“There is no alternative. Where we are going we must not be found. We want no witnesses who might return and inform the Eistaa where we are.”

“Where do we go?”

Ambalasi answered only with silence—and the gesture that meant end of communication.

The shocked crewmembers cried out fearful questions and milled about in confusion when the dock-bindings were cast loose and the uruketo moved out into the river behind the sporting enteesenat. They wailed unhappily when the first waves broke over its back as it grew smaller in the distance.

They were still standing there, staring out toward the flocks of estekel* fishing at the river’s mouth, when the first gape-mouthed messengers of the Eistaa stumbled up. They answered the mumbled enquiries with forceful negatives.

The sea was empty, the uruketo gone.

Mer sensta.

TANU DEATH-CRY

We die.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As they moved steadily northward Kerrick was filled with an elation that made him want to shout loudly—even though he knew that a hunter was always silent on the trail. With each forward step he left a little more responsibility behind, walked that much more easily.

He had done what he could to save the city; it was now up to the others to carry on where he had left off. It was no longer his burden to carry. Ortnar’s broad back, running with sweat, moved steadily along before him. Mosquitoes hummed around the hunter’s head and he brushed them away with his free hand. Kerrick felt a sudden affection for him, for they had come a long way together, ever since Ortnar had killed his leashed Yilanè, Inlènu<, and Kerrick had tried hard to kill him in return. There was a bond between them now that could never be broken. That was the reality, that and the forest around him. The city and all of its problems grew distant as they moved steadily north. By nightfall he was very tired and more than ready to stop, but did not want to be the first to order a halt. It was Ortnar who stopped when they came to the grassy hollow by the stream. He pointed at the gray remains of an ancient campfire.

“A good place for the night.”

The words were in Marbak and the thought was a Tanu one. There was no need now for Kerrick to speak Yilanè—or Sesek for that matter—and follow the complicated arguments of the manduktos. Sky and forest, these were reality. While at the end of their march Armun would be waiting. He felt the relief at laying down a burden—one he had not even known that he was carrying. He was twenty-four years of age and had traveled a great distance, through many different worlds, in the sixteen years since his capture by the Yilanè. That night he slept more soundly and more deeply than he had in a very long time.