“Marag. Murgu.”

The answer came quickly, too fast for him to understand, though he recognized murgu—and something else. Sammad. Yes, sammad, the sammad had been killed. That was what the words meant. All in the sammad slain by the murgu. That was what she was saying.

She. Unbidden the word was on his lips. Female. She was linga, the other dead one, hannas. Male and female. He was hannas too.

Understanding grew, but only slowly, a word, an expression at a time. Some words he could not understand at all; the vocabulary of an eight-year-old, all that he had ever known, was not that of a grown woman.

“You make noises at each other. Is there understanding?”

Kerrick blinked at Vaintè, leapt to his feet, and stood gaping for a long moment before the meaning of her question penetrated the flood of Marbak words that filled his head.

“Yes, of course, Eistaa, there is understanding. It moves slowly—but it moves.”

“Then you are doing well.” The shadows were long, the sun below the horizon, and Vaintè had a cloak wrapped about her. “Tie it again so it cannot escape. In the morning you will continue. When you have perfected your understanding there are questions you will put to the ustuzou. Questions that will need answers. If the creature refuses—just remind it of the other’s fate. I am sure that that argument will be a strong one.”

Kerrick went for a cloak for himself, then returned to sit on the sand beside the dark form of the woman. His head was filled with a clash of words, sounds, and names.

The woman spoke some words—and he realized that he could understand them even though her movements were unseen!

“I grow cold.”

“You can speak in the dark—and I can understand.”

“Cold.”

Of course. Marbak was not like Yilanè. It did not depend upon what the body was doing. It was the sounds, just the sounds. He marveled at this discovery while he unrolled some of the blood-soaked skins from the dead man, then spread them over the woman.

“We can speak—even in the night,” he said, wiping his sticky hands on the sand. When she answered her voice was low, still fearful, but curious as well.

“I am Ine of the sammad of Ohso. Who are you?”

“Kerrick.”

“You are captive too, bound to that marag. And you can speak with them?”

“Yes, of course. What were you doing here?”

“Getting food, of course, that is a strange question to ask. We should never have come this far south, but many starved to death last winter. There was nothing else we could do.” She looked at his outline against the sky and felt a great curiosity. “When did they capture you, Kerrick?”

“When?” It was a difficult question to answer. “It must have been many summers ago. I was very small . . .”