He looks out onto the waters, but the surface lies still. The fight that exploded so suddenly has vanished into the depths and he still cannot explain it. Truth to tell, he hesitates before he disembarks, recalling that moment when he saw Nokvi in the flat face of the merman who attacked him. Nokvi is dead, devoured by his allies—some of whom are not, after all, his allies any longer. Or perhaps some of the merfolk were never his allies at all.

He comes ashore. First Son bears his standard behind him. His counselors move in a group, whispering among themselves.

The SwiftDaughters stand in their ranks by OldMother's hall. They wait, so beautiful in their sharp metallic hues: copper, silver, gold, iron. Snow lines the valley, a white tracery among the fields and rocks. Small ones race down from the main hall, shouting and laughing, and they tumble into place before him, some of them on two legs and some on four, nipping and snapping and pinching and shoving. They are born with the instinct to struggle and compete. Yet he notices that there are fewer four legs and more two legs than is usual among the litters.

Sensing his interest, they fall together into their packs and become silent. Watching him.

They are half his size but growing fast. In another year they will be full grown and in a year or two after that they will be what humankind would call adults: as smart and fast and strong as they will ever be, the new generation of Eika warriors. He has himself after all, only lived through ten or twelve winters since he hatched from the nests. Their life is short, but after all, a short life is all most creatures on Earth can expect.

"Answer me," he says to them sharply. "Brute strength and bright baubles will not give you victory."

At first they answer with silence. The old, fading warriors and younger home troops and the human tribe look on. This is the first time the sire has met the hatchlings.

One among them speaks up boldly. "Then what?"

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I am First Son of the Third Litter."

He nods.

"First," he says, "observe. After this, learn. And when this is done, think. These are the three legs on which we stand."

"We only have two legs," says First Son of the Third Litter. A different small one snickers.

"What is your name?" he asks the snickerer.

The small one flinches. Never a good sign. But after all, not all these will survive, nor should they. Some will never grow beyond a reliance on brute strength and swift running. It is those who observe, learn, and think who will thrive. Who will rule.

"Third Son of the Sixth Litter," says the snickerer. "There are four legs also. Three is between two and four, but there is no creature with three legs."