Totoka River Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud;

Wolf of Promise, Wolf of Providence.

A song slow and sonorous drew up over the moondark river, rising even as the drowning rush swept below.

I call, I call.

It was more of a conjuring than a song -- more a spell than a prayer. Her scent beckoned also, as it was her time, but she sung for those whom the wind did not reach.

This was night one of three; she would judge those who appeared, if any, and on the fourth night she would choose the father of her children.