It was nearly six years before I saw anyone but a member of the Avolayla clan. In that time, the clan changed: children were born to the Vralas and some of the oldest Idoks died. Sometimes Halaavi and I slept with babies and little children between us, and sometimes we sat through the night with the bodies of the dead. With every one of these rituals, I was woven a little tighter into the clan. My universe shrank to this single clan out in the wilds, but time enough passed that my universe expanded again. Clan meetings out in the vastness of the eastern grasslands is a rare thing, avoided because of the mechanics of pasture and the way an unknown person can disrupt an entire clan’s mood. But there are times when a clan meeting makes sense. When there are goods to trade, or when the unpaired grow restless and forlorn. When they need news. It had been at least ten years since the Avolayla had had outside contact, and the Idoks suggested it was time to seek another clan out. Decisions are slow and careful among the Droma; it took months for the other generations in the clan to agree or disagree with the Idoks’ suggestion. Kishva and I spent a lot of nights facilitating discussion amongst the Vralas. Decisions are unhurried; discussion is circuitous. No direct suggestions are made, only stories that imply one view over another. Kishva and I were there to make sure everyone was heard, and that those who had stirrings of doubt were pushed to speak. It was exhausting. I found the inefficiency of it maddening. In the Empire, where we have so little control over our own lives, we are not used to so much drawn-out participatory consideration. Eventually, the clan reached consensus. We decided to seek out the Shallai.