*26*

Mokleb and Afsan headed back to their usual rocks. Afsan was eager to understand all the implications of what Mokleb had revealed in their last session.

"If your low mind remembers your culling by the bloodpriests," said Mokleb, "then the same is probably true for all Quintaglios. I suspect our suppressed memories of the culling manifest themselves most in the territorial challenge. When we end up in a fight with another, we don’t behave sensibly or logically or instinctively. Instead, our minds, our traumatized minds, cause us to fight uncontrollably until we or our opponent is dead."

"You sound like Emperor Dybo. He thinks that trait in us will allow us to defeat the Others."

Mokleb nodded. "He’s probably right."

"But it sounds like you’re saying we’re insane."

"That’s a strong word. I might say ’irrational’ instead. But yes, as a race, we’re deranged."

"But by definition the majority is always sane. Insanity or irrationality is an aberration from the norm."

"That’s a semantic game, Afsan, and a dangerous one to play. There was a time when many of our ancestors practiced cannibalism. Today, we find that concept abhorrent. There is a higher arbiter of conduct than simple mob majority."

"Perhaps," said Afsan. "But what does the culling of the bloodpriest have to do with the territorial frenzy of dagamant? It sounds as though you’re trying to link the two."

"I am indeed. It’s the traumatizing effect of the culling that causes us to have such a wild reaction to territorial invasions. Think about it! The very first time we see someone invade our territory — that someone being the bloodpriest — it results in death and destruction and unspeakable horror right in front of our eyes! No wonder our reaction to future invasions is so strong — far stronger than any animal instinct would require."

Afsan’s tail shifted as he considered this. "It’s a neat theory, Mokleb, I’ll give you that. But you know what you suggest is only a pre-fact, only a proposition. You can’t test it."

"Ah, good Afsan, that’s where you are wrong. It already has been tested."

"What do you mean?"

"Consider your son Toroca."

"Yes?"

"We’ve discussed him before. He has no sense of territoriality."

"He doesn’t like people talking about that."

"Well, doubtless it causes him some embarrassment. But it’s true, isn’t it? He feels no need to issue a challenge when another encroaches on his physical space."

"That is correct."

"And when he sees the Others, he, alone amongst those who have encountered them, has no adverse reaction. What was it his missive said? ’Mere sight of them triggers dagamant in all of us except me.’"

"Yes."

"Well, don’t you see? Don’t you see why that is? What’s different about Toroca?"

"He’s — ah! No, Mokleb, it can’t be that simple…"

"But it is! I’m sure of it. What’s different about Toroca is that he did not undergo the culling of the bloodpriest. None of the offspring of yourself and Wab-Novato did."

"But not all of them are without territoriality," said Afsan.

"No, that’s true, although as near as I’ve been able to determine, none of them has ever been involved in a territorial challenge."

"It pains me to bring up this subject, Mokleb, but what about my son Drawtood…"

"Ah, yes. The murderer." Mokleb raised a hand. "Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. But, yes, Drawtood poses a problem. He killed two of your other children."

Afsan’s voice was small. "Yes."

"But consider, good Afsan, exactly how he committed the, ah, the crimes."

"He approached his siblings," said Afsan, "presumably with stealth, and slit their throats with a jagged mirror."

"You’ve said that before, yes. Let’s consider that. He was able to come very, very close to his siblings apparently without triggering their territorial reflexes."

"He snuck up on them," said Afsan.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps their own senses of territoriality were so subdued as to allow him to approach them openly."

Afsan said nothing for a long time, then, slowly, the word hissing out like escaping breath: "Perhaps."

"And do you remember, Afsan, the mass dagamant that ensued while the bloodpriests were temporarily in disrepute?"

"How could anyone forget that?" Afsan said, his voice heavy.

"Indeed. But who quelled the madness? Who rode into town atop a shovelmouth, leading a stampede of prey beasts so that the violence could be turned away from killing Quintaglios and onto hunting food?"

"Pal-Cadool."

"Cadool, yes. A trained animal handler, and, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, one who has subsumed his personal sense of territoriality into defending your territory. His actions were dictated by the fact that he perceived you to be in danger. But who else aided in the quelling of the rage? Who else rode atop a shovelmouth, this time from the imperial stockyards?"

Afsan’s head snapped up, his muzzle swinging toward Mokleb. "Why — Emperor Dybo."

"Dybo! Indeed. And what do Dybo and your son Toroca have in common?"

"I don’t see…"

"Think about it! What caused the bloodpriests to be banished from the Packs?"

"The revelation that there had been malfeasance involving the imperial creche," said Afsan. "All eight imperial egglings had been allowed to live."

"Precisely! All eight egglings got to live. Just like Toroca, Dybo never faced the culling of the bloodpriest, never suffered the trauma of seeing his infant brothers and sisters swallowed whole."

"Perhaps," said Afsan. "Perhaps." And then: "But I’ve seen Dybo on the verge of dagamant. Aboard the Dasheter, during your pilgrimage voyage, when he was attacked by Gampar."

"But you told me it was you, not Dybo, who killed that sailor. Nothing you said indicated that Dybo would have, of his own volition, fought Gampar to the death. I believe he would not have, except if necessary in rational self-defense. But on his own, when it mattered most, during the mass dagamant of kiloday 7128, Dybo did not succumb to the madness. He was able to function rationally because he had never been traumatized by witnessing the bloodpriest’s culling."

Afsan looked thoughtful. "Incredible," he said at last. "So what you’re saying is…"

"What I’m saying is that no future generation must go through the trauma of the culling of the bloodpriests. You said it yourself, Afsan. Parenting is the key: the relationship between ourselves and our children. We must find another way to control our population. Never again must children have their minds shocked that way. We can change this, this madness within ourselves. It’s not instinct that we have to overcome — not at all! Rather, it’s abuse of our children that we must put an end to."

The Dasheter was finally close enough to Land that Keenir felt he could risk pulling away from the Other ships, confident that they’d follow the same course the rest of the way in. He unfurled the Dasheter’s two remaining sails, and his ship leapt ahead of the armada, letting the Quintaglios arrive back at Land five days before the Others would get there.

As soon as the Dasheter had docked, Toroca and Keenir hurried to an audience with Emperor Dybo.

Garios had immediately told Novato of Dybo’s summons for her to return to Capital City. Garios, of course, wasn’t about to let Novato go back alone to where Afsan was, so they boarded a fast ship and headed out together. But once back in the Capital, Novato had left Garios and gone to see Afsan anyway. When Garios next saw her, she was walking with the blind sage, who was accompanied by his large lizard.

"Hello, Garios," said Novato as they drew nearer. "May we enter your territory?"