They were large enough to be worth stealing; black, oblong and hard-shelled, each egg filled a goodly portion of his palm. It hadn't even occurred to him to savage the nests of the leathery creatures that squawked at him, their mandibles partially fused to create a larger, crueler mouth. He'd climbed up in a tree for a better view of the valley as it stretched out in front of him, to get the lay of the land and the general direction his road would take him. The eggs were an unexpected, but not unwelcome, addition to his diet.

After a moment of deliberation over what to do with his ill-gotten breakfast, he decided to clip the narrower end with his ki'ctipa. Clear, pinkish fluid oozed over the fingers of his other hand, and he slung his blades clean of the excess before turning his attention to the contents. An investigatory sniff piqued his interest; it smelled warm and bloody. The early sun revealed little of the dark interior, but by turning it this way and that, he was able to ascertain the presence of a yolk sac. Escthta tilted his head back and poured the egg into his open mouth, catching a flash of dark green out of the corner of his eye. It slid past his tongue and down his throat, vaguely metallic and alkaline. Cooking them couldn't hurt.

Today, or perhaps tomorrow, his feet would carry him to a large, broad road, which he could already see down in the valley. He didn't dare hope that it would lead him to the City. The Road itself was a destination, and if he was happier this morning than he had been in weeks, it was because he felt like the end of his journey was nearer than it had ever been before.

xXx

The subspheric ship had barely stopped at his residence before Noskor jumped out, shielding his eyes against the whipping wind. A servant stood at the doors to the landing pad, one hand pressed to his ear to muffle the whine of the engines, the other offering him a steaming towel. Noskor snatched it from the platter, hurrying indoors. His majordomo, Irraka, was waiting for him, and quickened his step to match that of his master as they moved through the halls.

"We are glad to see you back, my Liege," Irraka intoned.

"Are you?" Noskor replied distractedly. He lobbed the towel at a passing servant, who managed to catch it and still show deference.

"Certainly, my Liege."

"Well, I'm going out again," Noskor snapped. His majordomo didn't immediately reply; the hesitation was nearly imperceptible, but to Noskor, it yawned wide open before being clipped with a "Yes, Liege."

Noskor stopped suddenly, looking at Irraka, who met his gaze, his hands folded in submission. Noskor thought he detected a note of defiance from the servant, but as he peered closer at him, the head of his household cast down his eyes demurely. Noskor chuffed softly.

"Your thoughts?" he asked, before continuing to head to the street, where a car would be waiting.

"My thoughts are inconsequential, Liege," Irraka replied.

"Yet, you have them," Noskor countered, as they rounded a corner. "Share them with me."

"If you insist. I fear for my Liege's welfare if he continues to rush about without taking proper meals," Irraka said coolly.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, Liege."

They came to the street, where a robotic car waited obediently. "I should be at the Library for only a few hours." Irraka nodded crisply. Noskor wrenched the handle to the side and slid in on the plush seats. The door slid shut silently, and the car pulled away at a measured speed, heading for the Library. The winter sun was already in decline, and Irraka shaded his eyes, watching until the car disappeared between buildings and then turned and walked back into his master's house.

xXx

Da'kvar-di settled back on her pillows, motioning for her handmaiden to leave. The aged yautja bowed out, drawing the curtains around the bed and shutting the door with a muffled thud. Da'kvar-di was left alone, staring at the soft starlight that streamed through the skylights. It was good that the handmaiden could not see the worry in her face.

Paya had not come again today. This was the third day in a row that she had not known the goddess, the third day that her being had not been filled and stretched by Her immortal wisdom, the third day that the Host of Mothers who came before her had been silent.

Occasionally the link between god and avatar shifted as the god's attention was required elsewhere; Da'kvar-di knew when Paya was absent as she knew when someone stopped paying attention. This was the longest such 'shift' she had yet endured, and she ached for conversation. No, not conversation, but the divine warmth that she had brought with her, the endless murmuring and whispering of the Mothers, the security and confidence that came with eons of maternal experience.

The link between them twitched and shifted again, and she felt her body warming and eyes sharpening, signs of the goddess' imminent return. The Host of Mothers and Paya entered her all at once, leaving Da'kvar-di breathless, as if punched in the gut. Paya was their guiding force, a director of an orchestra of ancient knowledge and femininity, necessary for songs to be sung, words to be spoken. They spoke as a chorus, each voice distinct but part of the whole.

We have returned.

Da'kvar-di breathed out, a sigh of relief. The mindspeak was still new to her, and she found herself needing the assistance of her mouth. Her tusks twitched as she soundlessly formed words to the women inside her mind. "I have been waiting for you. I missed you."

The link moved, and she felt the Host hesitate within her. The goddess did not explicitly owe her an explanation; gods never do. However, there was a crackle to her presence, an excitement of the conductor in anticipation of a great swell in the music. Joy and exhilaration washed over Da'kvar-di, bathing her in the ecstasy of the goddess.

We went to visit our son.

Our son. Da'kvar-di could not hide the small complaint of grief that escaped her. The tiny mewl echoed in the empty room, and the Host of Mothers hushed. Da'kvar-di felt the goddess' focus on her.

"Forgive me, Mother."

You doubt yourself still?

"I do not know what I can offer to the Mothers, to You, if I have not…" Her voice tightened into a sob and she bit it back, raising a hand to her mouth.

The Host of Mothers murmured, and with Paya, they enfolded her in their sincere warmth.

We have not given you time to grieve. For a life unlived.

Da'kvar-di shook her head and turned on her side, pressing her head into the pillow. A life unlived. A fierce motherhood that she would never know, a lifetime of science that would she would never do. In time, she thought she could think of the entire race of yautja as her children, even though she had never delivered a full-term child herself. It wasn't that she was not grateful or honored to be the avatar of a goddess, but that it demanded so much from her and so much from the dreams she'd had for herself and her young.

Take this time for yourself now. Our son will return and you must stand with him.

Cetanu? The god of death would walk among yautja and take an avatar, as the Allmother did? Would there be a war?

War. The word was inaccessible to her, the meaning of 'war' divided in gravity into 'battle' and then 'skirmish', then 'rivalry' and then 'challenge'. The word meant so many challenges that they would go uncounted, so many skirmishes that entire Clans would cease to be. The concept was so large to her as to be nearly meaningless. And yet, walking death could mean only that her people would die in the streets, their deaths innumerable. Silence stretched in Da'kvar-di's mind, unbroken except for the thunder of her heart in her ears.

Selachi's return is inevitable. War is not.

xXx

There were few merchants or military that traveled the Road. Their presence was marked by the phalanx of warriors that occasionally marched into view, or a shaded palanquin that proceeded lazily past him, its occupant veiled. Most of the travelers were peasants or tradesmen. They walked by, shouldering their packs or balancing them against the forward momentum of their bodies. The fact that all of these yautja died thousands of years ago didn't stop Escthta from getting caught up in the drama of their lives, brief and desperate, right in front of his eyes.

The young mother and her child was the first pair he followed for any distance. The mother's face was lined, even though her tusks were bright and sharp. Her spurs had been removed or filed down; he couldn't tell under all the dirt on her feet. She was shorter than he, a petite female that might be passed over for a mightier partner during Breeding. Her hair was tied back in a simple, unattractive queue. The youngling that walked with her was genderless, its head covered and bent down. The two clasped their hands tightly together, and the young one never tugged at the mother, never asked to be carried. It stumbled once, landing on the packed dirt and cobblestone road. The mother turned in place, watching the child get to its feet, brushing away the dust of the road and joining her again. She took its hand and they resumed walking, their steps no faster or slower than before.

This constant use of his secondsight wore at him, and when he sat to rest his eyes, they passed around the curve of the mountain road, their ghostly forms fading away. Escthta thought about them often as he rested his eyes, reclining under a tree, the dappled-light of spring sunshine warming him. He dozed off for an hour or so, with the embankment of the mountain road as his pillow, dreaming of yautja dead for thousands of years.

xXx

Noskor strode into the Library, his cape pulled around him to protect him from the chill of the outdoors. The statue of Pthor'da towered over the few yautja that milled about in the rotunda, his great stylus and scroll nearly the size of a yautja themselves. The clerestory windows near the top of the dome admitted the dying rays of the sun into the interior, burnishing the simple stone walls a rich gold. A Librarian stood at his lectern, thumbing through a book. He seemed to have not noticed Noskor's presence, and turned a page, one of his tusks flexing thoughtfully.

"I need to see some maps," Noskor demanded, watching the Librarian take in his mauve mantle of office and his blinded eye. It had the effect of speeding the aged yautja's movements, but he did not show any fear of the Councilman, and that irritated Noskor further.

"Of course, my Liege," he said, placing a hide bookmark in the tome and closing it with a creak. "What planet were you looking for?" The Librarian's eyes met his, both of them, and did not flinch.

"This one."

The slap of the Librarian's sandals as he moved away from the lectern filled the dome, punctuated with the occasional clink of keys against each other. "Planning a weyk hunt, my Liege?"

Noskor didn't answer. The Librarian didn't need to know what was going on, at least not yet. He might have to bring a cartographer into his confidence. As things were now, he wanted to keep the number of inquisitive minds to a minimum.

The librarian stopped and conversed in low tones with another robed figure. Noskor waited impatiently, and then looked expectantly at the clerk as his companion moved off. "Well?"

"I have sent for Taren, my Liege."

"And he is?"

"Our most respected cartographer. He will be able to guide you to the maps you seek." The Librarian's voice was subtle and knowing. Noskor nodded smartly, folding his hands behind his back, and walked over to inspect the marbled walls. Minutes passed, and a group of yautja broke apart, some returning to the stacks, and others leaving. Noskor was about to ask if they were going to continue to keep him waiting when a door creaked open and sound of a limping step entered the dome. Noskor turned, looking at the new arrival with an appraising eye. The cartographer was slightly bent at the waist, grey-headed with the simple topknot of his brotherhood, and the brown robes of a full Librarian. His eyes were a clear, unusual blue, piercing and intense. "My Liege, you have sent for me?"

"Are you Taren, the cartographer?"

"Yes, my Liege. How can I help you?"

"I need to see some maps. I was informed that your expertise would be helpful." Noskor unfolded his hands from behind his back and adjusted the leather cuffs around his forearms, looking at the cartographer from under his brow.

"Well, that all depends, my Liege. I have expertise on several systems, each of which might be suitable for a hunt worthy of your… stature."

"I'm not looking for an off-world hunt."

The cartographer's eyes sharpened and he motioned toward the hall he'd entered from. "I believe that I may be able to help you, yes, my Liege. This way," and he began walking into the darkness of the hallway. Noskor's eye took time to adjust, and until his vision grew accustomed to the darkness, he blindly followed the old Librarian. The musty smell of old paper and hide filled his mouth, an occasional whiff of glue and the creaking of old wooden chairs issued forth from behind the closed doors on either side of them.

"Where are we going?"

Taren's pace did not alter, but he twisted slightly to look at Noskor. "We hardly ever get visitors of your caliber here, you know," he said conversationally, before turning his face forward again with a heavy sigh. "It is an old man's pursuit."

"What is?" They stopped in front of an unassuming metal door halfway down the hall. A retinal scan at the terminal nearby was insufficient to access this collection. A Librarian's escort would be required to go further.

"Knowledge, my Liege," Taren replied, pausing in front of the lock to pull keys from his belt. The keys were oversized, with ornate heads and complex blades. "Knowledge of the past, and of the future." He grunted these last words, turning the large black key in a stiff lock. The tumblers whirled, the lock mechanism thundering in the silence, and the door opened inward.

Taren replaced the keys at his belt and placed a knobby hand on the door, pushing it open so that Noskor could follow behind him. As Noskor passed through, Taren turned to secure the door behind them. Noskor lifted one eyebrow appreciatively at the recess the door swung into; it was at least a hand thick. The walls and floors changed from clean, shiny stone to a darker, muddier stone, dull in appearance. Another long hallway stretched out in front of them and a dark staircase descended into the bowels of the Library to his right.

"This way, my Liege," Taren said, taking the handrail and shuffling down the stairs, and Noskor followed suit. The wood was soft under his hand, polished by years of use, and practically necessary on the small, steep staircase. Down they went, each landing lit with small footlights.

"This seems an awful long way down," he grumbled.

"It is the maps, of course," Taren huffed. "Sudden changes in temperature or moisture content damage them, so we control the climate carefully."

Noskor sensed something hidden in the older yautja's words. "Control the climate? Or control access?" As he looked up, the lights trailed out after them; the landing above him was completely dark.

"The climate, I assure you," Taren replied. "Although," he said, finally stepping away from the stairs onto a landing, "We do not often get visitors this far down. Few yautja have need of this highly specialized knowledge." The staircase continued down into the darkness, and the dim lighting held steady around them.

"Take this, my Liege," Taren said, offering him a handtorch from a charging rack on the landing. It flickered into life as he wrapped his fingers around it, and he stepped forward into the hallway. Only a few doors this time before Taren stopped again before a terminal: the retinal scan powered up and took Taren's eyeprint before the door in front of them slid to the side. A small, dry breeze issued forth and Taren gestured for Noskor to step inside, and Noskor shone his handtorch around the space he stepped into, a large, round room with an inlaid stone floor. Several doorways lined the room, and Taren walked over to one of them, knowing his path despite none of the doorways being labeled. He fumbled with his keys, turning to hold them in the light. Noskor held his up for Taren to see better, and the older yautja breathed a thanks. "We didn't extend the lighting down here," he said as he pushed the key into the lock and turned it.

"The climate?" Noskor asked with a wry bend to his tusks.

Taren paused as he opened the door, his tusks curving in a small smile. "But of course, my Liege."

The room beyond was large, and small footlights flared to life as they stepped in. Taren's quick hand movements at a control panel near the door brought up the main lights at the workbench just inside the door and then at the work area just beyond. Noskor squinted at the lamps, hung suspended from the ceiling over a large table. Strewn across the surface were sacks of sand to weigh down pages, a compass, a straight edge and other items. Dim lights powered up through the rest of the storage room, revealing cabinet after cabinet of flat, thin shelves, and a few racks of rolled up scrolls beyond them.

"Now, then, what part of this planet were you interested in, my Liege?" Taren said, laying his handtorch on top of a pile of papers near the edge of the workbench and picking up one large, dog-eared scroll. "I hear the mountains to the west have a large population of weyk these days." He opened the scroll, smoothing it over the table, and tossed the sacks of sand so they anchored the corners.

Noskor moved closer, standing his handtorch on the table, and easing onto a creaky stool. "Where are we on this map?"

Taren grunted and then picked up a stylus, this one fitted to produce a soft mark, and then peered at the map and the five continents. "Here, my Liege," he said, making a small mark on the largest continent that stretched across the globe from the cold north to the snow-packed south.

Noskor hesitated a bit before pulling a small piece of holofilm from his belt. "And these coordinates? Where would they be?"

Taren took out a pair of spectacles and held the holofilm out to read it at the length of his arm, rather than using the scaling knob. Noskor could not help but smile a little; Librarians were indeed famous for their idiosyncracies, and Taren was no different. Taren then picked up the straightedge and made two faint lines that intersected on the western coast of the greatest continent. "Here."

Beyond the forests that surrounded the City, across the plains and desert scrubland, across the jungles and dense forest to the north, across the alpine meadows and the mountains and then down into the piedmont and the islands at range, where the water met the land, Noskor's eye traveled the space between the City and where Escthta and his human had been cast into exile. Any other exile might have merely settled into a quiet lonely life, living out the rest of his life half-mad and malnourished, but Escthta had been left with something to live for, Noskor thought with a twist in his mandibles like disgust. It was a mighty distance for anyone to travel on foot. Noskor stroked one tusk thoughtfully.

"You are not hunting weyk, are you?"

Noskor shook his head, his tress clinking slightly with the rank rings in his hair. "I am not."

"What do you hunt, if I may inquire?"

"A yautja."

"You mean the young exile."

"I do." Noskor narrowed his eyes. "How did you know about him?"

"Oh, we get all kinds here, my Liege," Taren said airily. "Some of them leave their tusks more unfastened than they ought to." He paused for a moment and then asked, "Was it not enough that he should be exiled, my Liege?"

Noskor heard it, the supplication in the old yautja's voice, in the use of his title. "I am afraid you misunderstand my intent." He slipped the holofilm into the pouch at his belt. "I need to see maps that span between here and there."

"What kind of maps?"

"Surface elevations, geologic maps, landmarks, old political maps, trade routes- anything you have between here and there."

"If you'll forgive me, that will take some time to gather together-" he stopped as Noskor stood.

"Very well. I will return in three days' time. Will that be enough?"

"Certainly, my Liege," Taren replied.

xXx

The road he followed wound around hills, and then clung to the sides of the mountains, never venturing down into the U-shaped valleys; the road struck east, so he had no reason to. The mountains went on and on, stretching far to the north and south, an impenetrable wall of rock dividing the land. Rarely, he could see between the mountains, but the haze hid most detail from him, even on a sunny day like today. The lands beyond the final bulwark of mountains were indistinct and dark, perhaps not yet into the full flush of spring.

The end of the road brought him up sharply; a scar where a massive rockfall scraped the ancient road off the mountain and into the valley below. After stopping to stare dumbly at the place where the cobbles disappeared, he turned his gaze across the valley. A thin ribbon of silver wound across the bottom of the valley, a stream or river, rushing youthfully to the north. In the toes of the mountain beyond it, only dense, old-growth forest. A brief walk to the other side showed no sign of the road: no cobbles, no tailings. The road simply vanished. No sign of a road that way either. I'll have to go over the hard way.

The landslide scar was steep and newly-treed, compared to the ancient forest that surrounded it. It was easy going for his long legs, and he found that he enjoyed being off the road. It had cemented his thinking too much lately, following the road. Making his way through the plush undergrowth gave him new appreciation for this, his world. The massive ferns that lived beneath the larger trees stretched their fronds out to gather up the weak light that the overcanopy admitted, and where a clearing might be found, small carpets of moss and roundleaves blanketed everything in green. Some trees downed in the landslide still lay as they fell, their roots in the air, their carcasses grey and rotten, and the mosses and fungus grew on them as well.

He reached the floor of the valley in half a day's easy walking, and turned to look up at the road, walking backwards and shading his eyes against the glare. He could pick out parts of it where it clung to an exposed cliff and where it ended with the landslide, but the rest of it was hidden by the forest.

The stream had a rocky bed and swift current, sweeping off to the northern end of the valley. The water was cold and clear, and the hollow reeds of water plants bent under the endless push of the water towards the sea. He hadn't seen liquid water flowing like this in weeks, obtaining most of his moisture from blood, melted snow and small springs in the mountains. Suddenly aware of his own body odor, he searched in the reeds until he came up with a large rhizome, a bent and grizzled old growth. He snapped a knob of the root off, and sniffed it experimentally. It was fibrous, with a sharp smell, and began to bubble encouragingly as he rubbed it in his palm.

Escthta shucked his gear on a dry pile of rocks and waded until the water was up to his thighs before submerging himself. The icy water shocked his naked body and he burst through the surface with a whoop. Breaking off the green leaves, he slit the root in two with his nails. One half he used to scour his legs and arms, trying to remove parasites and dirt from his skin. Another bracing plunge, and he used the second half of the root for a more thorough bath, scrubbing his chest and belly, twisting to lather his shoulders and backside. A herd of prey animals paused upstream as he yawped and hollered at the coldness of the water, and Escthta laughed in spite of himself and beat the river with his fist, splashing water in their direction. They returned to pulling up small, tender reeds with their grasping mouths, and Escthta, still grinning, reached up to thread the soapy root through his locks, working his fingertips down to the skin between them. As he finished, he threw the root halves into the field and dunked himself one final time.

A short doze on a sun-warmed rock later, he dressed himself and refilled his water supplies. The day was nearly done for him, but one indolent afternoon in a few weeks' worth of steady traveling was well-deserved. A quick inspection of the banks of the river revealed that his bath had a second, unintended effect: several fish washed up on the rocks, their gills moving feebly in low, rocky pools. He had not had fish in ages, since well before his exile. He collected them up: he had enough to eat this evening and he would smoke the rest to preserve them. A garrote from his pack served as a satisfactory string, and he looked for a place to make camp that would be near the water, but not near any game trails.

The secondsight came to him easily, painting the ancient yautja road on the mountainside above him. He was getting better and better at extending its range; it surged over the mountains like a spectral tide, revealing the land as it was thousands of years ago. He had even begun to train himself out of the need to move his hand to direct the vision. The landslide above him repaired itself, and the road went on around the slope until it reached the cove of the mountains, the dead-end of the valley to the south. There, his vision revealed a massive system of lifts and pulleys and a small ladder of switchbacks that crept down to the valley floor, and then the large fields and stout stone walls nestled into the mountain walls.

Closing his left eye to save his strength, he saw with his right that most of the stone walls still stood, buttressed by trees and dirt mounds. The wind across the valley floor faded away into silence as he walked closer. The ground changed under his feet; an overgrown stone path led into the ruins. He followed it, passing by one small round hovel that was mostly gone, only the outline of its walls remaining, nearly totally reclaimed by mosses. A larger building next to it still stood, but the roof had long ago rotted away, leaving only the notches for the ceiling beams.

The main building at the site stood closest to the wall, built just against the mountainside, and the centuries of neglect made it seem part of the mountain itself, rather than anything built by yautja hands. The round doorway seemed to grow as he approached it. Escthta smoothed his hands around the doorway, easily able to reach the top; it was only a few inches taller than himself. He turned to face the courtyard, sweeping his hand down the final curve of the moongate, and then opened his left eye.

A monastic order. The yautja around him walked in pairs or threes in short, plain tunics, their locks completely shorn, their tusks filed down or removed. The fields that stretched forth into the valley were full of stocked herd animals, dried plants and medicinal roots, tended by younger yautja, their tonsured heads wreathed with short locks like thorns. Escthta began to follow the apparitions as they moved past him into the monastery, and a flash of red at the corner of his vision made him jerk his head around.

The red fluttered at the edge of the building, as if someone stood just behind the corner, their cloak billowing in the wind. It glowed with a warm, intense light against the wan shadows of the past. The red resolved itself with his left eye when he blinked his right; it was an echo, like the priestess from before, like the monks around him. "Not from now, then," he said out loud.

"I wouldn't say that," a voice murmured.

"What would you say, then?" Escthta answered, quite before he was able to stop himself from replying. The voice seemed oddly familiar to him. He brushed aside the nagging fears of madness—stranger things had happened to him now than a little madness could offer. He slid one foot toward the corner of the monastery, and the red flashed out of his vision, evaporating. The specters around him moved on about their daily lives, ignoring him. Even when he crept up and peeked around the corner, Escthta was still alone.

xXx

Author's Notes: I know it's been a long time, but I still have a lot to say.