The Aiueven seemed to stare at her. The sharp-gray voice said speculatively. "It knows (anger/rebellion). It understands (death/cessation/ end). It is already part of our (flight/past-debt/ future-debt). (Abandonment/

loss) will stay in our (minds/memories/ stigma) for generations. Even if it is too (young/baby), we cannot (dismiss/leave) it here."

"(Agreement)."

They seemed to pause.

Then the yellow-bright voice said, "What if it is a (throwback/ ancestor)?"

There was a questioning sense, as though the others waited for more. The yellow-bright voice added softly, "(Throwbacks/ ancestors) are slow to mature, yet they are a joy in flight. If this one was Named, it might survive.

It might be able to make the Flight to the (ship/home)."

The gray-blue voice acceded. "Eastwind-rider-across-the-rocks said it (now/ already) Knew. Naming is not so difficult once a youth (dream/future-debt) Knows."

The voices paused, and the mesh of images was more than Dion could sort out. Finally, the blue-gray voice interjected, quieting the hum. "If it Knows now, it can learn to (chill/focus) here and to Fly during Last Storm. Then, if it cannot make it to (home/ship/stars), it will be our (loss/cessation/loss), but not our (stigma/memory/grief) and (life-debt/name-debt)."

"(Agreement). Let it be Named before we go."

The thunder voice seemed to compromise to the hard golden red voice.

"(Eastwind-rider-across-the-rocks) carried it here. He can Name it."

"His coloring is too (sharp/hard) for it," the yellow voice interjected.

"(Sweeper-of-ice-ridges-sharp-on-the-horizon) is closer, but still too acute.

Listen to how soft it is. We should know its youth Name first, before offering (Name/future/flight)."

The blue-gray voice agreed. "Ask it for its youth Name."

Instinctively, Dion braced herself, but there was a pause. Then there was a merging of colors and sounds that became dark-almost completely black with the solid blend of voices. There was the angry-thunder voice. There was the grayish blue voice that was softer and protesting-like a wolf pack swirling in her head. The sharp but clear gray voice-like water too cold for ice. The yellow-bright voice, cutting but not unkind. Impatient? She couldn't tell. And the golden red voice, like heat in her mind. Finally, a silver-white voice swirled to the front. "What Name your (ground/ unwinged)?"

Dion hesitated. The question had not been simple, as she had expected, but layered, as though there were meanings upon meanings-like the memories of the wolves. Gray layers, gray fog-a thousand answers that made a single response... Instinctively, she knew what it required: a definition of self.

She shrank from that. They stared at her. She didn't move. But the question stuck in her mind, hanging like a sword: What was her name-her definition? Was she her past? Or Aranur's future? Was there nothing more than duty in her, that she had come here at all? Or was she grief-and through that a drive to connect to her mate through her demand on the aliens, and to connect to her sons through her death? She felt her hands clench, and she couldn't help the anger that built within her. She was a tool, she thought. A blade of gray. A salve to the wounds of her county. She was the feelings she rejected, and the rage she contained. She was light and dark, life and death. She was a wolfsong without voice.

And in the end, she realized, she was nothing more than a driving desire to end death with life-to resolve the Ancient's debt of plague with payments on the debts she created: Danton's debt-of death and loss, Aranur's debt of duty... The debt to her mother who died at her birth. The debt of love her mate had stolen when he took his path to the moons... And the life-debt from the wolves-that promise, which demanded life in return-the demand that an old death be settled.

Something stirred in her heart. She still lived, she knew, deep inside herself, behind the walls of emptiness and the void that death had brought. She just didn't want to face herself for fear she could not live with her own truths. But the aliens waited, and the wolves died outside. Abruptly, rage tightened her throat. Grief, fury, longing, loss; love and joy and dreaming... They whirled together in a maelstrom, slamming about until they wove their patterns into the sound she projected at the waiting Aiueven.

I am Ember Dione maMarin.

A burst of energy flashed back like a splash of water. She flinched. But it had not been painful. It had been dizzying-as if she had somehow begun Ovousibas and had jerked back out as soon as the thought was formed.

"There are no (teeth) in its name," the soft one protested. "Is it Named

correctly?"

"(Affirmation). It is a baby, not a yearling. It has a baby Name. But it (hears/ understands) us. It speaks (clearly/maturely) with depth to its tone. It has lived. We can hear the (future-debt) of a binding in its Name. It has taken life-debt from one of us."

The golden red voice agreed. "You saw (true/future). It Knows."

"It learns quickly," the sharp-gray voice put in. "I have heard its voice before, as it learned to (move/change) its own energy. It was alone, I think, even then."

"But if it does not learn enough to Fly before the Last Storm, it must be left

behind."

"It is confused from the (wolves)," the gray voice returned. "I heard (wolves/gray/aliens) in its recognition of the (patterns/ layers) of the question. It could have been damaged from that contact."

"(Affirmation). Did Eastwind-rider-across-the-rocks chase off the (wolves/

gray) when he took the (baby/youngling) back?"

"He is in (Ves) phase, and the storms are already rising," returned another voice. "Bringing the baby here was hard on him. He had nothing left with which to chase off the (wolves/aliens)." The golden red voice paused and regarded Dion's voice. "He could not Name it anyway; its coloring is too different than his. Its coloring is much like yours, however," it said to the gray-blue alien.

The alien seemed to turn to Dion. Yellow, slitted eyes blinked, and in that instant a wash of despair flooded her mind. She gasped. It was as though every instant of grief she had ever felt was concentrated into a single thrust of mental energy.

It was gone as suddenly as it came, but Dion was frozen on the rock.

The blue-gray voice seemed to consider the others' images. "Has it shown any other (eagerness/desire/dreams) to Fly?"

"(Denial). The single dream, (unfocused/fear), that you heard when you

arrived, and that single desire for the (home/stars/ freedom). But it has seen

(time/ancestors). Throwbacks can reach (time/back) like that."

"If it is a throwback, it will learn differently than we (expect)," the other

one agreed. "Throwbacks are more (unstructured/ creative) than we (structured) when young."

"Throwback or structured-it doesn't matter. It must Fly or die."

"But it must be Named to Fly," the yellow-bright voice retorted.

The purple-dark voice rounded on the last voice. "Then find it a (mother-

debt/guardian/teacher). I will not do for it. It doesn't feel (right/smooth/ timed) to me. Its (thoughts/self) feels awkward and (wrong/rebellious/ accusing)."

"Perhaps it is (linked/debted) to your (ancestor/stigma)."

There was a general agreement. Finally, the blue-gray one spoke again, slowly, as if to convince itself of what it said. "It feels (strange/clumsy/

confused) to me," the alien projected, "but its (gracelessness) will disappear with (cold/growth/fami]iarity)."

"Do you claim it to Name it, then?" the sharp-blue one demanded. "You

accept its (mother-debt)?"

"Your (child-debt/grief/loss) is still strong," another said. "Its (mother-loss/

grief) is as harsh. It will compound your (cessation/ no-future/grief) and color all our voices."

"It has already touched us with its (grief/loss). You heard it call for (life-

debt/payment/resolve). If it is to learn to (power/focus) any other (emotion/

vision), one of us must (mother-debt/ guide) it soon."

Their voices linked and blended, and Dion realized that the sense of debt that pervaded their words was a symbiotic sense. Each one was tied to the

next one through its actions and words. She felt the power they focused between each other and studied those links. It was Ovousibas they used- the sense of it was the same as the power she had learned from the wolves.

But linking and communicating like this-it was something she had not considered, that energy could be used in ways other than healing. She followed their links, watched the mesh of their voices and the way each one projected to and fed off the pattern. Like the designs in the cave walls, the words between them were a weave of intent and emotion, history and future, guide and focus. And in the tapestry they wove together, each one's voice blended perfectly, yet was distinct and minutely detailed. Like a packsong, she thought, only where the wolves howled together to blend into a single group-like long grass twisted into a single rope-the aliens sang together yet remained separate- like the grass in a meadow when the wind blows through. And as she studied their images, a single question rose in her mind: If they could aim a voice at another, why couldn't she do the same?

Quietly, she let her mind shift to the left and down. But instead of slipping into her own body, she let the focus of her mind hang for a moment in thought. Then, gathering herself into a sense of direction, she projected it out beyond the caves and south toward the lower snowpacks.

KiyunTehenaKiyunTehenaKiyun...

The aliens' voices silenced. Abruptly, Dion stopped.

"Listen," the bright yellow voice broke in. "Did it Name itself?"

"(Denial)," the sharp, ice-blue voice said. "It was calling. Did you (see) the

narrowness of its voice? There was direction to its call."