by Teri Mclaren
"No, I mean, I could really help you. With the river," said the songmage, reluctantly handing the sapphire to Frijan under Cheyne's hard glance.
Frijan peered at him intently, then turned to examine Wiggulf s solemn face. "All right, we will counsel together."
Cheyne and Claria helped Yob up the slippery, ice-encrusted stairs, and soon they were all resting, higher and drier, in the great hall of the lodge around a crackling driftwood fire.
"Move faster, Rotapan. I have never been this cold in my entire life," complained Riolla through her chattering teeth. "How does Drufalden bear this?"
She pulled her thin silk robe around her shoulders more tightly and gave the half-ore a bit of a kick. He turned on her with sharp little fangs bared, but then remembered that Saelin, who had wordlessly joined them moments earlier, was once again at his heels, and hurried his steps a bit more. It was hard going. Drufalden's mountain was really an old burned-out volcano, and the sides were covered in alternate patches of thick ice and barren lava runs, which were encrusted by layers of hardened ash and natural glass fragments. Here are there, steam vents offered relief from the frigid air and the bleak landscape, their pockets of lush greenery scattered like so many oases over upon the mountain.
"Look ahead-I see a rising mist, honored Schreefa. Perhaps there is warm spring there." Saelin pointed to a low-hanging white cloud just ahead of them. "In any case, we are losing the light. Perhaps camping would be preferable to this current misery?"
"Yes, I believe there might be a warm spring over there. There used to be one on the caravan road, I recall. Perhaps I can be warmed, after all." She gave Rotapan another boot toward the rising steam, much to Saelin's relief. "We camp for the night. Rotapan, you will climb the mountain, make the arrangements for the army, and return to us here."
"What? Am I not just as weary as you? You would send me up there alone?" whimpered Rotapan.
Giving him a grimace and no more, Riolla entered the small but dense jungle that had grown up around the warm spring. Huge arrow-shaped leaves dripped condensation off their pointed tips and the warm spring filled the thick air with a soothing gurgle.
"Your archenemy has no more power than you right now. I have it on the best authority that she'll see you. Saelin will go with you as your bodyguard. Stop whining, Rotapan," she admonished, giving the crestfallen Saelin a signal to find some food. "Drufalden's spies have surely told her we are here. Their eyes are everywhere. Do you forget whom I represent? I'm sure if you explain that the Raptor himself has interest in this, she will listen. Here, take this."
She handed him the coin the Raptor had given her. Rotapan looked at the gold piece with keen interest, then dropped it into his deep pocket. She picked a spotted orchid bloom from a low-hanging limb and put it in her hair as Saelin summoned his last bit of patience, bent a short tree, and cut down its hand of ripe miniature bananas for her.
818 Teri McLaren
Rotapan curled his mouth into a silent, bitter sneer as he turned toward the trail up to the summit, up to the ice-ridden castle, Saelin close behind him, Riolla's whispered instructions fresh in his ears. High above, at the mist-shrouded summit of the old volcano, Rotapan thought he saw a dark whirlwind stirring the snow into a blizzard.
"Do not harm the young man. Do not touch him, do not let him be touched by any of your Rimscalla guards," said the Raptor.
Drufalden's pale, almost colorless, eyes followed the shadowy figure as it paced back and forth in her darkened chambers. She studied the sway of the crimson cloak as it brushed over the polished floors, never quite touching them. The click of the Raptor's heels echoed through the carved ice hallways and played against the stone archways like music over water.
Here, inside the mountain, she had always been safe, never really believing this man, if he were man, existed. But here was the Raptor, just as Riolla had said so long ago. Just as her mother had spoken of in her raving madness, before dying in the coldest dungeon in Almaaz. Drufalden wondered how he had moved past her guards; his cloak showed no evidence of travel, or of the snow that locked her land. And just as Riolla had said, he had demanded near darkness and that every reflective surface in the room be covered. And Drufalden could not, no matter how hard she tried, see his face. The hood concealed every feature, and his voice seemed to come from the air around her ears instead of from under that dark red hood.
It had been a long time since a man with any power had stood in her presence. It was… enticing. How refreshing and invigorating it was to have a new mystery, a new territory to… explore. Drufalden smiled alluringly into the shadows.
"Cooperate with my agent, let the digger pass unharmed to the Chimes, and you will have your trinket back, and the Wyrvil kingdom along with it. And by the way… your tribute to Nin is long overdue, Drufalden. We can begin with that coin the Wyrvil will give you. I hope your spies have already delivered the rest to Riolla's shop."
"So you will heal our waters, but your price is our stone?" said Frijan, her eyes upon Og.
After a hearty meal of fish and zebramussels, Frijan and Wiggulf sat with Og over cups made of conch shells, drinking mead in the low firelight of the lodge's great hall. Og stretched lazily, but his eyes were sharp and attentive behind his bulbous, peeling nose.
"Yes. I think I can bring the warmth back to them. Melt the ice upstream," said Og.
"The stone is our only defense against two enemies, Muje Rifkin," she countered.
"If I melt the ice that keeps your waters locked, Drufalden's kingdom falls to ruin. It's only the cold that keeps her magical forces alive. They are made of ice and thought alone. And Rotapan has only an imaginary god to contend with. He is of no real threat without this ajada. It seems to me that this is your only hope of recovery. Until her spell is broken, your waters will continue to freeze, the ice continue to creep toward your lodge. Moving again and again will force you closer to the poisoner's waters. If you give me your stone, I can take care of that problem, too."
"Perhaps. But what guarantee do we have that you will break Drufalden's icespell? We have tried and tried ourselves, ever since we found the stone. Nothing works for long. How do we know you would not melt the waters for a day or two, be on your way, and then they would freeze again? And how do we know that Rotapan will not find a way to take back the ajada from you? He stalks you now, and has the Sumifan Schreefa to help him. We cannot protect you beyond our own borders," said Frijan. The water sapphire glittered at her ear.
"No," she continued. "I will tell you right now that I cannot consent. It is better to have power that we have not learned to use than none at all."
She left Og at the table and moved toward the center of the hall, where a huge log crackled and sparked in the heart of a natural fireplace, a hollow rock formation that rose from the riverbed through the rafters. More than a hundred selkies sat rapt at a game in progress as Frijan found a place next to her father. Yob had showed them a Wyrvil game with daggers, and the competition had become serious.
Wiggulf had to stop his ears with his fingers when Yob's dagger sank into the cross-cut tree round's center yet again. In the fifth and last round of their game, the big ore had struck home every throw, besting even the selkies' finest marksman. With years of Javin's demanded practice behind him, Cheyne was the only one who could still throw as well, and if he made his target now, he would win the match. Wiggulf looked around his beloved hall with chagrin. If Cheyne missed, Yob would very possibly tear up the whole lodge in celebration.
"I will bet you that gold ring the ore wins. The man is good, but this is an orcish game," whispered Frijan to Claria.
Claria quirked her mouth at the selkie, her feelings stung beyond reason at the challenge. She twisted Maceo's ring on her finger, wondering if it was still stuck, but it floated easily over her knuckle. Strangely, Claria realized she didn't care if she lost the ring. She cared only that Cheyne won.
"All right. My ring if he loses. But your coral knife if he wins," said Claria, her h
and awaiting Frijan's on the bet.
"May I have part of this wager?" said Og, suddenly at Frijan's elbow.
"What would you have to bet, songmage?" asked the selkie.
"My other stone. For your stone. Since you won't part with it any other way, let me give you a chance for both of them."
Claria met Og's blank face with horror, but he kicked her sharply under the trestle table before she could make a sound. From deep in his sleeve, he brought forth the ajada, hummed a little low song over it, and put it on the table in front of Frijan. The selkie's eyes widened with amazement as her sworn enemy's source of power glittered within her reach. The human had only to miss, and he was long overdue. She looked up at Og, unable to resist such a possibility.
"You're on," she said amid the noise and shuffle of other wagers and the dull clink of shell cups. Og smiled genuinely while Claria snatched up his brimming cup and downed its contents in one toss.
The dank, smoky room became very quiet as Cheyne, completely unaware of what rode on his skill, loosened his shoulders and stepped back to throw. He glanced at Claria, who smiled at him a bit drunkenly, and drew back his arm. Yob's little yellow eyes followed his every motion, his face tight and drawn, his sharp claws drumming lightly on the tabletop, where he nursed a bucketful of mead. With no further thought, Cheyne brought the dagger to its mark in a quick, hard throw. It sank deeply into the center of the tree round with a satisfying thunk.
Wiggulf strode over to check the degree of accuracy, pulled out the dagger, and proclaimed, "He has crossed the ore's cut! It is a perfect throw!"
The selkies cheered, Frijan handed over her coral knife to Claria, and Og raised a new cup in salute, wishing fondly it was full of raqa instead of Wiggulf's cloying mead.
Cheyne took a mock bow, chuckled at his victory, and went to shake Yob's hand. But Yob only looked at Cheyne with stunned silence. He set the mead bucket
down quietly, and Wiggulf held up his hand for silence. The chatter stopped immediately. Yob took a deep breath and raised his hand to Cheyne.
"No one has ever bested me, human. You own my service now. I offer you my life."
"What?" Cheyne blinked as a strong whiff of woodsmoke washed over his face, and when it cleared, Yob still had one hand in the air, but the other held his own dagger at his heart. "I await your choice, human. My life or my death."
Cheyne looked for Og in the crowd, and the song-mage stepped out dramatically, bowed to Yob, and began to explain.
"Such a thing is customary among the Wyrvil. If a Wyrvil takes on an opponent in this game, he or she must win or their life is forfeit. Yob is a Wyrvil underk-ing. This very game was the way he won his kingdom," said Og. Yob nodded, his eyes trained on Cheyne.
Cheyne stared back in disbelief. "You have played for your life?"
The songmage pretended not to notice the look Claria threw him as he pocketed Frijan's earring.
"You did not know? This game is always for life. Had you lost, you would be my subject now, or you would have to take your own life. But say what you would have of me. Service or death," said Yob, unflinching.
"Yob, I am unwilling that you should die for such foolishness-"
"It is no foolish!" roared the ore.
"All right. All right. Then… service. Live, my… friend," said Cheyne, still baffled.
Yob's knees buckled under him as he returned his bulk to the bench. He sheathed the dagger and raised his drink.
"To service," he said, and the selkies nervously joined the toast.
"His entire kingdom is yours now. That's all the land outside Sumifa from the oasis to the scrubland," whispered Og excitedly to Cheyne.
Cheyne pulled the songmage back into the shadows, picked him up bodily, and dangled him by his collar out the only window in the lodge. "What do you mean, letting me throw with him? I could have lost my life to that big greenskin! And you would have lost your fee! Does this make any sense at all, Ogwater? Hmmm?"
Og hung onto Cheyne's arms for all he was worth. The mist had cleared and the ice in the river was clearly visible under the bright starlight. "I knew you would win!" he choked out. "There was no need to make you nervous. We need the water sapphire!"
"So that's it? You had a side bet? Ogwater!"
"It was the only way I could get Frijan to give it up. Selkies can't resist a game, you know, especially if you put something shiny in front of them. And as I just, ah, said, we need the water sapphire." Og looked down at the dark, cold water. He could already feel his feet tingling. "Someone has to heal these waters! We must have this stone."
"You must have this stone! 7 must get on to the forest as quickly as possible and stop letting you drag me into your old, unsettled intrigues."
"Uh-oh," said Ogwater, his attention diverted to the shoreline, where a mist-shrouded figure dropped a loose log into the river.
"What now?" asked Cheyne, tiring of his threat, and hauled Og back in through the window.
"We have company," moaned Og. He turned to Wiggulf, eyes blazing with desperation. "I'm sorry, Riverking. I have to go now!"
The songmage clutched the ajada and the water sapphire together in his hands and began to sing for all he was worth. Before Cheyne could reach him, he had disappeared in a swirl of light the color of fire.
15
Og's boot firmly in hand, Womba boarded the log she had freed from the icy riverbank, and charged into the freezing river, disdaining the help of the delta guard, oblivious to the water's icy touch. Within seconds, she had spanned the current and climbed dripping onto the dock. She shook herself from head to foot, entered through the lodge door, and made a dash for Og.
Who, of course, had disappeared completely. Yob held his arms out for his damp daughter, but she hardly saw him.
"Where? Where is he?" She began to sniff the air.
Claria slid slowly behind Cheyne, but it was too late, Womba's keen nose had already discerned the faintest smell of bergamot and myrrh.
"You! You have taken my Ogwater! You have bewitched him. I will make war clubs of your leg bones and earrings of your ugly white teeth!" she shouted so loudly that three of the selkies scattered to the other side of the lodge.
"As you can plainly see," said Claria indignantly, "Ogwater is not with me." She lifted her hand to her hair with a juma flourish.
Womba bared her teeth. It occurred to Yob and Cheyne at the same time what was about to happen next. Cheyne stepped between them and gently, firmly, took Claria's hand-and the comb in it-into his own just as Yob threw his massive arms around his daughter.
"I am so glad to see you safe and well and beautiful, as always, my little flower," rumbled Yob, tightening his arms around her like iron bands.
"Muje Rifkin is indeed gone, orcess. We are not hiding him," Cheyne repeated.
Caught in Yob's powerful embrace, Womba curled a nostril back and sniffed the air, unsatisfied with that possibility.
"Then where has he gone?" said Wiggulf.
Frijan stared miserably out of the portal into the dark, cold night. The river swirled under her, and the three sisters winked in and out of the cloudspun sky.
"I cannot answer you, Father. But I have done a terrible, unforgivable thing. I have lost the waterstone to the songmage."
She continued to face the riverbank, her tears dropping into the dark currents below. Wiggulf came up beside her and put his short arm around her.
"Yes, yes, you did, but this time I think the best has come of it, daughter. And do you not know that if I can learn to respect and understand people who have been my enemies, there is nothing I would not forgive in you? Look."
He nodded to the water below. The glassy shelf, ever present around the shoreline, had completely melted, and the ice-locked brush had already been swept away. The river seemed wider, faster. Frijan heard the grind and shudder of an ice floe breaking up far to the east.
"You see? He has heated our waters. The stone was always his, Frijan. It has been our privilege to keep it safe thes
e years until he came for it. It has been so from the beginning. The stone found its way back to him, daughter, just as I found my way back here, where I belong. If it had not happened this way, it would have been another. Have peace, daughter, you were only trying to do a good thing for your kingdom. And next time, you will know better than to game with Ogwater."
Cheyne cleared his throat from behind Wiggulf s back. "Riverking, it has been a long day and a long night. We will need to rise early and be on our way to the forest."
"Oh, of course, of course, Cheyne, but how will you ever find your way?" Wiggulf chuckled.
"Well, it's just beyond your borders, is it not?"
"In a manner of speaking. The elves are fairly particular about who comes to their homeland. Only they know the passages through the curtain of light; if you try to enter without escort, you will never find your way out of the woods. We have seen many travelers, sometimes years after they entered the elves' territories alone and unbidden, come stumbling out, so confused they did not know their own names anymore. What is it you seek there, boy?" Wiggulf cocked a dark silver eye up at Cheyne and waited for him to answer.
"I doubt I would find myself wandering and forgetful of my name, sire. I won't even know what it is until I find the elves." Cheyne smiled ruefully. He took out the totem to show Wiggulf the mysterious glyph. "I need for them to translate this."
"I see," said Wiggulf. "Well, then we will help provide for your journey. And! will take you as far as the curtain of light myself. I want to see the land again, anyway. We will leave tomorrow."
He motioned to a couple of young, moonfaced boys playing at pickup sticks, and they sped off in different directions to gather food and clothing for Cheyne and Claria.
"Looks like it's just us now." Cheyne turned to Claria and smiled crookedly, like the day when he had split his lip in the fight in Sumifa. A little scar from that fight, very new, still puckered a bit.
She smiled back, covertly twisting the ring on her finger on and off, courting its loss through the wooden slats in the lodge floor. The river moved below, dark and quiet and deep.
