In the ancient Banyan tree, the Wishbird lay still and silent. His breath was thin, the thread between the King and himself growing ever weaker. Soon it would break, and when that time came, both would die, and so would the city, for its heart would be lost forever.

But death did not worry the Wishbird. He had lived for a thousand years and more.  And he would go on living, in another shape, another form – in the clouds, in the earth, in the lakes and seas.

What did worry him was Oriole. Sweet Oriole.