This was the way his friend came. The path his uncle the T’caraisiana’ab had taken only last suntime.

With the echo of the wonderful sounds the soft one made in his head, the T’carais’amp ran down the path, coming in time to the clearing and the ship.

He barely paused, only sniffing the air to find his friend’s scent. The ship he ignored—it was far too small, even if it were possible that someone would live in something that smelled so. His friend’s home must be further on.

So he continued—south, with but an occasional wishful hint of his soft friend—and sunrise found him well away from the place of the Knife Clan.

* * *

IN SPITE OF the yellow flowers, Val Con made camp in the clearing on the bluff. It was a good place, protected and spacious, with a pool of icy water off to one side, away from the flowers.

He stared at these, hand twitching toward the machete in his belt.

They really are quite beautiful, he offered diffidently; and it is true that Daria would have loved them.

Will you spend your life destroying everything Daria might have loved? If so, best start with yourself and let the innocent universe be.

He pushed the hair from his eyes with a sigh and turned away, automatically choosing a place to build his fire. Kneeling, he began to cut a shallow pit, carefully thinking of nothing at all.

Tomorrow, he reminded himself some time later, as he went in search of rocks to line the pit, it’s down the hill and into the flatlands.

Depending on how long it took to find a way around or through the bog he would be back at the ship tomorrow night or mid-morning the day after.

He spied a flat stone and bent to retrieve it—

“Arraaw!”

Val Con dropped into a crouch, stone forgotten. He stayed utterly still, listening to the echoes of the roar.