Nitor has a secret: he can't see very well, and especially colors. He knows this, though. That's why when it's time to pick out things to wear from the clan hoard, he chooses all the blue things. Then he knows at least nothing will clash.

* * *

It was time to go. He felt the urge itch through his bones, the call sing through his blood like sirens in the waves. He bid his most fond farewells to his mate, Asalla, who did not seem at all surprised.

'If you want to travel,' she told him, nuzzling his nose, 'you would be welcome in my birthclan.'

So Nitor set off to the sea, only to find nothing but empty waves and shattered shells. A long, roundabout path full of bloody rumors and half-baked directions took him to the greening wilds of the Gladekeeper's domain and, eventually, to the very base of the largest tree in the world.

There, Asamga looks at him appraisingly. 'You are my daughter's love,' she murmurs.

He is surprised at how identical she looks to her offspring, inasmuch as he can see her. 'Yes?'

She smiles up at him. 'Here. Try these.' And she stretches up, placing a comically frail pair of spectacles on his great snout, bringing the world into a better focus.

Nitor's jaw hangs slack for a moment. Colors are still strange and greyed, but the edges of shapes--the clarity--!

'Welcome to Clan Gladeflood,' the oracle tells him as he struggles to express his gratitude.

--49--