This is a fan translation of Wrong Time for Dragons (Не время для драконов) by the Russian science fiction and fantasy authors Sergei Lukyanenko and Nick Perumov.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Chapter 8

It grew very quiet over the gigantic Fang.

Ritor waved his left hand smoothly in front of him, as if pushing away an unseen curtain. Gentle streams of wind touched his temples, playing, running across his cheeks. In the skies over the heads of the seven, something was slowly unfolding its wings that wasn't quite a bird, a dragonfly, or a butterfly; white strands were forming a pair of giant wings that seemed to be embracing the entire world, from the Warm Coast to the unknown northern tundras; a twist, another, a third one — and so on without end; it was hard to weave the Lace, especially when it wasn't yet the hour of their full power.

Ritor was setting the tone and the speed. He, the seniormost of them, had to sense everyone and know when it was time to add (if they made a mistake when pouring the power in, the Wind would blow them all to ash), and when to linger, to ease the burden of the old men, Guy and his brother. The old mages were working masterfully. They knew a lot, but the years were letting themselves known. Here, at the top of the Fang, was one thing, while fighting Torn's young mages was another.

They had to find them both. The Dragon and, hopefully, his Slayer. If Torn hadn't been bluffing—and Ritor was almost certain he hadn't been—the Slayer was already supposed to be here. As for the Dragon, who knew?.. Ritor couldn't rely one hundred percent only on his feelings. The coming of the Overlord was not a triumphant parade, especially under the Winged one had gone through the entire chain of initiations. Even Ritor needed sorcery to find the eternal master who had come to the Middle World.

Finding both was a nearly insurmountable task. But, damn it, they had to hold on. Or at least find the Slayer, which was more difficult, as he reflected magic less than the Dragon.

Guy was reaching out. The white wings in the sky were the result of his reach. Like the wind, woven extremely tightly, roaring and raging in a thin invisible tube and furiously trying to get out, Guy was weaving an endless living strand, which Sandra and Solly were curling into an intricate pattern in the sky. Few could've made out the lines of the great Runes that had been brought by the exiles from beyond the Hot Sea in that chaotic interwoven pattern…

Asmund's palm was now soaking wet. The boy was trying as hard as he could, Power was now flowing through him, and he had to receive nearly the entire terrible might of the recoil — the wrath of sleepy mass of the air, awakened from a warm dream, mercilessly thrown into the violent whirlwind over the stone Fang. The boy was trying hard. Every bend in the pattern of the Wings echoed with painful spasms in his lungs — it felt as if a giant pump was mercilessly sucking out the air from them, his ribs were cracking and bending. But Asmund remained standing, and no pain was capable of drowning out his excitement — after all, he was now of the real mages, and the giant Wings were now unfolding over the Fang by his will…

Boletus coughed a warning. The Wings of the wind, floating over the Fang, were drawing into themselves a myriad of tiniest streams of the Air with the entire might given by the mages of the Elemental clan, from every corner of the giant land.

Taking a running start over the vast, slightly hilly, plain stretching for hundreds of kilometers north of the Warm Coast, the raging streams were rushing straight to the Fang. There, at this altitude, a furious roar was growing with every passing moment — the Wind didn't like questions, it obeyed no one, information could only be ripped out of it by force, and woe betide anyone who could not handle the backlash.

Ritor saw Guy grow pale, his older brother sway. Sorry, Asmund, I think it's going to be very painful now. Yes, it's vile, but you're our living shield, and there's nothing to be done about it. Years of endurance pass quickly, Asmund. I, Ritor, wasted mine by chasing the last Dragon… and, as I now see, it was a mistake.

Asmund suddenly jerked. His hand shook, it seemed it was about to pull out of Ritor's grip. The boy bit his lips, and his eyes started to roll back…

"Sandra!" the leader of the Airy ones ordered sharply.

But the female mage already knew what to do. Without breaking the circle of hands, she took a step forward, bent down with youthful flexibility, and pressed her forehead to the boy's own sweaty one. She grimaced in pain but did what was required — the painful vise let go, Asmund straightened, and his eyes focused again.

"Hold on, boy," Ritor told him through gritted teeth. The wave of pain, although significantly reduced, had reached him too. "Hold on. If not for you, then our old men are goners."

It was good that neither Roy nor his brother had heard those words.

Meanwhile, the wings were growing larger and larger. It seemed they were now filling the entire sky. The blue disappeared, dark clouds were covering everything like a blanket from the zenith to the horizon, the day had grown dark, leaving only the white flourishes of wings against the backdrop of the black velvet sky.

Ritor focused. The most important bit was coming. The streams piercing the environment carried news about everything that happened in the land; one just had to know how to ask properly. And Ritor did.

New arrivals from the Underside. New arrivals from the World of the Naturalborn… New… new… new… new among the natives of his land, the Middle World. The Wings were pumping through them entire oceans of "information," as those from the Underside had called it. Ritor was prepared to push his fellow mages almost to the brink of death if it gave him his answer.

If the Slayer was already here, the Air had to know. The boiling blood, the crimson stripe couldn't be seen in the aura yet, but it was there already. The ancient wrath of the Four Elements had touched the person chosen by fate and was already changing them, maybe even unnoticeably from the Slayer themselves. The tiniest particles of the wind would remember that. The raging anger and the thirst to kill, the ability to command others and to head straight towards the goal. As a rule, the chosen to become the Slayer hadn't possessed such qualities before. Ritor knew that personally. The path from a timid, shy boy, a bookworm, and a virgin to the current Ritor had been very long. The best (still the best, despite Asmund's talent) of the Air mages.

The roar in the sky was becoming more unbearable. The great wings were yearning to be free. To flap with their incredible might, to tear away from the ground, to turn the hated firmament into an ocean of dust with a powerful blow, pick it up, and toss it into the farthest sea! To wipe the pathetic bunch of those who dared to ask their insignificant questions off the face of the earth!

But the taut leash was holding on firmly. The hour of Power had come.

The pattern on the wings began to grow dim. The runes were shaking, changing their outlines. Sandra and Solly were staring up with their mouths open. They couldn't recall anything like this happen before.

But Roy could. As could Ritor. And he knew very well what was going to follow.

The wings found what was needed. But along the way they also ran into a nearly impassable resistance. The roaring wind currents, tightly wrapped into an arc, were starting to recover their freedom. In a few minutes, the bonds holding the spell together would weaken, the violent whirlwind would break free, and anyone in its path would suffer greatly!

"Open the sluices, Sandra!" Ritor barked. He couldn't think of himself right now; he had to keep the town safe. Naturally, Ritor had anticipated such an outcome. A path had been prepared to allow the whirlwind to fly off into the empty lifeless steppe.

"Opening!" the female mage replied, trying to shout louder than the roar of the hurricane. Her face was red from the tension.

Asmund groaned again. He'd bitten his lip, his nose was bleeding too, but the boy was holding on.

Never before had Ritor encountered such resistance. The clan's mages had used up all the strength they had, the wings were stretching across the entire sky, from one horizon to another, and… nothing. Or, to be more precise, something. Something so powerful that…

"There he is!" Guy yelled out suddenly.

But Ritor could already see it for himself.

He'd recognized the town immediately. The far north, right next to the Limit, maybe the territory of the Earth Clan. A dusty train station. A train painted in barbaric colors was stretched out along a wooden platform. Ritor was struck by the fear of the people packed inside it like a wave. And then he saw a man, not too young, but also far from old, maybe thirty years old, skinny and dark-haired, in a black jacket with an elven sword in a ridiculous unpaired scabbard.

The might of the Wind was so great that Ritor was even able to pick up on a piece of what was hiding inside the running man.

"…The space around him was melting away, dissolving in the whiteness. He was no longer running — he was flying, dashing through the white night, as if in Saint Petersburg. A single glance back caused his mind to be gripped in fear. A winged shadow was sliding through the foamy clouds. Huge. Fearsome. Deadly. Either stars were shining in those snow-white scales, or they were glowing with their own light. The wings were flapping evenly through the thin air, and there was fury in the huge gleaming eyes. He'd dared to challenge the monster, even though he wasn't yet strong enough to win. And now he was being chased by the ruler of the sky and the master of the depth, the sovereign of the firmament and the lord of the fire…"

Ritor screamed. It was the furious scream of a gambler who had bet not only his own life, but the life of the entire world on the line.

"It's him! It's him!"

He could feel the Slayer, as clearly and brightly as only one such as him could.

At that moment, the wind finally broke free.

Asmund produced a muffled gasp and lost consciousness. Ritor barely had time to grab the body that swayed towards the edge of the cliff.

"Down! Everybody get down!" Ritor screamed, directing the stream of pain into himself. "Sandra!.."

But neither her nor Solly could hear him. Not that they needed his instructions. Spreading their arms, they were trying to hold on atop the Fang, while directing the all-destroying whirlwind beyond the river, into the steppe, as far from the town as possible. The invisible fist of the enraged element struck both their chests. Ritor saw Sandra's head jerk back, saw the spray of smoldering blood shoot up; the female mage swayed, waved her arms convulsively—there was terror in her wide eyes—and fell off the cliff with a heart-rending scream. Solly remained standing with his face warped, with skin popping on his cheekbones, with his eyes tightly shut; Ritor was swept with heat — an indication of how quickly the other mage was switching spells. The unseen hammer had already soared over the town… but Ritor continued to stand there, frozen, holding Asmund's body. Sandra and Solly had been tasked with opening the path for the hurricane. Boletus had been backing them up… and where was he, anyway?!

The roof was empty. No old men, Roy and Guy, and no hook-nosed mage. Only the unconscious Asmund, Solly, and himself. With the latter still holding on to the wings that were ready to explode from inside, as there would be no magic that could save the town if it happened.

Something unimaginable was happening overhead. The graceful pattern of the wings had turned into a white chaos, a stain of living rot on the dark body of the air; Ritor was picturing a face warped in inhuman wrath. The whirlwind was crumpling and tearing this white haze, spinning it in a giant maelstrom over the top of the Fang; the roaring stream wanted to tear off northwest, along the path opened by Solly, but the borders were crackling, as if they were wooden gutters during high water; below, under the cliff, there was only deathly silence — the harbinger of either a devastating storm or… a favorable outcome.

"Take Asmund and get out of here!" Ritor ordered. Solly just shook his head. Ritor had no idea how he was still standing. The wind was cutting the mage's face like a razor. Bones were already visible on his temples. A long trail of blood stretched behind Solly, but the mage continued to stand.

The wind reached Ritor too. It grabbed at his shoulders and dragged him to the edge with irresistible force. Asmund was dragged along the rocks; the boy gasped and opened his eyes.

"Down!" Ritor ordered. The boy couldn't do anything else. "Lens!"

Asmund nodded hurriedly. It seemed he'd understood him.

Ritor tossed him off the edge like a sack of flour.

It was time for Asmund to complete his studies.

Now he had to come to Solly's aid. The two of them had to hold on until the power gathered at the Fang dissipated.

But Solly couldn't hold on anymore. He'd used up everything he had. His face had turned into a bloody mask. The wind tore off his scalp with particular cruelty. Ritor was honestly surprised that Solly was still alive, then forced the mage to fall down with a well-placed push to the back of the knees.

The braces were collapsing and melting away, no one was directing the hurricane stream anymore, and it, in a wild joy of freedom, began to dance, dashing about like a young bull, from side to side, crushing anything it could reach. It would've probably done a lot of damage… if the Air town hadn't been built with just such an event in mind. The hurricane was already past its peak; the fallen fences, broken windows, and an occasional torn out tree didn't count.

When the roar finally ended, Ritor could see from atop the fang the people bursting onto the streets. They were running towards the rock, and Ritor knew that neither Sandra nor Asmund would remain unaided.

Ritor's mind's eye could still see the face of the young man in a black jacket, holding an elven blade. The face of the Dragonslayer.

Victor was utterly soaked. He got undressed, wrung the clothes out, and hanged them along the walls of the compartment. Then he wrapped himself into a thick prickly blanket and sat by the window.

He'd probably gone overboard with a separate compartment. This was an entire room on wheels. The walls were covered in pink silk, and there were two lamps with shades made of colored glass on the ceiling. A massive bed that belonged in a museum, a round table with two chairs, a carved bar made of redwood and filled with bottles and pitchers. It seemed that a moment of comfort had come after the madness of the fight on the platform.

Yaroslav was also looking out the window. Victor was creeped out by the boy's silent restraint. No, it wasn't indifference or cynicism, of course. Still, he subconsciously expected a different reaction from a boy who'd just lost his father and three brothers.

"Have you seen this medallion before?" Victor nodded at the miniature lying on the table.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"It was hanging on the wall at our house. Sometimes Father would bring it with him… when he went away for a long time."

That wasn't very helpful.

"Yaroslav, there's a lot about your world I still don't understand."

The boy shifted slightly, still looking out the window. Hills and copses were running past — a peaceful bucolic landscape. Farther away from the railroad, the forest grew denser, turning into an impassable thicket on the horizon.

"Father said that you wouldn't become fully aware of yourself right away," he answered. "I… I understand. The medallion is the symbol of the Limit guards."

"Your father was a guard. So he watched the undead to make sure that they—"

The boy turned his head and look at Victor in surprise. Now it was obvious why he'd been staring out he window so stubbornly — there were tears in his red eyes, "The undead? Why they watch them? The guards make sure that the living don't hurt the undead."

Victor didn't know what to say to that.

"It's not their fault," the boy said with slight reproach. "They were returned to the world, forced to think and move, even after they were already dead. They'd been robbed of eternal rest, so let them at least have some ordinary rest. The Gray Limits don't allow them to come out and harm the living. But the living… the living can do anything. They go beyond the Limit, finish off the undead, and take decoration, chainmail, weapons off their bodies. Stealing all kinds of things… the undead have their own villages, lots of strange things… we don't need them, but they still get robbed… In the north, where the Limits go through a town, the monks organized an entire institute. They go across the Limit… to study." There was hurt in his voice. "But they're our people, all of them! Humans, elves, dwarves. It's not their fault that there was a battle, and then they were again raised from the dead. My great-grandfather is there somewhere… the last elven ruler and the dwarven council… The guards do their best to scare the people away. We…" this "we" came off as if the boy was in his thirties, "then stayed deliberately. We swore that, since we'd betrayed our brothers by not letting them die, now we were going to protect them. And that's what we do."

"Why was your father robbing?" Victor couldn't help asking. "To scare others away from the Limits?"

The boy lowered his head and said quietly, "No… not only. That too… but life's hard for us. Almost no wild animals, and the land is barren thanks to the Limits. We have to live somehow…"

"I understand," Victor said. He said it forcefully because he still couldn't justify the outlaws' actions. He'd never had the kindness to understand the street thugs or the nice-looking embezzlers that had ruined his country. And, despite everything, he also couldn't justify the local outlaws.

"You're still angry at us," the boy said. "I know. You're angry, but please forgive Father."

"I have. Honest." These words were easier, more honest, and Yaroslav nodded gratefully.

Victor rose, walked across the compartment, opened the bar, and looked through the bottles. He picked out a simple-looking pitcher—in case he had to pay for it—a glass, and returned to the table.

The drink was divine. Not brandy as he'd thought initially, but a very strong and slightly sweet noyau with a dozen herbs that could be made out in its palate. There were some kind of runes embossed on the jug. It was probably an elven beverage.

"You're going to get off at the next station," he commanded.

The boy nodded wordlessly.

"Make sure the Limiter gets buried properly. Then go home. Who do you have left there?"

"No one."

"Are you going to be all right?" Victor asked after a pause. He couldn't let the boy follow him out of pity.

"I will."

"All right. I'm going to get some sleep. Wake me up when we're approaching the next station."

The boy nodded, "It'll be a while. We're rounding the Limits."

Victor glanced out the window, as if it was possible to see the threshold between the world of the living and the world of the dead in that wooded sea.

Actually, it was!

It was a barely perceptible, unclear, but still undoubted presence of Power. As if a powerful stream had passed through the forest, causing the trees to bend a little; as if a squall had sped through, breaking and twisting branches; a quick high-level fire had flown, burning, charring the tips; a cloud of dust had settled forever on the leaves. A line stretching across the forest, thin, barely noticeable — but still alive, even after hundreds of years. The barrier, the border. The Gray Limit.

"In the name of the Four Elements…" Victor whispered.

It was happening again. Something had rolled over him, and he was no longer himself or, at least, not entirely…

"With air and fire, water and earth, I separate you from the living with these eternal forces…" The train shook. The lamps blinked. The boy was no longer sitting in a chair, cowering in a corner and staring at Victor with horror. "And place the Gray Limit between you and those who have yet to die…"

And then it struck him even stronger. As a counterpoint. His mind was enveloped. A fall, a maelstrom, a whirlwind, a flame…

The last ones. The two last ones. Already sensing his strength, already knowing that even they can't beat him. A burning forest, rain pouring from the gray skies but hissing, vaporizing, unable to touch the wet soil. But he just walked through the fire — he had been given that power, the strength to resist all elements.

And the two last ones understood that.

The sky no longer held them up, the air broke under their wings, the rain pressed them down, the earth parted under the monstrous weight of their scaly bodies, and the deadly flame, so obediently incinerating their enemies, was now threatening to explode in their maws.

Then they'd meet him in their human appearance.

And he'd meet them as a human.

It was payback. For the thousand-year rule, for the fury and inflexibility, for the unwillingness to share even a drop of power, for arrogance and pride.

He'd been chosen, and he would become the banner of a new era. The herald of freedom.

The forest parted, the ribbon of a river could be seen in the distance, and he saw the last ones on the bank. A man and a woman, the man wearing black plate armor, the woman in a torn tunic. She'd gotten hurt more in the quick moments of fighting in the skies.

The man in black armor walked forward, towards him. His face was covered entirely by the lattice visor of the helmet. His hand was gripping a sword handle. There was weariness in his voice, but not fear and not even hatred. At least they knew how to lose well.

"Why do you pursue us? We're leaving. We're already on the Trail. You wanted freedom? Take it…"

His words held truth, but the time for mercy was gone.

"You're leaving into oblivion. For I am the Dragonslayer."

The man pulled out his sword. Maybe he still believed in victory. Or maybe he just wanted to die well…

It passed as quickly as it had begun, leaving only a ringing heaviness in his head and weakness in his hands. The train was swaying on the rails, and the unseen border was stretching outside the window, drowning in the woods.

"Who's happening to me?" Victor asked either the boy or himself.

Except the Limiter's son didn't know the answer. And Victor knew even less.

But the kid tried anyway.

It seemed as if the boy was carefully choosing his words, trying to explain in as simple a way as possible something that he knew very well and which had never needed explaining.

"Mages live in clans, at the ocean coast. They don't need human cities. There are Elemental clans. Four of them. They're in charge of the world."

"I know. I've already been told this."

"There are also Totem clans," Yaroslav shrugged. "Shapeshifters. They're capable of shifting… turning into animals. They're weaker, but their power if great too…"

He clearly wanted to continue. Whether the son of the poor Limiter knew much, at the moment it was clearly too much. Destructive vision was once again rising from the depth: fire, water, crumbling mountains, tornadoes sweeping everything in their path. Pain tore through his temples — for a moment he thought that an arrow had pierced his head.

Raising his hand, Victor made the boy stop talking.

He couldn't keep going like this. Everything he was taking in was echoing in his memories, as if in a curved mirror that collected the burning heat of the sun. He couldn't take everything at once. The temptation was too great — to learn everything he needed from the first "expert," to get everything all packaged for him. Something was protecting Victor… or maybe the ones near him.

"Overlord…" The boy was clearly worried, as Victor's silence dragged on.

"It's fine." Victor swallowed the lump in his throat. "You really did help me. I'm grateful to your family for your aid."

Maybe Yaroslav felt the lies in his words, but his worship of the Overlord was too great.

"Is the station soon?" Victor asked.

The boy looked out the window for a few moments.

"Yes… soon. Half an hour, an hour…"

"You're going to get off," Victor repeated. "Here."

He reached for his drying jeans and took out the pouch with gems. He wordlessly separated three blood-red rubies.

"We don't serve you for money, Overlord!"

"I know. But I reward loyalty."

Immediately after Loy Iver's incident with Torn, her informers had to work their asses off.

Where were the Fiery ones?

Why had Ritor been the only Airy one to come?

Why had two powerful mages come to blows? Why had Torn decided to ignore all written and unwritten traditions by starting a fight right at her, Loy Iver's, ball?

What did it all mean?

When something smelled of "burned tails," as the Cats called it, Loy preferred flattery and cunning to brute force. Flattery, cunning, and, of course, good advice. She just needed for the advisers to have no idea that they'd helped her somehow.

She gathered her inner circle, her trusted female friends (assuming such a term even applied to Cats). Only three of them, but that was enough. The odds of failure, as little Loy had been lectured by her grandmother Iver I, are directly proportional to the number of those in on a secret.

Grandma had been the one to choose her friends when the time came… Now, of course, Loy knew that the ever-loyal, always admiring her Kari hadn't become her best friend by accident. The old Iver had known how to see right through people, and since Loy's childhood, she was only surrounded by those who emphasized her favorable traits. That was how the clever but happily staying in the shadow of her friend Kari had gotten attached to Loy.

Even the boys that had started to woo Loy when the time came turned out to be among the very top. The future warriors and rulers of the clan (assuming the word "rulers" even applied to the men of the Cat Clan)… The tales of the madness of the young tomcats added much to Loy Iver's fame after spreading throughout the Middle World. Grandma had been very smart, and when staring at the sunset sometimes, where elderly clan members traditionally went to die, Loy would remember her kindly…

"I sent messengers to the Fiery ones," Loy said. Wind was howling mournfully outside the walls… suspiciously strongly. Had the prideful Ritor decided that he needed to keep an eye on the Cats? Then things were bad. Loy really didn't want to mess with the most powerful mage of the Middle World. "We should get an answer in two days…"

"What answer are you expecting?" Kari asked.

Loy shrugged. This was one of those times when there was no way to guess ahead of time. Typically, answers only served to confirm her own guesses, but now she had to actually wait, and that angered the impatient Cat.

It was surprisingly cramped in Loy's boudoir — in contrast to the ballrooms, that looked very strange. But there was nothing to be done about it. Nature over nurture. The women of the clan only felt truly cozy in such small, dimly-lit rooms filled with soft couches. Now the friends were reclining with a pitcher of their favorite wine standing on a low table in front of each one. But they were barely touching the drinks, silently recognizing the situation as far too serious for a typical fun-filled girls' night.

"It's strange to be stuck at the tail of events," the cutesy Lola, the only one in Loy's inner circle to be from the Underside, noted. According to her, she'd been a great scientist back there — almost like a mage in the Middle World. But Loy had figured out long ago that the tales of those who'd come from the other world contained very little truth. More like dreams…

"How did we miss Torn?" Ota sighed. She actually was a strong personality, a blinding beauty, and a good mage. Loy only kept people like that close to her for a single purpose: to keep them in sight, to watch them, and maybe even restrict possible plotting with deliberate friendliness.

"What's wrong with all of you?" Loy frowned. She couldn't afford to play along with Ota. "We're indulging in regrets? We're berating ourselves for the missed? We're Cats! Stop panicking! We're going to make both Torn and that prideful Ritor dance to our tune! Just tell me, what is the point of contention between them?"

"Definitely not power," the sensible dark-haired Kari noted. "Ritor doesn't care about power."

"Right," Ota agreed. "He never tried to dominate…"

"Ritor has only one passion, but it's a strong one," Lola said thoughtfully. "The Naturalborn."

"Exactly," Loy noted. "But what does that have to do with Torn? There was never any love lost between Water and those remaining on the other shore… Quite the opposite."

"So then it's power after all?" Kari intertwined her hands.

"It's the first thing that comes to mind," Ota shook her head, "and likely far from being true. Ritor never strove for power. And he could have, especially after…"

"What about Torn? He's good… and ambitious. He squeezes the commoners with all available methods. And the Water Punishers know no rest. Could they be quarreling over land?"

"To the extent that they'd be willing to fight at my ball?" Loy threw her head up indignantly. "He's not that greedy."

"Torn had always honored customs…" Ota drawled thoughtfully. "Something truly incredible had to have happened—"

"Let's avoid general terms!" Loy interrupted her friend sharply. "'Incredible'… Such words have no place here. We have seven informers in the Water Clan. I want to know why they've been silent on the matter. I know Fia has been sleeping with Roman, who is if not Torn's right hand man, then at least the left. So why hasn't there been a single word from her?!"

"Could something bad have happened?" Lola noted carefully.

"Bad? To all seven at the same time?"

"Why not? We've been a little arrogant of late. Large-scale failures are a thing of the past. We now see ourselves as equal to the Elemental Clans. What if Torn has been laughing at us all this time, and when he decided to act, quickly eliminated the seven who were working for us? Why are we underestimating him?" Lola countered heatedly.

Iver thought about it.

"All right. Send eight to Torn. The same number to Ritor. And four each to the two other Elemental Clans. Then we'll wait. For now."

"Maybe I should," Ota purred, "…go for a walk. All informers have one major flaw — they lack strategic information. Which means they don't know what to look for…"

For the umpteenth time, Loy was glad she'd noticed and befriended Ota in time.

"No, dear," he answered gently. "No. I'm the one who's going to have to go for a walk."

"Why is that?"

"Because only I," Loy sent her friend and rival the most charming smile, "possess all the strategic information."

Let Ota rack her brain, trying to figure out what else the great Loy Iver knew!