Every rest period, they pondered the future. Maulkin's answers seldom satisfied them. He spoke as plainly as he could, and yet the words were confusing. Shreever could sense his own bewilderment behind his prophecies; her hearts went out to him. Sometimes she feared that the others might turn on him out of frustration. She almost longed for the days when it was only herself and Sessurea and Maulkin, seeking for those answers. When she whispered as much to Maulkin one evening, he rebuked her. “Our folk have dwindled. Confusion besets us from all sides. If any of us are to survive, we must gather as many as we can. It is the simplest law of the Plenty. A multitude must be born for a few to survive.”

“Born,” she said, the question unspoken.

“The recombination of old lives into new lives. It is what we all hear summoning us. Our time to be serpents is over. We must find She Who Remembers. That one will guide us, to where we can seek rebirth as new creatures.”

His words made her shudder her whole length, but with dread or anticipation, she could not say. Others had drawn close to hear his words. Their questions swarmed thick as capelin on a moonlit tide.

“What sort of new creatures?”

“How can we be reborn?”

“Why is our time over?”

“Who will remember for us?”

Maulkin's great copper eyes spun slowly. Color rippled his length. He struggled. She could sense it, and wondered if the others did as well. He strained to reach beyond himself, grasping at knowledge and bringing back only disconnected fragments. It drained him more than a full day of traveling. She also sensed that he was as discontented with his fragmentary answers as the others were.

“We will be as we once were. The memories you cannot understand, the dreams that frighten, come from that time. When they come to you, do not chase them away. Ponder them. Pursue them into the open and share them.” He paused, and when he spoke again, it was more slowly and with less certainty. “We are long past due to change, so long past due that I fear something has gone terribly wrong. Someone will remember for us. Others will come to protect us and guide us. We will know them. They will know us.”

“The silver provider,” Sessurea asked quietly. “We followed, but she knew us not.”

Sylic twined uneasily through the heart of the resting tangle. “Silver. Silver-gray,” he hissed. “Do you remember, Kelaro? Xecres found the great silver-gray creature and called us to follow it.”

“I do not recall that,” Kelaro trumpeted softly. He opened and closed his huge silver eyes. They spun with shifting color. “Except, perhaps, as a dream. A bad dream.”

“It attacked us when we gathered close around it. It threw long teeth at us.” Sylic turned a slow knot through his length, pausing when he came to a scar gouged deep. The scales that had grown over it were thick and uneven. “It bit me here,” the scarlet whispered hoarsely. “It bit me but it did not devour me.” He turned to look deep into Kelaro's eyes, as if seeking confirmation. “You tore its tooth from my flesh for me. It had pierced me and it stayed in me, festering.”

Kelaro lidded his gaze. “I do not recall,” he replied regretfully.

A rippling ran the length of Maulkin's body. His false-eyes shone brighter than they had in a very long time. “The silver being attacked you?” he asked incredulously. “He attacked you!” Anger was a rip tide in his voice. “How could it be that one who gives off the smell of memories turns on those who come to him for help?” He lashed his great head back and forth, his mane coming erect with toxins. “I do not understand!” he suddenly bellowed out. “There are no memories of this, not even the taste of a memory! How can it be that these things happen? Where is She Who Remembers?”

“Perhaps they forgot,” Tellur said with black humor. The slender green minstrel had not gained much strength since he had recalled his own name. The effort of maintaining his identity seemed to consume all his energy. How he had been before he had forgotten himself, no one could say. Now he was a dour-humored, sharp-tongued whip. Despite recalling who he had been, he could seldom bring himself to sing.

Maulkin whipped about suddenly to face him. His mane was full standing, his colors rippling. “They forgot?” he roared in outraged astonishment. “Have you seen this in a memory or dream? Do you recall a song that speaks of a time when all forget?”

Tellur sleeked his mane to his throat, making himself smaller and less significant. “It was a jest, great one. An evil jest from a sour minstrel. I beg pardon for it.”