The fifth-largest continued, “Two dozen sharp-pricked little prits. Had they but hatched, they’d have quelled and mastered all these stingless freaks!”

“Eggs, prits,” hissed the littlest head. “Freaks!”

“Yes, stingless,” the fourth-largest head of the wyrmking echoed. “That’s all the wyverns were before we hatched. When our folk slaved among the thrice-cursed dragons, none bore a sting. We, Lynex, were the first. We bred our line into a race of wyverns—independent, strong!—not those cringing wyrms our folk had been. We made our followers hunters, capturers of prey, no longer puling scavengers, eaters of the dead.”

Another head took up the thread. “And for years upon years, our line bred true. We ourself sired most of the eggs our females laid. The stingless ones were few and easily destroyed. But now the One grows old and sires no more. The eggs the unicorns crushed were our last brood. Now stingless ones hatch nearly as frequently as those with stings! Some females refuse to eat such young, hide them away instead to keep them safe.”

“The old queen knew how to find and devour them,” its companion beside it interjected. “But she is dead now, and the One has lost interest. He dozes his hours away, content to let others address our woes…”

“But others do not remedy as they ought,” another interrupted. “The stingless peaceseekers are becoming a troublesome faction. They speak out against the spring hunting. They themselves seek only carrion to eat—”

“Carrion!” squawked the next-to-smallest head, and the fifth-largest spat, “Filth!”

“They refuse to take fellow creatures’ lives!” the fourth-largest ranted. “Pledge not to hunt living prey!”

The voices of all four of the smaller heads had risen, becoming both louder and more shrill. They hissed and squabbled among themselves until the two middle-sized heads—flanking the largest, still-sleeping visage—jerked awake. Clear, crystalline eyes fixed on the smaller four, the middle-sized pair rose hissing.

“Stingless freaks,” one crackled.

Its mate echoed, “Witless ones, more like.”

“Still your prating tongues before you wake the One,” the second-to-largest muzzle cautioned, reaching to sink its fangs into two of the smaller four in turn. All of the little heads leaned frantically away, but the necks of the middle-sized heads were longer.

“No more talk of peaceseekers and unicorns,” the third-to-largest head commanded. “Such dross troubles the dreams of the One. Our late queen is gone, but our fire burns on.”

“Hist! Hist!” the youngest head broke in. Behind, the fire was nearly out.

“Quick, lackwits!” the second-to-largest pate snarled. “Feed the flame. If it dies, the One will snap you four off at the chins and devour your brains.”

“You were ordered to watch,” its companion, the third-largest, berated. “A fine mess you have made of it, too. This torch is the last in all our dens, to be hoarded and tended with utmost care!”

Frantically, the four smaller heads snatched up tinder and twigs to add to the dwindling fire. At first it seemed they had smothered it, but then smoke curled up and bright tongues of red and yellow burst across the fuel. The two middle-sized maws snicked and snorted, the four smaller pates sighing with evident relief. Five of the wakeful, coherent heads turned to cast angry, hopeful looks toward the chamber’s egress.

“Where in all the dens is the wood gatherer?” the third-largest demanded of the one beside it. “Could it be the stingless peaceseekers again? You know they preach life without reliance on fire.”

The second-largest muttered. “Fire savages the blood. Fire first gave us stings and a taste for live meat…”

All five watching the door continued to grumble. Behind them, the wyrmking’s one great, original head dozed on. Meanwhile the littlest face watched the bright, short-lived flames consuming the last of the firebrand’s fuel. For a few moments, the fire guttered, fizzing, then shrank still further. It became a blue flicker, vanished in a waft of pungent smoke. Sudden chill swept the room. The nostrils of the five other waking heads flared. Gasping, they wheeled to gape at the shadowed remains of the burnt-out branch. Not a sound broke the stillness but the tiny maw’s whimpers.

The eyes of the one great head snapped open, stared for a moment at the newly darkened chamber. The only light now illuminating the den was a distant lightwell’s feeble glow. Lynex’s central head reared on its muscular stalk. All around, the other crania writhed, wailing, even the second– and third-largest. The great head ignored them, glaring straight at the empty fireledge, now nothing but ashes and char. The wyrmking’s knifelike claws dug into his gleaming belly below his savagely scarred breast.

“Which?” he growled, voice deeper than any Jan had ever heard. “Which one of you let my fire go out?”

Jan felt himself in motion again, rising, pulling aloft. He left the crystalline dens of wyverns beneath the Hallow Hills and crossed the Plain, traversed the Pan Woods. He found himself hovering above the Vale once more. The snows had passed. Another ceremony, similar to the kindling that had marked winter’s onset, was now under way. Again unicorns circled the great bonfire, still burning. The air had warmed, cool yet, but with the promise of balmier days ahead. Some of the herd were already shedding their heavy shag. It had been another mild winter, Jan could see: thanks, no doubt, to the weather wych, Jah-lila.

After the dancing, Teki again ascended the council rise. This time he sang of Tek’s flight from the Vale, how his foster daughter had carried Jan’s unborn offspring through bitter snows and taken refuge in the wilderness with her then-exiled dam. He praised the pan sisters Sismoomnat and Pitipak who had delivered Tek and described the torrential floods that had overwhelmed the murderous warparty Korr had sent against her in the spring.

That had been the ending of Korr’s power, if not his madness. Jan had returned from captivity among the firekeepers just as Tek and her newborns had made their own return. The lay ended with the reunion of mates and Jan’s embracing his twin filly and foal. Many of the youngest listeners had drifted into sleep. The fire priestess, Ryhenna, addressed the herd, reminding them that once moon reached its zenith, the bonfire would be tended no more, its flames allowed to flicker out, coals left to cool.

This night, however, she added new words, urging all full-grown unicorns to sharpen their hooves and horns, then tread as she now trod upon the embers rimming the dwindling tongues of flame. Into these she dipped her horn, holding it in the swirl of fire that it, like her fire-hardened hooves, might toughen beyond all previous strength, the better to pierce the wyverns’ bony breasts.

Eagerly, all of fighting age complied: newly initiated half-growns, seasoned warriors, elders, a dozen of whom formed the Council which confirmed all kings’ judgments and granted each succeeding battleprince his right to rule. First Tek, then Dagg, then Jah-lila and Ses, followed by Teki and the rest, bent to run keen ridges of spiral horn against flint-edged heels, honing both edges in the same smooth stroke, then came forward to join Ryhenna.

Those colts and fillies and suckling foals still waking looked on with longing. Too tender for war, they were forbidden to sharpen their hooves and horns. At last, the long procession ended. Their elders, weaponry now tempered, returned from the council rise and lay down among their offspring to doze the weary night till dawn.

Jan watched the moon climb, pass zenith, decline. The whole valley lay silent, still—except for furtive movement atop the rise. Jan beheld his own sister Lell, barely five years old, not yet initiated, clumsily keening her hooves and horn. At last achieving a respectable edge, she crept forward, ears pricked and eyes darting. Gingerly, she stepped onto the bonfire’s coals, dipping her young hoof into the last red wisps of flame.