“There is more to it than that,” Sessurea added. He, too, sounded weary. But there was a lilt of pleasure in his voice. There was such comfort in knowing the answer. “The seasons are turning. We are nearer the end of summer than the beginning. We should have been there by now.”

“We should even now be wrapped in silt and memories, letting the sun bake our memories into us while we make our change,” Kelaro added.

“Our cases must be hard and strong before the rains come and the chill of winter. Otherwise, we may perish before we have completed our metamorphosis,” scarlet Sylic reminded them all.

The other serpents in the tangle added their voices, speaking low to one another. “The water must still be warm for the threads to form best.”

“Sunlight and warmth are needed for the shell to be hard.”

“It must bake through, solid and firm, before the change can begin.”

Maulkin opened his great eyes. His false eyes shimmered gold with pleasure. “Sleep and rest, little ones,” he told them blandly, ignoring the fact that several of the serpents were far larger than he was, and many were his equal. “Dream well and take comfort in all we know. Speak of it to one another. Sharing the memories Draquius gave us will help us to preserve them.”

They trumpeted their agreements softly as they wrapped and secured one another. The tangle had grown. In the wake of Draquius' sacrifice, many of the feral serpents had shown signs of returning memory. Some still did not speak. Nevertheless, from time to time intelligence flashed briefly in their eyes, and they behaved as if they were a true part of the tangle, even to joining the others at rest. There was comfort in greater numbers. When they met other serpents now, the outsiders either avoided Maulkin's tangle or followed and gradually became a part of them. Maulkin had confided to them the hope that when they reached the river and migrated up to the cocooning grounds, even the most bestial might feel the stir of memories.

Shreever lidded her eyes and sank down to dream. That was another recovered pleasure. In her dreams, she flew again, as she recalled her forebears had done. In her dreams, she had already changed to a fine dragon, with the freedom of the three realms.

“But do not become overly confident in these memories,” Maulkin abruptly added. He did not proclaim it loudly. Only she, Sessurea and a few others closest to him opened their eyes to his voice.

“What do you mean?” Shreever asked him in dread. Had not they suffered enough? Now they remembered. What was to stop them from reaching their goal?

“Nothing is quite right,” Maulkin said quietly. “Nothing is as it was, nothing is exactly as it should be. We must swim fast and well, to allow ourselves time to overcome obstacles along the way. Be assured, there will be obstacles.”

“What do you mean?” Sessurea asked plaintively, but Shreever thought she already knew. She kept silent and listened to the prophet's reply.

“Look around you,” he bade them. “What do you see?”

Sessurea spoke for them all. “I see the Plenty. I see the remains of old structures tumbled on the seafloor. I see the Arch of Rythos in the distance. . . .”

“And is not the Arch of Rythos, in all your memories, a pleasant place to perch after an afternoon of flying about the Lack? Did not it stand tall and proud at the entrance to Rythos Harbor? Why is it scattered and broken and swallowed by the Plenty?”

No one replied. All waited for his answer.

“I do not know either,” Maulkin rumbled softly when the silence had grown long. “However, I suspect that these things are what have long confused us. They are why things were almost familiar, why we could nearly recall the way, and yet could not.”

“Is the fault ours alone?” Tellur demanded. Shreever had thought the slender green minstrel was asleep. His tired voice had an indignant ring to it. “The memories that Draquius bequeathed to us tell us that we should look for serpents who remember, ones in whom the memories have remained clean and strong. Not only those ones, but also guides are supposed to assist us. Where are the grown dragons that should have stood guard at the river mouths, to protect us as we swarm? Why have we seen nothing of the generation that went before us?”

Maulkin's voice went soft with pity. “Have not you grasped it, Tellur? Draquius told us what became of them. Some perished in the rain of smoke and ash. Those few who had a chance at survival were slain and their memories stolen. They are the silver ones we have encountered from time to time. They smell to us like Ones Who Remember, because at one time they were. All that is left is their stolen memories.”