* * *

THE MUSIC LED them to his seat under the clemktos tree. Halfway across the valley it reached them, full of such force and structure—such power—that the T’carais gave silent thanks that the man had not chosen to use this instrument within the caverns.

He had been toying, past moontime, thought Edger. Indeed, what else might one do with music coaxed from a dead stick?

But this—this was in sophisticated earnest. He had not lied when he claimed maturity for himself…

The man glanced up as they approached, fingers slowing, stopping on the keys. He set the instrument aside, rolled gracefully to his feet and bowed low.

“T’carais.”

Edger inclined his head. “Val Con yos’Phelium Scout. I thank you for the gift of music you freely give our land.” He paused. Surely, he was not mistaken? “Why did you not say your whole name to me, when last we spoke?”

The dark brows pulled together. “Forgive me. I meant no insult. It is possible that I do not know my—whole name.” He tipped his head. “I would be pleased to learn it from you.”

Handler blinked. Did the creature ask the T’carais to name it? Impudence.

But his brother took no offense. He merely raised a hand in the gesture that asked grace and told it, “I will think on this. I also consider that which you asked of me last speaking. These things wait upon my return.”

“I understand,” said the small one, folding his hands before him.

“I hear,” then said the T’carais sternly, “that you have again come near the egglings, thus offending the Broodmother. It was my command that you refrain from these things, what say you?”

Handler blinked again. His brother would judge the thing as if it were a Clan member?

It is a thinking being, he told himself, laboriously tracing the thought of a T’carais. It has attached itself to the Clan, whatever its alien reason for doing so. Should it thus be slain? Or heard?