11 ~ Smoke Cat Siblings and the Fairly Fey

Jí´, the nonmortal Eldritch being, stands in a circular room within his pink floating palace which is paneled at regular intervals with large mirrors. And he is spinning magic. Nine faces show in the sheets of reflective glass closest to him, women's faces, most of them patently surprised by what they see.

However, nine is an auspicious number for his kind and, although he has never met the majority of them, they are close relatives of those he does know and trust, making them unusual among humans. Even rarer is the circumstance of his needing their help, for indeed this is why he has asked them to this virtual conference. Ifrit, his beloved and, very recently now, affianced bride is missing. And although his powers are mighty, he can't quite scour the entire world for her. Jí´ hopes, further, to keep this quiet.

In the midst of his anxiety for the Djinn woman known only as Ifrit, Jí´ is conscious of a niggling guilt that he might have played some part in her disappearance. Despite the fact that, as a bounty hunter, Ifrit has acquired many enemies, her prospective groom fears that she may have vanished both of her own volition and against her will. And it's also possible, perhaps, that she went completely unknowingly. When stressed beyond the capacity to cope, it is a peculiarity of her type of Immortal that she can, literally, fly apart.

Each schizont, or coalesced portion of her, will have enough of her magic and substance to solidify into a body, at least for a limited period of time, and will be controlled by some leading facet of Ifrit's personality. It's that indefinite span of time, however, that is worrisome. There's no telling how long she can maintain herselves in these forms, or how willing they will each be to rejoin the entirety of the Djinn female, the woman that Jí´ loves. Did his proposal precipitate this crisis? She is fiercely independent...

Partially, this is because of her own captivity as a slave in a bottle, long ago, when Ifrit was very young. And this has been reinforced by having to rely on herself alone as a bounty hunter. But regardless of the origins of her streak of stubborn, almost absolute, autonomy, it is an aspect of who she is and Jí´ has loved all of Ifrit for... some while. He's not sure himself of how long he has been aware of these feelings. Still, she consented joyfully when he asked for her hand. What can have changed?

The ladies in the mirrors pose similar questions. Is there any evidence, one way or another, that Ifrit split into fragments and fled? If so, where would she be likely to go as each of the major themes in her psyche? And also, if she ran away from Jí´ or from marriage, shouldn't they abet Ifrit?

Jí´ can only answer the last definitively; if she is just made whole again, he will abide by whatever Ifrit decides. But her life depends upon all of the pieces of her being found and recombined into one. There's no direct proof that this is, in fact, what has happened, but it is Jí´'s strongest belief and that of the few oracular guides whom he has consulted on the matter. As for where she would head, that would depend on where she would feel safest at each dominant phase of her development since, disunited, Ifrit is quite vulnerable, yet likely not among the Ethereal Entity Community.

"Very well," acknowledges Smoke Cat Watching. "We of the plains will help you and save her to the best of our ability." She doesn't have to consult with the women to her right and left; the shaman knows Song the Wolf Calling and Springing Doe better than many blood sisters and can anticipate the response of Blue Turtle's wife, Moon Shadow, also. In essence, four of the five women with whom Jí´ is acquainted have now pledged their assistance. Convincing those, he thinks, was the easy part. He needs them all to participate.

"However," adds Smoke Cat, interrupting Jí´'s brooding, "you have yet to tell us what you expect of us. What, exactly, is it that you think we can do that you cannot?"

The fae male replies, "Ifrit will trust you over me for two," and he sighs, "possibly three, reasons. First, as humans you don't pose such a threat in her mind as another Djinn, for example, would. Second, she is familiar and comfortable with many of you in a way that, until relatively recently, she hasn't been with anyone, even me." Jí´ frowns. "And last, it pains me to say it, but our relationship has not been without its stresses and tensions, especially on Ifrit." He frets wearily with a wayward lock of purple hair. "I do not think that our upcoming nuptials alone pushed her over the edge into fragmentation, but I cannot deny that they... that I... might have contributed to her worry." The magical being looks into Smoke's eyes with a cautious hope. "Then, too, we were happy visiting Sun Horse Clan. One of her selves might return there."

Jí´ then proceeds to outline what he requires from the other women whom he has assembled. Syura and Summer Wind are to meet and explore the desert near the oasis that Ifrit took them to; this is her homeland and particularly a "young girl" aspect of her might be found in that vicinity. As this seems reasonable, they acquiesce. Syeha, much to her delight at being included, is to have the relatively tame job of monitoring the bazaar at Jailuha and the environs of the Academy of Magic, to see if Ifrit might feel herself safe in the midst of a crowd.

Shooting Star, however, has no idea what Jí´ could possibly have planned for her. She has never met the Djinn woman and is currently, literally, at sea, vacationing aboard her erstwhile flagship vessel, the Firebrand. Yet, this is precisely why Estel's contribution is so crucial to the male Seaborn Sprite. He explains that just maybe Ifrit might be drawn to his birthplace. The couple had discussed potentially journeying to meet his parents for their honeymoon. That destination shouldn't be ruled out. And Jí´'s origins lie beyond mortal ken, off the charts of the lands they know, to the east.

"Let me get this straight," Shooting Star begins, "you want me to take my ship and my crew into waters that no human has sailed before, chasing the rising sun, on the off chance that I might find the woman that you love?"

"Basically, yes," is Jí´'s reply.

Slowly the former pirate turned ambassador grins. "Well, all right, then. It sounds like an adventure. Why dawdle?"

"There are no maps, but I can guide you," Jí´ offers. "All that is necessary for me to do that is to have a single fixed point," he adds, looking up at Falling Leaves. "I'm hoping that you will agree to be that beacon."

This is the single least outrageous thing that Jí´ has yet asked of anyone and the older woman assents with some relief. Nevertheless, she does have one caveat: "How will you know how many Ifrits you are looking for?" Falling Leaves inquires.

"When we find one, she will know the number of others that were formed," says Jí´ reassuringly. "I only pray that none of them have encountered old enemies or met with something even worse..."

As it happens, after the arrangements are all made and the conclave disperses from peering into Jí´'s Glass Hall, Smoke Cat Watching almost immediately becomes the first person to find one of the Ifrits. Or rather, this aspect of Ifrit has chosen to come to the plains shaman and reveal herself in order to ask for assistance.

She is rail thin, as though made of whipcord, but apparently this is not a sign that she is already having difficulty maintaining a body. This Ifrit, comprised of the bounty hunter traits in her, is simply built that way. "Smoke Cat," she greets her friend, "you have seen Jí´." It isn't a question. The other woman only nods. "Will you refrain from telling him that I am here? I don't want him to know... not yet." There is tension in every muscle of the Huntress as she anticipates Smoke's reply.

"He's very worried, Ifrit," the shaman responds in the same low voice that her nocturnal visitor is using. "Why do you wish for him not to be reassured that... er... this you is safe?"

"Jí´ would want to help me, to come with me on my mission to rescue my second self, but he is more valuable in locating the other I, the third one," explains Ifrit, the Hunter, as clearly as she can, which is nonetheless fairly garbled. "I am the warrior, so I'm best qualified to handle this. And also," she seems embarrassed now, "I would rather that he remains ignorant of why I split until after he goes to sea to search for me... that is what he intends to do, I hope."

"It is," replies Smoke Cat, smiling gently. "You know him well, of course." A brief, echoing smile flits across Ifrit's face, and for a moment she seems wistful, but she stays silent.

"Then, you are currently a triad?" the human shaman clarifies.

"That is correct. Three is a magically easier number to achieve than two or four, but that's beside the point," Ifrit comments. "Will you agree, or shall I go and look elsewhere for aid to save my child self?"

"You don't have to leave. Obviously, we in Sun Horse Clan will help you, and inform Jí´ of just as much as he needs to know, when it is proper for him to know it... but that will be soon, hopefully. I dislike keeping him in the dark. Yet, is there really a purpose to that? Can he not simply appear, wherever you are, when he does get the news?"

"Not across ocean waves," is Ifrit's answer. "Even Jí´ has limitations."

"Well, then, we should gather the others," says Smoke Cat Watching, "so that we can all hear your story at once and you won't need to repeat yourself, especially if the Ifrit in peril is just a child; there is no time to waste."

Ifrit nods. "The men are welcome to listen and give advice, but they won't be able to assist us much when we have actually embarked upon this campaign. Our adversary is female and wily."

"Oh, no!" exclaims the shaman as she prompts the blue woman towards her tent flap. "Another of the huldrefolk?"

"No," states Ifrit, grimly, "it is worse, much worse. I'll tell you more later, but this time we will be facing a rare type of Djinn creature called a zephyr. Being virtually unique, she is very old and extremely powerful, not to mention intelligent and manipulative." Ifrit grimaces in the moonlight, with one hand raised to brush her hair over her face in an ancient gesture of denial and exhaustion. "She also happens to be my mother." 

"So," says Song the Wolf Calling, once everyone has a space around the fire. "I'll ask what we're all itching to know: what happened between you and your mother?"

"First, let me state that I love my mother very much, although it is infinitely easier to do this from a great distance," begins Ifrit. "She is a Zephyr, even more of a wind spirit than I am; following her whimsies as a child was... difficult. And she is extremely devoted to the old ways, when it suits her to be. I thought she had disinherited me entirely, for she disapproves of my bounty hunter lifestyle incredibly," Ifrit sighs, "but apparently she has not... or Mother has changed her mind, which is not an infrequent occurrence. News of my approaching marriage somehow reached her and she decided to ambush me and drag me back to the Desert of Rao, where I would be easier to control and bend to her own ends."

"Clearly, she is vastly powerful, indeed," remarks Springing Doe, "even if she was only partially successful."

"Oh, she did well enough," Ifrit the Huntress nearly snarls. "I saw her grab me by the ear and whisk me away. It was quite a strange experience." For several moments, no one fills the silence while this incarnation of Ifrit considers what to say next. "If it had been anyone other than my mother, I would have have fought tooth and nail but, as it was, I... fell apart. The aspect of me who she holds is just a girl."

"Yet, that is sufficient," Moon Shadow surmises. "What precisely does she intend to do with a fraction of you that will... well... perish without the other shards?"

"I do not fully understand her plans," Ifrit confesses. "To know her is not necessarily to comprehend the way she thinks. But at a minimum, the adolescent who I was will act as bait for myself and the other me."

"Then, she's aware that you're coming. That's unfortunate. However, this 'Zephyr' doesn't yet know about us," finishes Smoke Cat.

"So, what is your plan?" asks Chieftain White Bear. "And are you sure that we men cannot help? We are not without our own wisdom," he chides gently.

"Or without power," adds Shaman Blue Turtle Dreaming in a deceptively low and sleepy voice.

Ifrit smiles fondly but fleetingly, shaking her head. "Certainly, you can aid us with our strategy," offers the blue woman kindly, "and that will be very valuable; yet, to go to the desert? There would be no point. My mother would refuse to deal with you under any circumstances. She has a... poor opinion of the capabilities of men."

Jonas's eyes twinkle. "Her loss, then. I take it that your father did not impress her favorably."

The Djinn sighs. "He was a male of the ifrit species. They drool. Copiously. I... it is a gross understatement to say that I can't always fathom my mother's thoughts and choices. Because of this, because I don't know exactly what her purpose is, it is hard to make a firm tactical plan. I suspect that such a thing would be useless against the elemental nature of my mother, anyway." The huntress shrugs. "Still, there are some things that we can settle. I feel that it would be good to have an advance party to test and assess the situation. It's possible that Zephyr will grow bored with my captivity and be willing to sell me for the magical equivalent of two goats and a camel... to a female dealer."

"That, Jí´ has already put in progress, at least in part," Smoke Cat Watching tells her. "Summer Wind and Syura have agreed to investigate the Desert of Desolation in the area of your birthplace."

"Good, then we can fill them in on their roles when we are done with our discussion here," affirms Ifrit. "Zephyr will likely expect a direct confrontation, as that has always been my style when... er... contending with her in the past. What ploys and details do you have to suggest that my mother will not anticipate, my friends?"

"Until you have a better concept of what she desires," says Star Hawk Burning, "I think that it is best to keep you strategy simple and flexible."

"She'll have set traps for you, right," Grey Owl questions, "since she does know that you're coming to rescue yourself?"

"Oh, yes," Ifrit confirms, answering both men at once, "definitely. Yet, I must nevertheless be among those to sneak in after my girl self... assuming that this is the route, in fact, that we opt to take, because we may have to recombine in order to break free of Mother's compulsions."

"What a charming lady," gentle Moon Shadow mutters under her breath. The idea that any mother could behave so abominably towards her own daughter is repugnant to her.

Ifrit's keen ears hear the observation and she smiles wryly. "Indeed. Mother is calculating. She probably absconded with my immature self due to the increased odds of her 'persuasions' being able to influence that me."

"Would these pitfalls be keyed to your magical identity?" inquires Blue Turtle Dreaming, the shaman of Rolling Thunder Clan, contemplatively.

Ifrit the Hunter nods. "I can't imagine that some or all of them wouldn't be," she confirms.

"Very well," grins Wolf Calling. "Prepare to made as human, or humanlike, as possible."

"It's a good idea, but how?" Ifrit seems wary. "I can disguise my appearance, easily, however the magic that I use to achieve that effect will give away my aura instantly to another Djinn or Fae."

"I think," replies Jonas slyly, "that, in that regard, my talents may be able to assist you... with Blue Turtle's help, of course. I trust that his magical signature would pose no perceptible threat in your mother's opinion."

"What about the pointed ears and red eyes?" whispers White Bear to Springing Doe.

"I'm not certain, Father," she murmurs in return, "but my little sister and our esteemed shaman have been staring intently at that genie jewel that Smoke Cat wears for some time, now. And you know how crafty, and how creative, those two can get when they put their heads together. I'd bet you anything that something interesting is in the offing." 

"Ugh, what is this sludge?" demands Ifrit, staring into the pot from which Jonas prepares to daub her, liberally.

"Boiled tea, orange juice, and... some other things to soften skin and make the color last," he lists absently, giving the mixture a final stir.

"Things?" squeaks the wild and somewhat fey, although not Fae, huntress.

"It wouldn't hurt a mortal; you should be all right," Jonas reassures her. "You don't have any allergies that you didn't tell me about, do you?"

"Not that I know of," she answers tensely. "And this will turn me brown?" asks the blue woman, obviously dubious.

"The orange pigments should balance out your natural cyan color," Blue Turtle explains while Jonas paints the dreaded 'sludge' delicately onto her face and hands. When he is done, Smoke Cat takes the Djinn female aside and does some very fast talking but, when they return, Ifrit is wearing the genie gem and her eyes have turned the shade of the stone. Next, it is the other clan's shaman's turn. He coats Ifrit's lips in a heavily enchanted red salve and dots her forehead once with it.

Suddenly everyone except Blue Turtle Dreaming blinks and stares. To their eyes, Ifrit is now rapidly turning the color of coffee, not unexpectedly, and the red dot appears at her normal mouth height; she is no longer, visibly, over six feet tall. "War Paint," says the pleased shaman, "can also, sometimes, be Bluff Paint," as the building illusion progresses.

Lastly, something must be done about the long, pointed ears. Smoke Cat Watching deftly flips a layer of fine, black gauze over the fae's head, like a mantilla. "This should cause anything sticking up over the level of your hair to effectively disappear," she informs her reluctant model. "It's a modified hole."

The children are delighted with Ifrit's new look, especially her strange shortness, and beg the adults to contact Summer Wind and Syura immediately to see if the dyed skin and sapphire eyes will fool them. "Don't be ridiculous. I made your aunt Summer that color before any of you were born. A little change of hue won't do more than surprise her," Jonas tells the kids, enticing them all away to listen to tales that they've heard before, but about which he always seems to let slip some novel detail.

"Your husband," Ifrit says shyly once she and Smoke Cat are once again alone, "he's so good with your children and their little cousins..."

The shaman smiles affectionately. "Yes, my sisters and I were all fortunate in our choices." For a time there is silence.

"I am... most uncertain about my future," the no-longer-blue woman begins haltingly. "Jí´ is my friend, yet the heart of me that loves him went another way. This me is more cerebral," Ifrit the Huntress admits ruefully. "Marriages between Djinn of fire and air, like me, and the Seaborn Elementals, such as Jí´, are discouraged. Any offspring are, or can be... unpredictable."

"You said that your mother was quite traditional on occasion. Could that objection be what spurred her to intervene, now?" mused Smoke Cat Watching.

"I suppose that it might be her excuse but, without a doubt, Zephyr also has some ulterior motive. She is not bothering to exert herself over the potential... uniqueness... of her grandchildren, alone. Strangeness wouldn't be as much of a stigma in Mother's eyes, as she is odd, herself." Ifrit laughs mirthlessly. "What if...? I really have no precedent for how to be a good parent. And I know how much he loves little ones." The Hunter looks momentarily anguished, despite her claim to be less emotional.

"You must consult your heart, when you find her, of course," the human woman soothes, "but I believe you'll do well. At least neither you nor Jí´ has tusks and slobbers," she teases mildly.

"Assuming that the union is even fertile at all..." Ifrit tries to shrug. "In any case, none of this is relevant, now," the Djinn female insists. "What's important is getting myself away from Zephyr. However, if I am concerned about these matters, how much more frightening might they be for a juvenile me? I cannot help worrying that the child schizont might not be rational enough to want to rejoin with us... or might waste time negotiating for terms and stipulations."

Smoke Cat nods. "No wedding, for example?"

"It's entirely possible. I was always a headstrong child," Ifrit says, with mingled pride and fretfulness. "And if Mother is coaxing the girl me..."

"Would she, the you that was, be open to persuasion from a woman who abducted her?" asks Smoke Cat Watching, startled.

"She's a Zephyr, and she's Mother. I don't know," is the reply.

"We should convey this information to Syura and Summer Wind, as well, then. It's almost time to contact them," asserts the shaman. "They might be able to arrange to meet your younger self, and get some intimation of what's on her mind, in addition to discovering what it is that your mother plans, with any luck."

Armed with Ifrit's directions, Summer Wind and Syura reach the home of Zephyr, her mother, in record time. The plan is for them to pretend to be representatives of the loosely woven governing body of the Eldritch High Court of Law, those who normally would hire Ifrit, and are alarmed at her disappearance. Such a valuable operative is difficult to replace, so going to a certain amount of trouble to recover her services is justified. Or, at least, that's their well-rehearsed story.

Ifrit's mother's home, on the occasions when it suits her to live in one fixed location, is in a large rock formation. The jut of stone is riddled with caves and passages, with tent flaps staked over the lower openings to keep out the sand. It is rather breezy, and quite circuitous, but the zephyr likes it that way.

Desert hospitality practically demands that even the Djinn take in and house travelers overnight, so there is little fear that Zephyr will refuse to see the two women at all. Therefore, once Summer Wind and Syura are admitted by a dark blue, red-eyed boy who might be Ifrit's brother except for his slave collar and cuffs, Zephyr makes an entrance. She glides into the room offering refreshments and warm baths to her mortal guests, in a somewhat flitty and fluttery, but utterly charming manner.

"I mistrust this," Summer Wind murmurs to her mother-in-law as they wash the dust and grime out of their hair.

"Yes, she is too pleasant. I suspect we will find her to be all sweet reason... and completely unyielding," Syura responds.

The younger woman nods. "She's definitely up to something." Then she sighs. "But, of course, we knew that much already." During dinner, Syura's prediction is proven correct. Furthermore, it seems that they will have to verbally fence for every jot of information.

"But, what makes you think that my daughter is here?" asks Zephyr as an opening gambit, after the ostensible purpose of the humans' visit is explained to her.

Syura answers this, "I have a child of marriageable age myself. Naturally, when a bride vanishes on the verge of her wedding, where else would she flee, except to her mother?"

Zephyr's melodious, tinkling laugh rings out. "You must then forgive a parent's caution and protectiveness. I will confirm that she does indeed reside with me, now."

"May we speak with Ifrit, in that case?" asks Summer Wind. "We are prepared to offer a considerable financial incentive for her to return to her previous work, even with a lighter schedule." 

Zephyr's lilac brow wrinkles ever so slightly in an ephemeral display of apology. "I am sorry to be obliged to disappoint you, ladies. That cannot be, however. My daughter, you understand," continues the wind Elemental female, "has been under considerable strain, and is most upset. I am afraid that she is not receiving visitors at the moment."

Zephyr turns her amethyst and pearl smile to Syura, the one that has yet to touch her eyes. "Nevertheless, I am loath to waste your time spent in traveling here; I understand that the desert can be quite unforgiving to mortals like yourselves. Perhaps you could, if it is not indelicate or inappropriate, discuss any potential monetary and other material rewards with me, so that I can relay the pertinent information about them to Ifrit when she is more herself." The game is clear, then. Zephyr is, at least apparently, willing to haggle.

Ifrit the Hunter herself has advised Summer Wind and Syura on what magical artifacts and unique enticements are most likely to appeal to her ever-curious mother, but after a bit more wordplay, Zephyr only sighs and says that this is all terribly interesting and that she will pass the details along to her daughter at her (in reality, meaning the mother's, not the daughter's) earliest convenience. Either the price was not high enough, or mere promises do not suffice to win an audience with the captive blue girl... possibly both. Still, this was not an unexpected outcome, and they continue to chat amicably with Zephyr while they eat and their hostess sniffs the nectar of desert blooms for sustenance.

"I regret that I cannot hold out much hope for your employers, though," sympathizes the purple woman in her dulcet voice. "Ifrit has felt great stresses not only from her formerly impending marriage, but also from her... work life, as well. I believe that she may elect not to resume her prior... career." The pause before each mention of Ifrit's bounty hunting job is tiny, but perceptible, as though Zephyr can hardly bring herself to sully her speech with so distasteful and distressing a topic.

Syura looks confidingly at her hostess. "As a mother, that must be a reassurance and a relief to you. It cannot have been comfortable worrying about a child who chose such a hazardous lifestyle."

Zephyr's nostril's flare, as though the southern woman were usurping her lines of monolog. "Certainly," she replies, almost curtly. 

"Furthermore," insinuates Summer Wind, "I imagine that it is gratifying to your maternal concern to see Ifrit break off her engagement to a male who encouraged this unseemly behavior."

"I would, of course, have spared my daughter the heartbreak if I could have," says Zephyr, regaining her usual wit and aplomb. "Yet, I am compelled to agree with you on that point. The groom in question was unsuitable in a number of respects." She, then, summons her servant and, abruptly bidding her guests a good night, retires.

"We forced her into a corner, conversationally, and she did not appreciate that," interprets Summer Wind, "especially since we are only mortals."

"Indeed. And more than that, I think," surmises Syura, "is that she did not relish having to reveal even her minor prejudices. Zephyr would prefer to present a polished and gracious image, probably so that her true thoughts and opinions are less readable. Also, perhaps, simply because it amuses her to fool others."

The young enslaved djinn, who comes in response to Zephyr's snapped fingers and peremptory "Boy!" spoken into the air, guides the humans to their sleeping apartments. When they are able to view him at their leisure, his features don't closely resemble Ifrit's; it was only a trick of the coloration.

After this, he returns to his post outside Ifrit the girl's chambers. Alone, he lacks the power to keep an ifrit from going anywhere she pleases, but he has been commanded to stand watch and act as an alarm system, since he is fully capable of detecting her escape.

Ifrit, however, has learned wiliness from her mother, and has set out to wind her young warden around her finger as much as possible. "Hist!" she whispers to him now. "Amen! We have guests here, visitors... What are they like?"

"Mortals, miss, two mortal females," he replies carefully. Amen is not an idiot and is aware that the paler blue girl is attempting to charm him. He has not yet decided whether, under different circumstances, he would like to be charmed a bit, but as it is, the djinn lad definitely cannot afford to have divided loyalties.

"Come on, you can do better than that," she cajoles. "They came to see me, didn't they? And Mother wouldn't allow it."

"I'm sure I couldn't say, miss," is all he says.

"They shall see me!" Ifrit decides impetuously. "You will help me, won't you, Amen?"

"No!" he declares. "I must not leave this spot, nor permit you to pass by me unless summoned by the Mistress of the Ring." His red eyes glance into hers briefly and he looks worried. "You're determined to get me into trouble, aren't you... miss?"

"Not if I can find a way to get what I want without it," the girl says magnanimously, unexpectedly candid for once. "Did Mother say they couldn't come to me?"

Directly questioned, Amen uncomfortably answers in the negative. Ifrit the girl had guessed that Zephyr wouldn't bother giving such an unnecessary order; even two of the Djinn or Fae would be unable to find their way around in her home unassisted, so thick with magic was it at the moment, in an effort to imprison and suppress her daughter.

"What would happen if you, from here, relaxed the seals on the doors between them and me, so that they all blew open? It's not your fault if they follow that path."

Silently wishing that he did not empathize with this girl being kept against her will, Amen closes his eyes and concentrates for an instant. That's all it takes to enact Ifrit's plan. "It's done. But I go no further, do you understand? I cannot risk helping you any more than this, I just can't!"

Ifrit the girl is not one to hide her emotions, and she dances around her room thanking Amen quietly, but profusely. "When I escape," she vows sincerely, "I'll find a way to come back for you and free you from the ring my mother holds." The adolescents are much of a height, and she stares into his face intensely. "I don't know how, yet, but I'll find a way. You didn't have to aid me at all, and I won't forget it!"

"I... realize that now, miss," Amen tells her, smiling slightly at the dream.

In a short while, the two human women arrive, very cautiously and alert for traps. Amen staunchly turns his back so that he can truthfully report that he did not see any of this take place. Young Ifrit is delighted with them. "I know you," she practically sings at Summer Wind. "It's hard for me to remember things that happened while I was an adult, but I'm sure that I know you. Your name is... Wind something... or something Wind. I recall it because it's like Zephyr, only very much NOT."

"It is Summer Wind," replies the mage. "And I believe that I'm flattered." She smiles at this roguish child Ifrit.

"I feel that I've met you, too, but I can't be positive," the blue girl states apologetically to Syura.

"That's all right, you know me now," says the older woman, introducing herself.

"And I am Ifrit," she tells them, "but you're already aware of that. Did you come to rescue me?" This is awkward, because the Djinn's mortal friends are not yet ready to implement that part of their plan.

"Yes and no," answers Syura gently. "The two of us came in advance of the others to glean information about the situation here, so that when we do liberate you, we'll be successful."

"I see," Ifrit says. "I couldn't have left tonight, anyway, because Mother would immediately perceive that you were involved in it, and I'm not a strong enough facet of myself to shield you from her."

"That's very smart," Summer Wind confirms. "I'm afraid that you'll have to be patient for just a little longer."

"How long?" demands the girl Ifrit.

"We're not sure," Syura says honestly, reminded of her own child's recent rebellious phase. "What can you tell us of your mother's plans for you?"

The blue Djinn twists her fingers in her hair absently. "It's guessing. A lot of it's merely guessing on my part..."

"That's fine. What do you guess?" prompts Summer Wind.

"Well, Mother didn't want me marrying that guy, Jí´, and that's why this is all happening now. I think... I think someone offered her a lucrative deal, probably a bride price, or maybe just a bounty on my head for a change, but I would be unreachable, and otherwise unsuitable, once I was married."

"That does sound like a bride price, but there is no doubt that you acquired enemies over the course of your career, as well," muses Syura. "Would your mother sell you to someone who would harm or kill you?" Syura continues mildly, while seething internally at the very notion that Zephyr might be so wicked.

"No... no, I believe she wouldn't, but on the other hand, if this person had my best interests at heart, why not let me marry that Jí´ guy?" Young Ifrit sighed. "Mother confuses me. She's been at me, trying to convince me that Jí´ doesn't love me and I don't love him, and that I deserve better. I'd rather not marry anyone at all!"

"No one will force you to, once you're free, not even your other selves," Summer Wind reassures the girl.

"How will you get me out?" Ifrit challenges suddenly. "My mother is so powerful, and then there's Amen... He doesn't want to help her, yet he's a slave to the ring." She blinks furiously, resolved not to waste time crying. "I think he's an advanced down-payment from whoever wants me. Mother never had servants before, much less slaves. She'll get bored eventually, but right now, giving orders is a novelty."

"We are not without magic of our own," soothes Syura. "Each of us is no match for her, but we believe that together we can thwart her intentions and get you out of here."

Ifrit the girl is now completely alert. "You're saying that human magic might be able to compete with Mother, where my own efforts would fail?"

"Yes, we are fairly certain of it," affirms Summer Wind.

"But when? A week? A fortnight? A month? When?" queries the blue Djinn fretfully.

"Less than a month. More like a week... we're estimating," Summer Wind answered.

Something happens, however, that makes even a week simply too long to wait. Three days after the human women depart, Ifrit is summoned by her mother to come and meet an extremely important person. Although everything inside her quails, the blue girl resolutely faces this visitor. And panics!

She knows him, Ifrit is certain of it, and what hazy memories she can recall are not pleasant. Stunned, the young Djinn female listens to Zephyr introduce her to her future husband, but the name swirls away from her frozen mind like dead leaves. This adolescent self is utterly terrified of him, although somehow she knows that he desires her in his own warped way, and that he will not murder her outright. All of her instincts are screaming at her to run away immediately, yet she is paralyzed.

A few minutes later, the girl is infinitely thankful that she was so mute and motionless. As Amen is escorting her back to her rooms, she thinks of a desperate idea which might save her. Relieved that she did not split apart further on the spot, she gives in to her fear and panic, and does precisely that, now. Three pale, wavery, partial Ifrits appear where there was only one relatively stable aspect a moment before. These girl figures have a single impulse: flee! And a single imperative: meet and rejoin once safe.

Amen cannot follow three of her, and, in a move that is as defiant as he dares to be, opts to inform his Mistress of this event instead of pursuing any of the Ifrit slivers. Each, on her own, is too insubstantial for the static spells which Zephyr has in place to restrain and hold, so all of them manage to escape, regroup at a favorite childhood site, and reintegrate themselves into the original girl fragment. But the young supernatural being, wild and fey, knows that she is far from secure as of yet; Mother is undoubtedly coming.

If she is lucky, the other one, the male who frightens her so unbelievably, will not participate in recapturing his promised bride. This is, after all, not his territory, and Ifrit seems to recall that it is dangerous for him to be here, much less to call attention to himself through the working of magic.

Still, a zephyr is enough. A wind spirit suffering from blind rage in the desert becomes a nasty sandstorm, and the Djinn girl has nowhere nearby where she can take shelter. She can only run and hope.

Many hundreds of miles away, Jí´ stands in front of the captain's cabin on the Firebrand, having problems of a different sort with the wind. It is strange to him, being back aboard a ship after all of this time, and at the mercy of the currents of water and air. But good. It feels good to be at sea.

If only they were not having to fight the wind, tacking back and forth diagonally, for every inch of forward progress on this voyage, he could be quite pleased with sailing across the ocean. There is no danger of losing their way; the divining rod that Jí´ has crafted, which looks so much like a magic wand but acts more like a compass, takes care of that, always pointing to his birthplace. Then, too, he cannot be certain that he will find a facet of Ifrit when he reaches his destination. What if his hunch is mistaken? Yet, what other evidence exists?

It has always been his ambition, ever since he learned her name, to marry the proud, blue, Djinn woman. And, he acknowledges to himself, long before that, since it took centuries for her to trust him with her private name, beyond just "Ifrit". Still, if he must give up, or at least delay, those dreams in order to see her whole again, there is no question as to Jí´'s decision. This foolishness about the seaborn not wedding the mainland supernatural folk has strained their relationship enough. He must fix it.

He will even, Jí´ thinks, taking a deep breath, consult his own parents concerning his dilemma. And, both of them being Oracles, they will have no choice about about whether or not to assist him; they are duty-bound to do so. His turning out to be a throwback to his maternal grandmother, who also lacked the gift of prophesying, was a great disappointment to them, he knew. Hence, although they still possessed a genuine affection for each other, the purple-eyed man and his family grew estranged. Jí´ had left for the mainland of Visharvé.

Although Jí´'s kind don't technically sleep, they do benefit from periods of dormancy during times of extreme stress. Therefore, when Shooting Star comes to awaken him from his rest in the morning, she has several things to report. Firstly, they have sighted land overnight, shadowy isles far in the distance.

"Regarding your homeland..." Estel queries, "you called them the Floating Islands. Do they really float? I mean, do the islands actually have no anchorage to the sea floor?"

"Yes, and then no," Jí´ confirms. "They're truly afloat and not anchored down."

The captain sighs. "Then, I suppose that I cannot blame my crew for their superstitions too much. They are refusing to go ashore."

"That's all right," the male Djinn tells her. "I can easily fly to the nearest isle from here."

"Perhaps," the human woman suggests, seeming a tiny bit diffident, now, "it might be better if you took a longboat, nevertheless, just for the morale of my people." She grins. "Also, some few of us would like to observe this phenomenon, even if there is nothing in particular to see from above," continues Shooting Star.

"Thank you," says Jí´ gravely. "That is encouraging. I may have a considerable search ahead of me to find Ifrit, or rather, a part of her, and the companionship is welcome."

"She'll be here, somewhere," comforts Estel. "Your reasoning is sound, I believe, that she might come to the site where you planned to spend your honeymoon, particularly if she wants to be found by you, and you alone. Your Ifrit doesn't sound like an overly romantic or sentimental woman, but she must be completely devoted to you if she's seriously considering spending the rest of your very long lives together. Then, too, it never hurts to trust your intuition, even if you're not precognitive."

The other important thing which the captain has to relay is that her ship's chaplain and magician, Uncle Aindhuin, which means Long River, has heard from Smoke Cat Watching near dawn. She, in turn, was passing along the information which her sister and Syura discovered in the great Rao Desert of Desolation to the south.

Jí´ is at once relieved and incensed that young Ifrit is with her scheming mother, and that her Huntress self wished to keep him out of the loop until it was too late for him to make a decision about whether to help her or not. "At least we know that she is a trio, and that the other two thirds have been located. Thankfully, preparations are well under way to rescue her girl aspect. Also," he states wryly, "she has never been stupid."

"What I don't understand is, if Zephyr thinks so poorly of men that she won't even deal with a male adversary, why is she doing business with this mysterious groom?" wonders Shooting Star. "If, in fact, it is a bride price that she's interested in."

"That will have to be investigated," Jí´ promises darkly.

For a moment, Estel lets herself contemplate the tremendous power that these beings whom she's become involved with contain. But, on the other hand, they have interpersonal problems like everyone else. She shrugs. "Well, all ashore that's going," the captain announces, motioning Jí´ towards the longboat. Her once first officer who is now Captain Cross in his own right, the boatswain's mate Rod, and Irayo the cook accompany them, leaving Uncle Aindhuin in command of the ship.

As predicted, there is little unique about this beach to differentiate it from those of non-floating islands, except that the coral reef protecting it from the waves of the open ocean will bob up and down when struck with sufficient force. Chalk cliffs rise beyond the gleaming, ivory sand. It is exceptionally gorgeous.

A woman awaits them on the white sea strand. It is not Ifrit, but rather a fair-skinned woman who, like Jí´, could pass for human except for her purple eyes and hair, and a hint of a pointed tip to her ears. She wears a thin veil of sheer, colorless fabric over her face, fluttering in the breeze; however, the family resemblance is clearly visible and most striking.

"Mother," the male seaborn Djinn greets her, dipping his head slightly.

"My son," she intones, "it has been a long time. Now, you return bringing mortals to our islands." Her words are absolutely neutral, betraying no sense of whether she disapproves of their presence mildly or is fuming at the offence, yet she does not seem thrilled by their arrival.

Shooting Star, as captain, begins to open her mouth to respond or introduce her human crew, but she stops at a quick warning glance from Jí´ and silently allows him to handle the confrontation.

"Yes," Jí´ replies with a faint edge of defiance. "So you see, even if you didn't foresee. Will you bid them welcome properly, or shall I do it on your behalf?"

"That will be quite unnecessary," she says, flowing forward gracefully to offer her hands in a broad, inclusive gesture. "This is an unprecedented pleasure. I am the Oracle of this isle. My son will tend to your needs and wishes, I'm sure. He's quite resourceful."

"Of course," murmurs the male Elemental, since her benevolent joy is conveyed with perfect, cultured smoothness, as well, rendering the Oracle... to put it nicely... the ultimate ambassador. "So, do you know why I am here, Mother, or have you had no relevant vision?" Jí´ asks his estranged parent with equal hauteur. Then, before the Oracle has time to answer, his stiff formality crumbles. His shoulders twitch and he bows his head a little more. "I need your help!" the son says miserably. "Yours and Father's."

A moment before it would have seemed inconceivable to the human onlookers that this regal woman would rush to embrace Jí´, despite his lengthy absence, yet now she does precisely that, holding him close and stroking his hair. "It will be all right," she soothes.

"Is that a professional opinion?" he queries swiftly, eager for news.

"It will be all right," Jí´'s mother repeats gently. "Come to the house. Your friends must be tired of standing on the beach."

The path winding up and inland from the sand is sun bleached as well, lined with ecru crushed clamshells, and the mid-sized building to which she leads them is built of creamy-hued stone. Even the furniture on the veranda is made from some naturally pale wood that weathers to almost bone whiteness.

"Don't your people believe in color?" whispers Shooting Star to Jí´.

"Those able to foretell the future are surrounded by pristine... and, er... unobtrusive, pallid tones. It's religious," he explains. "Ordinary folk are free to be as colorful, and as distracted by patterns, as they choose."

"She wears violet," protests Estel.

He nods. "Likewise, my father wears a bit of blue. You can't control your hair color," Jí´ states, for clarification. "Although in ancient times, it was mandatory for Seers and Prophets to shave their heads."

"Oh," the captain replies, left with no further comment in her culture-shock.

"Growing up in this house..." Jí´ grins. "I was a very messy child."

His mother turns and gestures for them all to sit. After a round of introductions, during which they are instructed to address her informally by her title of Oracle, she gets down to business. "You have consulted with your sister in the mountains regarding your problem, I assume," Oracle questions Jí´.

"Yes," the Eldritch male responds, "yet, although she now lives on the mainland and is, therefore, more conveniently located, Seeress is not so talented a visionary as the two of you. She was able to give me hints and corroborate some guesses but was not sure enough to be overly specific."

"She is still very young and lacks experience," the Oracle says indulgently. "Her gift requires nurturing."

"I know that, Mother, and I don't blame her, but under the circumstances... I had to come home," Jí´ utters with the vaguest quaver in his voice.

"Two of my children gone from the Islands, and only one of them telepathic," laments a blue-haired man just joining them from the interior of the house. "Yet now you're home, my son, if only for a visit, and prompted by great need." Ji's father carries his veil instead of wearing it over his grey eyes.

"Do you know where she is, Father?" Jí´ asks intently.

"Yes, I do," is his answer. "Or, let us say, rather, that I know where one aspect of this Ifrit of yours was several days ago when a blue heron plunged from the sky, exhausted from her flight, and transformed into a Djinn female. I have had no vision of her since then. Pavilion Island, as you know, is protected from even our prying eyes," he finished, smiling.

"It is a small islet belonging to my family," Jí´ explains, "set aside for lovers.

The son would have jumped up, elated, had not his father laid a peremptory hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure that you can find it with your mind in this tumult?" the Prophet inquires. "The path that the islet floats is so erratic that, in truth, few other people wanted to bother with it," he elucidates for his human guests. "It requires peace and patience in order even to locate where Pavilion Island will be at any given point in time."

"Since calm is required, I will become calm," Jí´ proclaims. "And my peaceful reflections lead me to two conclusions," he continues after a considerable pause. "One is that you would have seen her had she left Pavilion Island, so logically, she is still there. The other is that you are not telling me everything."

"A beautiful bird-woman does not simply fall from the clouds every day, my son, and people were curious. Some even managed, more or less by luck, to find the islet. The rumors they spread are... not good," states the older man, grey eyes steady and serious.

"Is she hurt?" Jí´ queries fearfully.

"No, I don't believe that she is wounded, for the creature they describe seems hale enough, but they say that she is a raging fury who drives everyone off the islet violently," reports Ji's father, the Prophet. "So far, no one else has been injured, either," he quickly reassures his son, "so there's no cause for detention or trials. Still, it would be better if you took her away and helped restore Ifrit to herself as soon as possible, for a number of reasons, and before the situation has time to escalate."

Jí´ is able to guide his small crew unerringly to the islet in question, vacant except for the Pavilion due to which it is named. None of them pass beyond the breakers, however, save for himself and Estel, by his expressed wish. "I have a hunch, let us say, that you should come, but they should not," he tells her.

"Are you sure you have none of the gifts of foresight of your family?" she teases him.

"Well, perhaps a tiny bit. Not enough to mention," he answers.

There are stairs cut into the rock going up from the beach, and they follow these to the pavilion at the summit of the low mountain. On a terrace overlooking the water, Ifrit is dancing. It is an alluring, seductive dance, but somehow also sad. Then she whirls, spying them, and comes running towards them, an unidentifiable passion naked in her face. The sheer intensity of this wild and extraordinarily fey Ifrit is almost terrifying, and Shooting Star can understand both why people ran from her, and why, once they fled, she pursued and beleaguered them.

Suddenly she seems to recognize Jí´, stops pelting towards them and begins to saunter, sniffing the breeze occasionally as she draws close. Amazingly, she says nothing. This facet of Ifrit is, so far at least, entirely nonverbal.

Jí´ is murmuring now, his eyes locked on hers, telling her not to worry or be afraid. Still silent, Ifrit's expression is now one of mingled longing and wariness, as though she cannot quite believe that the man she wished for has finally arrived. Virtually overcome by emotion himself, Jí´ reaches out to this mercurial side of his Ifrit. Tentatively, she stretches out her hand also, and a tremor runs through her at his touch. Then she is in his arms, tears unshed in her eyes, attempting to climb into his lap despite the fact that he is standing and she is half a foot taller.

He starts to brush away the sparkling tears, but Ifrit nips at Jí´'s thumb, and when he tries to speak, she takes advantage of his parted lips to kiss him deep and long. Estel feels rather superfluous to this affectionate reunion. Idly, she observes that this Ifrit seems to have few, if any, inhibitions, and surmises that her role is to remind Jí´, should he be in danger of forgetting, that he does.

Some time after a human couple would have fainted for lack of breath, Shooting Star asks, "Jí´?"

Recalled with a start to a sense of his surroundings by the sound of his own name, Jí´ tenderly disentangles himself... well, partially, at least... from Ifrit. The blue Djinn, not being an idiot, senses that the interruption of this interlude is due to Estel's intervention, and glares at the woman.

"My love," explains Jí´, resisting Ifrit's insistent tugs toward the curtained alcoves at the pavilion's center, "we cannot stay here. Do you remember why?"

The mute, but reactionary, Ifrit glares again at Shooting Star. "No, Beloved, it is not her fault. You don't know Estel, yet, but she will be your friend." Jí´ takes a deep breath, not wanting even to say it. "We can't remain because, if we do, you'll die." Finally, the wild, free, and supremely fey, Eldritch female's concentration is broken by the activation of a different instinct: self-preservation.

Carefully, Jí´ relates to this third of Ifrit each of the major events that have happened since she split apart, in as much detail as he is able to provide. Some of the complexities of the story, he fears, go over her head; she is not stupid by any means, but she is profoundly heart-driven and impulsive. Incorporating so many checks and precautions into their plans seems silly to Ifrit's tumultuous, emotional side. Actually, any advance preparation at all is not her forte; playing things by ear is much more her style. "Will you agree to return with us?" Jí´ asks quietly when his recitation is finished. Ifrit looks down at him with mute appeal. "Soon, we must go soon," he tells her, mentally willing her to comprehend the urgency.

There is no ethically taking Ifrit anywhere without her consent, of course. Plus, she would merely fly away, again. Therefore, Jí´ has been his most earnest and persuasive, a man renowned in Fae and Djinn circles for his silver tongue. For an instant or two she draws away from him, apparently in hesitation, and his pulse nearly stops. But, thankfully, she has done this only so that she might walk beside him without tripping them both and, with the faith of a child, this embodiment of Ifrit's heart tucks her hand into his.

The trio slowly descends the steps to the beach and Jí´ is conscious of both frustration and regret at leaving the place, even though he intends to return once Ifrit and he are married. Whenever that may be. Suddenly it occurs to him that not all of the emotion he is feeling originates within him.

Even Estel is sighing wistfully. This Ifrit is more dangerous than Jí´ previously thought. Whether she is consciously aware of it or not, she is projecting her feelings strongly to those around her. Perhaps it only makes sense. After all, she seems to be unable to communicate with words; this telepathic ability could be manifesting in compensation for that. However, if she is to journey for long aboard a limited, enclosed environment like a ship, this must cease... or at least be severely curtailed in range, lest Ifrit's heart make the entire crew one raw nerve.

How this is to be accomplished, however, escapes Jí´'s ordinarily nimble mind. So, once they have rejoined his parents, he broaches the matter first to Ifrit, separately... who does not appear willing to understand anything beyond the fact that they are finally alone... and, then, to the company in general.

"Yes, my son, that is quite a problem," his father agrees.

"Fortunately, you have a love bite on your neck," his mother adds, as Jí´ blushes furiously and turns up his collar. "Which gives me an idea."

Her husband the Prophet allows himself to grin suggestively. "Not that sort of idea!" says the Oracle. "Which is exactly my point. I should have felt... something... during their little... er... interlude, but I didn't, not while Ifrit was focused on our son."

"You're right!" assents Shooting Star. "It was the same way when they were... wrapped around each other on Pavilion Island. All that I recall feeling, then, was awkward."

"Mother, that isn't a tenable long-term solution," Jí´ protests. A moment later, inspiration hits him, as well. "But if the essential element is just her concentration..." he conjectures.

"Then all you should have to do is hold Ifrit's attention," Jí´'s father finishes for him. "In whatever manner seems appropriate to the situation..."

"And, obviously, cuddle. I strongly recommend that you cuddle," says his mother sagely. "It will help a great deal, I believe."

Jí´ is surprised to discover that he's not blushing, again. "I don't think that will be a hardship," he replies.

"What about when you rest?" asks Estel. "Does this facet of Ifrit need sleep as well?"

"I doubt it. Hopefully, you can befriend her, and keep her listening to you on the rare occasions when I go dormant," Jí´ advises.

So it proves to be and, thus, it is settled. Jí´ sits talking to Ifrit for hour after hour, and no telepathic symptoms occur in anyone else. Estel finds that the blue Djinn woman is remarkably easy to make friends with; all that is necessary is to show her a little kindness, and an open heart.

Initially, it was suggested that Jí´ and Ifrit might be able to travel back to the mainland of Visharvé via a magical portal, after first entrusting the divining rod to the captain to guide her home, again. However, unfortunately tests of the device at that distance turned out to be unreliable. Communication with Smoke Cat or Falling Leaves has been sporadic, as well, but that isn't inherently dangerous. The seaborn Elementals, other than Jí´ himself, have shown little interest in a mechanism which might transport them to a land that they have no wish to visit; therefore, further research on the matter is tabled.

The passengers and crew of the Firebrand have not long been embarked on the return trip when word reaches them that the young third of Ifrit was somehow pushed into division and dispersion herself, and then, thankfully, reintegrated from the three wisps of that self. Ifrit the Huntress has been able to sense the further fragmentation as a debilitating ache. Jí´ and Estel deduce that it was more than a mere case of seasickness, then, that caused Ifrit Heartstrings to vomit repeatedly over the side on the previous day. She must have perceived the splitting as well, but been unable to communicate what she felt.

Once again, due to the increasing gravity of the situation, the portal system is tried on an inanimate object, but the ship is apparently still out of range, currently. And there is no way to hurry the ocean. Estel's magical luck might have a mitigating influence upon the weather, occasionally, but her powers are not infinite, whereas the sea virtually is. Jí´ is fretful, now, and this sensitive version of Ifrit is more than capable of picking that up from him.

Estel, as the ship's captain, is forced to step in to prevent a feedback loop from forming. The methods she employs are rather rough and ready, but have the virtue of being simple and effective. Shooting Star empties a pail of water over the seaborn male's head, telling him sharply, "It will be all right!" 

"I beg your pardon!" Jí´ sputters in outrage, too incensed even to dry himself with magic. "That was absolutely unwarranted!"

"No, I disagree; something drastic was clearly necessary!" Estel maintains emphatically. "And, moreover, I'm just quoting your mother. She said those exact words. Twice. It will be all right! Now, you must stop depressing Ifrit, because that just rebounds further on you, not to mention my crew, and soon the emotional magnification will spiral dangerously out of control."

Jí´ blinks water from his eyes, finally waving his hand in a theatrical, though totally unrequired, gesture to dry himself. "Thank you," he offers contritely. "You are right. And you are a good friend to us."

Still, it is hard on Jí´, and even difficult for Estel the pirate, knowing that soon Ifrit the Hunter and their mortal friends will be actively carrying out a daring rescue of the girl Ifrit, which will either succeed or fail, not merely without their participation, but (relatively) long before there will be an opportunity to send them news of the results. Jí´ has never felt so impotent and powerless. Waiting rots! It is not a sensation to which he plans to become accustomed!

Instead, he finds himself cuddling his aspect of Ifrit as much for his own comfort as for hers. She, of course, responds with such enthusiasm that he cannot avoid being cheered into believing that, just possibly, "It will be all right". Furthermore, it is good to know that his bounty hunter bride has a very passionate side. He is reasonably optimistic that this information will come in supremely handy in the future.