The creatures in the cabin crowded around the table as Gawjo Swifteye outlined his scheme, sketching on the tabletop with the point of his dagger. It was a risky proposition, calling for stout hearts and warriors who would not flinch from danger, but it was a good plan. Song watched her grandpa, the stern face and lazy eyes, deceptively quiet voice and perilous easygoing manner. Recalling Janglur Swifteye, her own father, she knew now where he had inherited his bravery and skill as a warrior. Pride flooded through the young squirrelmaid. Swifteyes were a breed of creatures to be reckoned with!

*

An otter and an aged mouse watched from the slave pens in the courtyard of Castle Marl, as the funeral procession of Queen Silth passed by. In the lead strode the Marlfox Lantur, clad in a purple velvet cloak, trimmed with silver. She wore a polished wood mask, with grieving features etched upon it. Behind her marched the elite guard, armored in shining black, purple pennants hanging from their spearpoints and shield bosses, blacked with firesmoke. Next came the palanquin, draped with white silk curtains, inside which rested the body of the High Queen Silth, founder of the Marlfox dynasty, wrapped tight in the cloth that had once masqueraded as the White Ghost. The entire thing was borne on the shoulders of threescore paw soldiers with bowed heads and measured steps. All around and about the procession, Athrak and his magpies flew, carrying weeping willow twigs in their claws and cawing harshly over the sound of musicians playing dirges on flutes in time to a steady drumbeat.

The otter shook his head in disgust, whispering to the old mouse, “Lookit that ’un walkin’ in front, Lantur. Hah! She’s laughin’ behind that mask, matey, I’d wager a season’s vittles on it. Wot a sham it all is! Everybeast on the island knows Lantur killed ’er own mother. Take my word fer it, cully, there ain’t a beast walks under the sun wickeder’n a Marlfox!”

The aged mouse tugged his otter friend’s whiskers. “Stow that kind o’ talk, pal. If Wilce or Ullig ’ears you they’ll ’ave yore ’ead for sure!”

Banks of torches blazed on the plateau at the lake edge where the bearers set the palanquin down. Musicians ceased their playing and Athrak’s magpies fell silent as they perched on the nearby rocks. All that could be heard were the fathomless waters lapping at the steep island sides and night breezes causing the torchlights to whurr softly. The water rat Wilce stepped forward and presented Lantur with a scroll, specially written for the occasion. The Marlfox unrolled it ceremoniously and read its contents in a voice artistically choked with emotion.

“No more on our isle will your presence be,

Or your voice sound like some silver bell,

Like summer smoke, you have gone from me,

My grief is too mournful to tell.

Great High Queen Silth we commend you,