Fritti Tailchaser had been born the second youngest of a litter of five. When his mother, Indez Grassnestle, had first sniffed him, and licked the moisture from his newborn pelt, she sensed in him a difference-a subtle shading that she could not name. His blind infant eyes and questing mouth were somehow more insistent than those of his brothers and sisters. As she cleaned him she felt a tickle in her whiskers, an intimation of things unseen.

Perhaps he will be a great hunter, she thought.

His father, Brindleside, was certainly a handsome, healthy cat-there had even been a whiff of the Elder Days about him, especially when he had sung the Ritual with her on that winter night.

But Brindleside was gone now-following his nose toward some obscure desire-and she, of course, was left to raise his progeny alone.

As Fritti grew, she lost touch with her early perceptions. Familiarity and the hard day-to-day business of raising a litter blunted many of Grassnestle's subtler sensitivities.

Although Fritti was a bright and friendly kitten, cle\er and quick-learning, he never fulfilled in size the promise of his hunter-father. By the time that the Eye had opened above him three times he was still no larger than his older sister Tirya, and considerably smaller than either of his two brothers. His short fur had darkened from the original cream to apricot-orange, except for white bands on his legs and tail, and a small, milky star shape on his forehead.

Not large, but swift and agile-conceding some kitten clumsiness-Fritti danced through his first season of life. He frolicked with his siblings, chased bugs and leaves and other small moving things, and mustered his green patience to learn the exacting lore of hunting that Indez Grassnestle taught to her children.