"I’m sorry to have upset you," said Mokleb. "Let me take a moment to review my notes. Just relax, Afsan." Mokleb was quiet for a time, shuffling papers. The steady wind continued.

After a while, Afsan said, "You know, I do find you fascinating, Mokleb. You’ve got a keen mind."

"Thank you."

"I wish we could spend more time together." A pause. "Novato and me, I mean."

"Of course," said Mokleb.

"It is warm today," said Afsan. And then: "We spend so little time interacting, one with another. There’s so much about other people that we don’t know. I wish…" Afsan trailed off.

"Yes, Afsan?"

"I, um, I’ve got to go. Excuse me, please."

"Our session isn’t over yet."

"I know, but I — I really should be going."

"Do you have another appointment?"

"No, it’s not that. It’s just…" Afsan pushed up off the boulder. He nonchalantly brought a hand to his neck, feeling the slight puffing of his dewlap. "You shouldn’t have sat upwind of me, Mokleb."

"Too many pheromones?" she asked in an innocent tone.

"I’ve — I’ve got to go," said Afsan. Gork, who had been sunning himself nearby, took note of the fact that Afsan had risen and padded over to him, rubbing against his legs. Afsan groped for the beast’s harness. "I’ve got to go," he said again, and with that, he began to walk away.

An average Quintaglio life span was four years, each of which was eighteen thousand days long. Novato was about to become officially middle-aged, her life half over. And for almost one full year now, she had been wrestling with her emotions.

She had laid a total of sixteen eggs so far in her life: eight by Afsan, eight by Garios.

She remembered laying them. For the first clutch, she had gone into the creche in Pack Gelbo, had squatted over the birthing sands, and, one by one, the soft-shelled eggs had come out. Without any instruction, she’d known exactly how to move, taking a sideways step after each egg had been deposited so that they ended up in a circle, their long axes pointing toward an empty space in the center. Passing the eggs had been painful, but there had been a deep satisfaction in knowing that she was contributing to the ongoing development of the Quintaglio race.

Other clutches of eggs had already been laid there. As she stood at the exit to the chamber, Novato had looked back one final time into the room. If it weren’t for her fresh footprints across the sand leading to her own clutch, she wouldn’t have been able to identify her eggs.

She’d never expected to see those eggs again. But word soon came, from one no less famous than Var-Keenir himself, that Afsan might be The One foretold by Lubal. The eggs were rescued from the creche (the creche masters, it turned out, kept meticulous records), and Novato and her clutch were taken aboard the Dasheter to Capital City for a rendezvous with Afsan.

And so it came that all eight members of that clutch got to live, and that Novato knew exactly who they were. It was a bizarre feeling at first, going against everything she’d been taught. According to the eighteenth sacred scroll, children are the children of the Pack, not of any one individual. But these children were her children; there was no question of who their parents were.

She had known them all: Kelboon and Toroca, Dynax and Drawtood, Yabool and Galpook, Haldan and poor little Helbark.

Her children.

Not just the Pack’s.

Hers.

Novato had been moved to mate with Afsan when she was just sixteen (and he was thirteen). For two kilodays, she’d wondered what would happen when she became the normal age for reproduction. Would she be moved to mate again?

The answer, it turned out, was yes.

By that time, Novato had taken up residence in Capital City, where she was director of the exodus project. And when Novato found herself calling for a mate again, Afsan, now blind, was far away, touring Land with Emperor Dybo, trying to rally support for the exodus.

And so she had coupled with Den-Garios. He was a fine fellow, a good fellow, a fellow who in all ways was desirable, a fellow who — and still it hurt to contemplate this — was not Afsan.

By Garios, she’d laid another eight eggs, this time in Capital City’s much larger creche.

But there had been nothing special about those eggs. Seven of the eight hatchlings were swallowed whole. The only special treatment they got, because Novato was a minister now in Dybo’s government, was that the culling had supposedly been performed personally by Mek-Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest.

So one hatchling remained.

But seventeen clutches of eggs had been hatched at approximately the same time.

That meant there were seventeen possible candidates for being Novato’s son or daughter.

Seventeen.

Statistics were easy to obtain. There were nine females and eight males. But specifics about parentage were unavailable. Novato had thought she might be able to find out by using her newfound authority, assuming records had been kept. Dybo had said that she could issue any orders she deemed necessary. But people would want to know why she required the information and, well, she wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that.

As the kilodays went by, Novato wondered less and less frequently who her ninth child was, although she did find herself keeping track of the seventeen hatchlings. Two of them died in childhood, one of the same kind of fever that had earlier claimed little Helbark. One more was killed on his first hunt, and two eventually left Capital City for other parts of Land. Still, she followed the lives of the thirteen who remained in the Capital with interest.

But as Novato approached the end of her second year of life, she found the question of who was her unknown child occupying her thoughts more frequently. Was it Retlas? Unlikely; her light coloring was nothing like Novato’s own. Jidha? No, his wide, moon-like face was unlike either Novato’s or Garios’s. Colboom? Perhaps. He was a gifted artist, as was Novato herself, and his long, drawn-out muzzle was much like Garios’s own. But eventually she’d come to realize that it must be Karshirl, a female structural engineer. It wasn’t just that Karshirl’s body shape and general facial features bore a striking resemblance to Novato’s own. More: Karshirl had the same distinctive and very rare mottling of blue freckles on her back and tail as Novato herself had.

Novato could request the services of just about anyone for the exodus effort. And so, on a whim, she had sent word to Capital City that Karshirl was needed here, in Fra’toolar.

It was a crazy thing to do. Sure, they could always use another engineer to help fathom the blue pyramid or to try to puzzle out the functions of the various devices removed from the ark. But to have called Karshirl here was madness. Novato could have no special relationship with her.

Of course not, Novato kept telling herself. Of course not.

Not unless Karshirl wanted the same thing.

Madness. The very idea was insane.

Or was it?

Novato had to know.

A private meeting, a quiet chat.

Today would be the day. She’d waited long enough.

Today.

Novato went looking for her daughter.

The Others were apparently determined to destroy the Dasheter. A veritable wall of wooden sailing ships had appeared on the horizon. The ships were small by Quintaglio standards — the Others didn’t need to build massive vessels, since they didn’t mind being crowded together.

The Dasheter began to sail away. Captain Keenir called for Toroca.

"Tell me what they know about us," demanded the captain.

Toroca scratched his jaw. "Not much, I suppose. I talked mostly about mathematics and science."

"What about Land itself?"

"I don’t understand," said Toroca.

"Land, boy! What did you tell them about Land?"