Now that Luubu was dead and the web that bound them had crumpled, the creatures had become distant lighthouses to one another in the dark, able to send and receive only the most basic of information and images; and it was in such a dark place that they received, from somewhere, from one of their number who no longer was, the image of a morning spent drifting down a calm and sun-touched river. A morning spent alone, in the company of oneself, unattended by sentries or diplomats or generals. No sniffing the people they did not want to sniff. No reading of thoughts or emotions, no picking out
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