The Dryenwr looked up sharply. ‘No!’ he said, though the denial was strained.
‘Yes,’ the Traveller said categorically. ‘This is a lonely place, Dryenwr, as you’ll see when morning comes. We haven’t stumbled upon you by chance. We were drawn here by its calls. I, thanks to my ancestry. He...’ He shrugged. ‘Who can say?’
‘It can’t be,’ the Dryenwr said weakly.
‘Why not?’
‘You’re not a Carver, nor he...’
The tune that the Traveller had been whistling at the camp suddenly filled the cave with rich, elaborate sound. It stopped abruptly. ‘That was what you heard. My Song. You’re right, true Carver I’m not, but their line is strong in me. As for him...’ He pointed to Ibryen. ‘What is he not? Not Hearer caste, is he? How could he be? He isn’t Dryenvolk. But even amongst yourselves, your caste
