I dance

Twirling butterfly

Living sapphire spark

Into my charnel house

Boneyard bound

STARTING AT THE TOP of the map, the direction incongruously named sunup, Yaarah noted with a wry grin –

“Sunup? How can it be sunup?” Alloy squeaked. She turned a darker blue at the Elven Princess’ knowing chuckle. “What? Do you mean sunup as in how the Shyraiama Dragons reveal Middlesun? Or, am I missing something?”

“How you do tell direction, Allory Fae?” the scholar inquired.

“Well, in relation to my colony,” she offered. Small voice. Smaller Fae. Guess she had never been taught these details. “We never went far. At least, I didn’t.”

Ashueli’s forefinger stroked her back.

Growl! Snap! I gnaw on the fingers of people who are being nice to me!

The Felidragon said, “Those intrepid Scintillant Faerie who fly across mountain ranges and break Princesses out of castles all know that, when they read a map, the top is called sunup in reference to how our Middlesun appears to the naked eye to rise above the Shyraiama Dragons – you are correct – and the bottom, sundown. Therefore we are sundowners – that is, by and large, we are travelling in a sundown direction.”

“Sundowners?” Ash frowned. “The Humans of Durhelm have a flag ceremony at sunset which is jokingly called ‘sundowners.’ Back in the old days, it was a prayer to the gods to keep Giant raiders away for another day. It lost that purpose however and became more of a – ahem – drinking tradition, one might say.”

Allory remembered the Scintillant warriors drinking fermented nectars and berry wine, but almost always in moderation, in a social setting. It had only been recently that she had added the leaves to the bough and realised her Dadfae also drank secretly with his closest friends – they consumed far more potent brews, like sorki-spirits and ursunithe, also called ‘green lightning,’ with its distinctive anise overtones. She had known the whiff of drink since her Faeling days, especially the reek of her Dadfae’s breath when he beat her, but had never known about his habit – and he often smelled different to the others, like bitter aloes …

“Alcohol is poisonous to Elves, so they don’t drink,” the Felidragon observed, drawing Allory back to the present.

The Princess nodded, “Right. The symptoms are a fiery red rash – absolutely unbearable – and then shortness of breath quickly followed by violent spasms and … well, an unpleasant end.”

“Can you treat it?” Allory put in worriedly.

“Alcohol poisoning? Aye. My mother made me learn the necessary steps – however, back to map reading before the Felidragon chews off his own tail in exasperation. Later?”

The Scintillant bobbed her antennae. “Later, girlfriend.”

Ashueli’s green eyes crinkled at the edges, apparently well pleased with this designation.

“All learning is good,” Yaarah purred. The Princess’ eyebrows twitched, drawing a self-conscious cough. He muttered, “True, too true. Many scholars swear an oath to work only for the good of their races and society at large, but there is knowledge, dangerous knowledge … mrrr-frrr, and this is a second discussion for another time. Allory Fae, your birthplace was in a vast, largely unmapped and impenetrable wilderness called the Russet Jungles, if one is being polite, the Jungles of Doom by way of a joke, and the Lethal Pit of Death by a few races, especially Humans.”

As he spoke, he serenely produced a sand masterpiece with his talon-tip. Rather talented! His penchant for particularity translated into detail as delicate and precise as the tracery of veins upon a leaf. She knew she could never have produced anything a tenth as good.

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Allory bit her lip lest an unwise comment disturb his mood.

Cogitate, ruminate, stimulate, scintillate … another impossibility that had crept up on her while she was not paying attention.

“In order to visit our Pixie friends at Healers’ Reach, we veered a touch sun-spinward. Like so, hrrr-frrrt,” he purred. “Here’s a nice dust volcano. Once again flying in a sundown direction, we traversed the Zerbil Mountains at a considerable velocity before continuing on to Durhelm Castle – sixty or more miles sun-anti-spinward along the canyon edge –” catching her puzzled expression, he pointed delicately on his map “– indeed, we encountered the Fire Raptor here. As you know, Durhelm Castle perches on the edge of an almighty canyon area called the Giants’ Maze. Four hundred leagues wide and a mere seventy deep in the sundown direction, it leads on to a thin but fertile band of kingdoms, fiefdoms and realms which overlap the fringes of the Suylas Deepwoods.

“The way out of the Canyonlands is through the Gates of Saradoom,” he said, sketching a slight curve in the sand above the kingdoms. “It’s the only route up from the canyon floor to what are essentially plateau lands beyond, which in turn rise to the great forested heights of Suylas. I’ve never been this way myself, mrrr-frrrt. Always far more sun-anti-spinward, around here. When we reach Marakusia –”

Ash nodded. “Just beyond the Gate, there’s a long, difficult and well-protected mountain pass to navigate first.”

“That detail, I did not know,” the Felidragon admitted. “Alright. So, the pass leads into Marakusia –” the Elf winked sidelong at Allory, provoking a mild, rising growl from the scholar “– which is characterised by wide, open grasslands dominated by fungal life forms. Interesting place, by all accounts. Those grasslands lead up to the Suylas Deepwoods. Behind the fortified forest escarpment lie the twelve great cities of Elfdom, the greatest of which is Ahm-Shira, Princess Ashueli’s ancestral abode – very far over in the sun-anti-spinward region of the Deepwoods. Here’s our problem. Behind this Gate which keeps the Giants out of the Human kingdoms, lie these realms which we shall inaccurately and very loosely call the Axis of Seven.”

“Closer to twenty-seven,” Ashueli put in.

Yaarah gave her a snort of withering disdain. “The important ones number seven. It varies.”

“They like to kill one another off on a regular basis, stealing territories, merging kingdoms and generally making each other’s lives more stimulating,” the Princess translated ironically, earning a nod of appreciation from Allory. “Most notably, Marakusia controls the Gate.”

“Ah,” she said, leaning over the map.

The Felidragon had the cheek to shoo her away before she kicked any sand over his creation by accident.

Mini-glare!

“Ah indeed. Your intuition is on song,” Yaarah complimented her. No sarcasm? “We’re going to need a great deal of sneakiness and lashings of luck to pass safely through the Gates of Saradoom, after which crossing Marakusia itself is of course a breeze –”

“He means everyone and everything will want to kill us,” Ash muttered.

“Do you mind? I am busy pontificating here.”

The royal hand offered a florid wave. Affecting a fancy accent, she cooed, “What a marvellous job you’re doing. Please, my good Felidragon, do jabber on.”

He snorted, “Pretty Princesses should be seen and not heard, mrrr-hrrr. While you’re about it, put a few clothes on.”

“You could put yourself to good use by fire-drying them.”

“Ooh, excellent knowledge on Felidragon abilities there, Princess. Shall I demonstrate?”

“It’s what I do when I’m not perfecting the art of looking vacuously pretty in the hope of scoring a profitable marital arrangement to fatten my father’s treasury.”

“Mrrwll!” Yaarah hissed, biting off the sound between his fangs.

Awkward pause.

Allory blinked rapidly several times at the disclosure. Truly? She had wondered what might lie behind Ashueli’s sudden desire for adventure and a swift departure from Durhelm Castle but, given her mother’s history of being sold off to the highest bidder, she could only imagine what kind of price tag might have been affixed to that gilded cage.

Ouch.

Seemed Durc’s long-term plan behind having a trophy wife was to make a fat profit off a beautiful daughter. Charming. Yet would a rich husband, one of suitable pedigree – owner of a fat personal treasury, more to the point – vetted by the ambitious Durc, also see that inside she was like a fierce falcon, a creature who could never be caged nor have her wings clipped?

Meantime, Yaarah put in airily, “I regret to inform you, Your Highness of Durhelm and Ahm-Shira, that you’re going to need to work a great deal harder on the vacuous part. You’re an unmitigated disaster on that score. Trust me.”

“Yaarah!” Ashueli squealed.

Amazing. Allory began to giggle helplessly. Even the warlike one could be ambushed into sounding like an eleven-inch Scintillant.

As the girls cracked up, the Felidragon took the opportunity to simper outrageously and proclaim what a devastating wit he was. Their cackling, hooting and roaring probably chased all the wildlife away for a mile about. Later, Ashueli showed Allory two basic training blades she had carved out of driftwood she had found in the canyons. Driftwood? She had a vague idea that ought to be found near lakes or oceans, neither of which she had seen in her life. Demonstrating with her own blades, the Princess began to teach her the basic two-handed forms of fighting and self-defence.

Awesome. One day, this Scintillant might be strong enough to spar with the Princess’ littlest finger.

Meantime, Yaarah fire dried Ashueli’s clothing with gusts of superheated yet non-fiery breath. What a talent! Instant promotion to head of the royal wardrobe.