could be seen briefly in it.

  And then Clement said: “Look into my mind; you will see it in the smoke!”

  He danced more vigorously and there was the sound of mighty drums despite that no one was drumming.

  The smoke glowed brighter again, and then they saw the forest they were in from above.

  The view below rushed past as if they were flying. Great flapping wings of bright yellow fell and rose. They were seeing through the eyes of the mighty bird, and then they saw it up above as it passed; it was enormous, giant and yellow, its wingspan easily covering a quarter mile.

  “I am in the mind of the bird; the bird is in my mind. We share a mind, and we will merge completely. This is a covenant we share. This is the oath I swore when I accepted the great bird's fire within me and it deemed me worthy.”

  Drums drummed harder and faster as the bird rose higher into the sky. It flew further north faster than any of them could have dreamed it could. It was now way up in the air. It stayed there, frozen, and it looked down on what was the Witchee Woods and a great field of grass beyond it.

  The field continued for miles and miles and miles and miles. It was rocky here, hilly there, but always green. This is what the bird saw despite that night had fallen. The bird did not see night, for everything is day to the great fire bird.

  “We shall cross the Witchee Woods again and we shall leave to find these fields. We will go north and north and north. For miles. Forever, it'll seem.”

  The bird flew forward more. There was a great rushing river that flooded from the northeast and cut across the valley of grass, soaking it.

  “I will continue north and east alone. My friends who survive this flood will go elsewhere – I cannot see that yet.”

  The bird flew more northward. Each time it flew the ground passed by so fast it was a blur. The blur continued. And then there was a drop. The drop was steep but the bird was not dwarfed by it. A blue swamp of little islands. And then an ocean of gel and ice islands covered in sludge and muck.

  “Here my friends go, in greater danger than ever before. Yet they do not know. Up, up, up they'll climb.”

  Just then, Frem let out an eek of a scream. He was hopping, reaching for something. It was blue, and then it glowed brightly; it was the key that vibrated, the first key he'd shown Windston; it was ice blue and bright and shining and rising and moving north toward the fire.

  The fire exploded in a rushing wave of icy blue colors when the key met it. It shot up into the smoke and the smoke projected it as a larger key than it was. It hovered there, and then, behind it, a great mountain like none they had ever seen rose up. On it, jutting out of its western side, there was a tower of ice, jagged and straight. There was a hole in its side, and the bird peered within and saw a man with hair like Clement's. He was distraught, wailing and tearing away at his hair, at his clothes, at himself – but nothing ripped and nothing broke. He did not blink and his eyes were wide in horror. He screamed and wailed. He shouted.

  “There he is!” Clement yelled, groaning. “There is the man who made your sword!” he yelled. “So, he is alive!”

  The man in the smoke suddenly looked at him and his eyes shrunk to something more normal. The two were face-to-face, eyes locked. The man in the smoke reached out and there was an arm reaching out from the fire. Clement wailed and a great yellow flame erupted from his wrist, covered his fist, and rose up like a jagged, flaming sword. With it, he swiped at the smoke.

  All went dark as the flames were snuffed. There was coughing and grunting and moaning and groaning.

  After a moment, Frem remembered himself and lit his hands aglow. Clement was lying there, draped backward over the stump; but he was alive and stirring.

  One of his men ran over to him but Bombo beat him there. He lifted the young king and set him upright.

  The king leaned into him, coughing. And then he straightened, thanked Bombo and stood.

  “I overreached,” he said. “These powers are new to me. It appears they are less strange to others, particularly those who dwell in towers of ice.”

  He turned to the boys and Bombo. “Is that where you head?” he asked.

  Windston nodded, and Frem, who looked first at him wide-eyed, and then at the king, said, “Give it back!”

  The king coughed but he was smiling. “I have nothing,” he said. “That was a projection. Check your baggy if you like.”

  Frem furiously ripped at his bag and pulled it open. With a finger lit, he moved the keys about and counted aloud. Suddenly, he paused, lowered his eyebrows, raised only one, and stared at Clement. “You're a witch, aren't you?”

  Clement laughed. “A witch?” he asked. “I prefer wizard, if you must know.”

  The other elves laughed.

  “No, I am neither a witch nor a wizard. And that was no magic. Though I do know a spell or two.

  “I'm an elf and perhaps more than a bit of a Gitran. We’re the last in a hybrid stock – the last of all. We keep a few spells dear to our hearts. Others, we observe but do not chant.

  “No, this power you witnessed was strictly energy channeled from the bird. I find that I can do this now, as of today, as I have said. But it is powerful play, and I know this now.”

  “I don't believe you,” Frem said despite Windston's hushes and Bombo's head shakes.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Are you a mage yourself?” Clement asked.

  Frem shrugged. “I know a few things.”

  “Do demonstrate,” Clement said. “Come. Step forth. I command you.”

  Frem crossed his arms. “You're not my king,” he replied.

  Some of the elves laughed. Others stared sternly. Regardless, Clement calmed them by lowering his hands in gesture. “It's true, I'm not your king. But I'm a king, and the only one here. This camp I claim as my domain.”

  Frem laughed a long, drawn laugh.

  “What do you find funny?” Clement asked him.

  Frem stopped and raised an arm, which he used to point a finger at Bombo. “We have with us a king who's more of a king than you'll ever be. Tell him, Urumobombo, chieftain of the black lion tribe.”

  “Is this true?” Clement asked. “Are you a king?”

  Bombo cleared his throat. “I am Urumobombo, chieftain king of the black lion tribes of the white lands east and beyond called Saria.”

  “You are the skin-changing king of Saria?” Clement asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

  Bombo nodded.

  There was a pause, one during which he looked to be searching his mind for words to say. “Well met,” he finally said with what Windston took as a forced smile. “Anyone else?” he asked, looking at Windston, and then Frem. “Are there any Armassi kings present? Any lords of Valas, Galsia, Kreuger, Cor or the smaller kingdoms?”

  Neither said anything.

  “Very well, then. You are still outranked even if your friend is not. So, everyone but King Urumobombo is under my authority, and even he, I believe, recognizes I am king of this camp.”

  Bombo nodded at Clement, who nodded back.

  “As king of this camp,” Clement said, “I deem it necessary for mister Frem to demonstrate his magic. Green boy,” he said in a fake accent and clapped, “do come forth. Come, now.”

  Frem sighed. “I don't know magic. But I can fly and shoot balls of energy from my hands.”

  “Do show,” Clement said. “I insist.”

  “What do you want me to shoot?” Frem asked.

  “Um…” Clement said, stroking his chin. “How about me?”

  “What?” Frem asked.

  “Yes. Chase me and shoot me, if you can. Yes indeed. A fine idea.”

  “You think so?” Frem asked through gritted teeth. “These aren't little popper balls, you know. If I hit you, you're probably dead.”

  The elves laughed, and Clement bowed so low that his hair touched the dirt. Still bowing, he raised his head and smiled at Frem. “Prepare to be amazed,” he said. “For I am Clement the Heath of Mannley, and I eat little green boy energy blasts for breakfast!”

  He leaped between two trees and rebounded from one to the other and back as he rose high into the sky. From the top tree, he dove beyond the camp, west, and then north. From there, he jumped and leapt and jumped from tree to tree.

  Frem watched, and then he leaped. He soared up and up, and then he saw him, Clement the Heath, skittering down below.

  He launched his assault.

  Blast after blast after blast he shot. Again, and again. From high. From low. From right behind him. From right beside him.

  Clement dodged each one. The others, he batted down. He batted one here and swatted one there. One, he tossed and threw right back at Frem.

  This dance of dodges, swats and explosions carried on around the camp for nearly five minutes. And then, in a puff of smoke, Clement suddenly vanished.

  Frem looked high and low for him but could not find him.

  And then, there was a yip, and the king had leaped from a nearby tree and fallen right onto Frem's back.

  He wrapped his arms and legs around him, and then rode him like a surfboard last minute as Frem swooped above the ground. In every instant Frem turned to fire on his annoying royal nuisance, the nuisance vanished again, this time in a fizzle of sparkles.

  Instead of landing on Frem, he appeared just before him and head-butted him.

  As Frem fell, Clement caught him, slung him and tossed him. Just before Frem crashed into a tree, Clement pointed at it, and it bent out of the way before snapping back into place. Finally, he drew a picture in the sky with his pointer finger from a distance and cut it out just as Frem flew into it. Quickly, he drew it again overhead and Frem fell through it and landed hard on the ground with a plop.

  There, he rolled and coughed while all the elves laughed.

  Neither Windston nor Bombo found it very funny, but rather found it terrifying; if he could do that to Frem, he could probably do that to them.

  “That,” Clement said, his hands on his hips and staring down at Frem with a grin, “was a little elven-Gitran magic.”

  The elves cheered and Clement bowed as Frem stood and brushed himself off.

  Coughing and sputtering, he said, “I hate witches. They suck.” Most gasped while others among the elves grabbed the hilts of their weapons. “But you're pretty cool, I guess.”

  The cheering grew louder. And then drummers drummed, flutists fluted, and dancers danced. A barrel of beer was tapped, and the fire was fed logs elves chopped with glowing hands. There was more feasting, lots of drinking, and plenty of storytelling. The elves here, as it turned out, were the king's own hunting party, hand picked from among the best of the best. There was Ulius and Gorgrond, Hominy and Elgreth. Hoopus, Limbdon, Hiatman and Steelus. And then there was Drawdrey. These all came and spoke with Clement and the boys and Bombo. There were others still, but they were drumming, fluting, or dancing. And then there were the fallen.

  “To those brave souls we lost,” Clement said, pouring out a drink.

  The others cheered and raised their cups before downing their ale.

  Bombo didn't even bat an eye when Frem grabbed a drink for himself and Windston.

  Windston, who wasn't a fan of the way it smelled, only took a few tastes. And then he simply sat beside Clement, with whom he felt he desperately needed to speak, though he didn't get the chance.

  When he awoke, he had forgotten what he meant to ask.

  That day, they hunted. That night, they drank and made merry again.

  For three days, they lived like this. Clement showed them magic and explained to them a few theories the elves have about the nature of reality. One demonstration was very interesting to Windston. Clement had requested Windston's sword. With it, he gave a magical demonstration while drums drummed, and the elves chanted.

  “This sword,” he said, eyes closed, “this mighty relic, the creation of that doomed man in the tower of ice…” He paused, breathed deeply into his nose, and then breathed out again. “We can learn much simply from pondering its existence here in our plane. What, we wonder, is it? Why is it? Why is it here? Where will it go?

  “It's a piece of vampiric energy slowed so that even now, since its inception of… many, many years ago…” There was a pause during which he swallowed and shifted his position to that of a lotus. “Many hundreds of years… since that time, within itself, right now, so little time has passed that it is less than a quarter of a second old divided by quarters and quarters and quarters a million times over. And yet, its space that it takes as it moves throughout time trapped in its own time is blessed with a spell of blessed fire, reactive flames that… live in real time – our time.”

  He opened his eyes and smiled at Windston, then Frem, then Bombo. “This sword is in two times at once; its, and ours.”

  “How old are the dragon seeds?” Frem asked.

  Clement closed his eyes again and held out a hand. Frem hesitated before placing one in it. “Older,” he said. “As old as dirt. Older. Older than the star near us, if only as a concept. Physically… they're... I cannot tell. I cannot see a time between a few months back and a year more than that, and then the past is so blurry – so deliberately blurred by somebody. Somebody has blurred the past over these keys. Somebody powerful has done this deliberately. It is a stain of smudge on the very essence of historical time. Nobody, I'm afraid, could perceive what lies beneath. These keys,” he said, “are truly a mystery.”

  “Seeds,” Frem said.

  Clement shook his head. “They’re keys and I believe you will see that. Though I can't tell when.” He opened his eyes and smiled at Frem just as he had smiled before.

  With a sigh, he stood, but Windston remembered what he had wanted to ask him before and quickly asked it. “You said there was a tangerine girl following me.”

  Clement chuckled, touched his shoulder and briefly paused, eyes closed, before shaking his head and walking away toward the fire, where the spit was being turned one final rotation before dinner.

  “I've seen tangerines,” Windston called after him.

  “I would tell you,” Clement said, “but I've been asked not to.”

  “Who asked you not to?” Windston demanded.

  Clement turned and smiled. “A tangerine.”

  This was on night three. This was the last night before they packed up camp and left for the northern plains.

  They packed the camp before dawn, divided it among themselves, and filed north along the trail in a caravan of men, some pulling small box wagons. There, the trail ended, and there was only to go into the Witchee Woods, which they did with great regret.

  Inside, they ate, napped, and then lay a trap for the dog. Clement snatched him, and then they fled, north and east, as fast as they could run.

  They were all fast. Even the lowly of the elves were nearly as fast as Windston, and the carts seemed to be made for this.

  By noon Witchee time, during lunch, they broke out of the jungle and found themselves overlooking the same field they'd seen in the smoke, an endless meadow, grassy and blotched with blue and green and yellow flowers. Rocks broke the terrain in places, mostly on or around the higher hills where berry trees grew, and off in the distance east, shrouded by mist or cloud, mountains grand and cold stood rocky and broad and tipped with frost.

  At dawn they camped. There, they drank and sang and made merry. There was little to fear there, said the Mannley elves about the fields.

  They did this day after day, night after night.

  There were no towns, or even villages, for many miles.

  On the eighth day, just after breakfast, they felt thunder in their feet despite the clear yellow sky dotted with little gray clouds tipped with orange here, silver there.

  This was the rumble of a stampede of feathered drakuls, a great herd, and it was headed straight for them.