by Teri Mclaren
Cheyne bowed to Wiggulf and made his way to one of five pallets, already laid out by the boys. Yob immediately lay down inches from him, so close that the ore's breath cut through the air between them like a poisoned knife.
By the window Womba gazed over the thawing river and up at the moons as she constantly sniffed the air. When she finally caught the scent she was hoping for, no one saw her slide out the door and lower herself onto the loose log and pushed off over the mist-covered water.
Long after the fires of the great hall had been banked, and the tired group had given themselves to their fragrant, overstuffed pillows, Cheyne lay awake, staring into the dark, bark-covered rafters and thinking. Gentle waves rocked against the lodge's sunken pilings, and he could see the moons and the three sisters dancing on the dark water through a crack in the flooring. Yob snored to one side and Claria lay curled a few feet away on the other, her black hair spilling over the pallet and onto the polished wooden floor.
The parrot feathers from the oasis were long gone, but one red ribbon wove itself through a small braid at her temple, and one of the brass combs was still tucked safely behind her ear, inches from her fingers. Her blanket had fallen from her arms and she shivered at the touch of a sudden draft from under the lodge. The fragrance of bergamot and myrrh wafted lightly over him, and before he knew it, Cheyne was reaching over to cover her bare shoulder with his own blanket. Her hand lay between them, and he smiled as he studied her long thin fingers, the first two, so like the hand in his vision, crooked at the first joint. They were a little pale from the cold floor, and he almost put his hand over hers to warm them.
Just then the fire flickered and Maceo's ring gleamed brightly on her third finger, a constant reminder to Cheyne that Claria's heart still belonged to another. One who had betrayed her, no less. He shut his eyes against the thought of it. Claria shifted in her sleep and burrowed back under her covers, and he inched back to his own bed, his mind and heart completely at odds. He didn't know exactly when he had started to love the girl.
Only that he would somehow have to stop.
He rolled over on his pallet and tried to think about anything else. In the morning, Wiggulf would lead them through the winding paths of his watery kingdom to the curtain of light at the edge of the elves' sanctuary. At least then he would discover his name. And wasn't that why he'd come all this way?
Claria opened her eyes at his sharp motion, but did not move. For an hour or more, she had pretended to sleep, unable to calm her mind. Since the long walk in the forest to the lodge, all she could think about was the strange exhilaration and brightness she felt. It seemed the farther she went from Sumifa, the more free she was. Every sense seemed sharpened out here, and her skin had grown dark with the sun. Gone were the headaches she constantly fought in the city, the malaise of the dusty streets and dry days. The journey thus far had been the most arduous thing she had ever experienced, but she was thriving.
What if Maceo could see me now? What would he think? she wondered. Claria realized that she wasn't even mad at him anymore and didn't care that he preferred the Schreefa. Her time with Maceo seemed like a distant memory after the last few days. The heavy gold band felt like a shackle on her finger. She just wanted to return the ring and be done with him. He, after all, was certainly done with her.
Beside her lay Cheyne, a man with no name and no ring to give her. He was by far the bravest man she had ever known. But that same bravery made him too driven to notice her, too polite to look her way. Claria knew she would always have his compassion, but she could never hope for his love. She let tears well up in her eyes and fall, but made not the slightest sound. When this was all over, at least she would have a good story for Vashki.
But that was probably all. As soon as Cheyne reached the Sarrazan forest, he would have no need of her anymore. There would be no treasure to divide. And Riolla would probably never let her back into the city, once that man-eating canista was on Sumifa's throne, may Maceo live long enough to appreciate his bride for her true value.
Claria shut her eyes and tried to fall asleep. Tomorrow would be another long day. Another day closer to Cheyne's destination.
Javin's hand had begun to burn again three miles ago, but he had said nothing to Doulos. The slave would have begged him to stop and take care of it, and they would have lost sight of Riolla and her odd companions. The trail blazed through the mountain scrubland was clear enough: two sets of human prints and the twisted claw marks of the half-ore. Rotapan, Doulos had called him-supposedly king of the ferocious Wyrvils.
The night had begun with a clear sky, but the higher they climbed toward the mountain, the less of it they could see. Finally, Javin could bear the pain no longer, and he motioned Doulos off the trail.
"Let's camp here for the night. We can't see the trail anyway. But that means they can't, either. So here is as good as anywhere. There are some big rocks over there that will make for good cover," he whispered. "Why don't you took for some tinder for a fire?" Doulos nodded and made for the rocks.
When the slave was far enough ahead, Javin peeled back the old bandage and held his hand close, trying to see the wound. But it was futile: the night was too dark and the mist too heavy. He hurried to catch up with Doulos before he lost him in the fog.
In a few minutes, Javin's firestone had sparked a low flame for a fire within the sheltering ring of boulders, and they were hunched over its flickering light.
"I hope they don't see this light, Doulos. Granted, we could probably take them, but the idea is to let them lead us to Cheyne. Your friend Ghazi was of much help with that information," said Javin softly. "I'm sorry he didn't…"
"He knew his life was worth very little to the Schreefa. But I am sorry, too. She never let him learn to swim, you know. Her slaves never worked the river," said Doulos. "I have lost many friends, Muje. But each time becomes no easier for the previous experience."
They sat in silence for a time, watching the fire. At length, Javin took out his knife and began to pass it through the flames.
Doulos looked up at him, puzzled. "Again, Muje? It has been only a few hours."
Javin nodded. Every time Javin lanced it, the sting had closed over and appeared to be healing, but then the dark poison rose up inside and the fever came upon him, the fiery pain shooting up through his hand and arm all over again, just as it had that night back at the ruin. If he could get to Cheyne and then to the Borderlands, if he could just find the forest…
"Doulos, do you know anything about the Sarrazan healing legends?" said Javin, cleaning the knife in the sand.
"Not much, Muje. Only that the juma said no poison could stay there. They dance, the elves. They whirl and beat their magical rhythms on the forest floor with their feet, and the evil is drawn from wounds, and the poisons lose their power. That's what I know, Muje. Why?"
"If that's where I were going, would you go, too? I have heard the stories, too."
Javin passed his knife back and forth over the fire again, put a fold of his tunic in his teeth, then applied the tip of the knife to the wound. He bit down hard on the cloth hard as the hot knife seared his skin, opening the tough scar and relieving the poison's awful pressure. The stench was hideous. He relaxed, breathing hard, his face flushed and red with exertion. It was worse every time. The skin thickened more and the poison welled up from deeper and deeper. Back at the ruin, Muni had wanted the doctor to take the finger. Javin had since thought better of his friend's harsh wisdom and brutal compassion; a quick chop then would have saved him this savagery at his own hand time and again. He felt along his arm and up his sleeve, where the swelling strained and pulled at his darkening skin. Muni had been right. Now the bite threatened his entire arm.
Doulos sat thinking about Javin's question, his blue eyes catching the firelight. "Yes, Muje. I have sworn it. It is true that there are many stories about how the forest moves, how time changes or stops in there. How men have been lost in a wavering curtain of light as they rode in plain
view. You would not go without good reason. The juma stories also say the elves' medicine is hard to bear."
"The cure cannot be worse than this," said Javin.
"Muje, the juma said the poison comes out only when the elves dance and call down the holy lightning. Strikes you in the heart. Hurts much worse."
"But it heals."
"It heals. Or it kills."
Javin slouched against the cold rock, letting the chill take the heat from his face. Doulos banked the fire for the night and stood up to take the first watch.
"I will wake you when the moons pass the sisters," the slave said.
Javin nodded, rebandaged his arm, and found his blanket. Doulos climbed the rangy oak above them, settling back on a large bough and wrapping his robes about himself against the cold night.
Doulos never knew when he drifted off, but when he awoke, the moons were not only past the sisters, but nearly down. High over Drufalden's mountain, one bright light flared briefly through the fog, then died like a falling star.
Then there were six stars. Then twenty. The wind changed, and the unmistakable odor of canistas assaulted Doulos's nose, their foul, musty scent choking him. The slave whirled around, his spear ready. But there were too many targets. The canistas blinked redly at him through the white mist, then dropped their huge jaws open, and he could see their long, bright teeth. One of them began to chuckle, a low, almost human laugh. Like Riolla's laugh, Doulos thought, like the Schreefa about to eat you alive.
The laughter spread, growing louder and louder until the Neffian was surrounded with the hideous sound, his ears ringing with pain, his eyes suddenly unable to find the leaping, cavorting canistas as they prowled the foggy campsite, circling closer and closer to (avin.
Doulos knew if he made a sound, they would all spring upon the wounded man as one and tear his king to pieces before Doulos could reach him. If he didn't shout a warning, they would only move in steadily, playing their game, ripping and teasing Javin to death, and then turn upon Doulos himself. It seemed hopeless.
Doulos looked skyward, mouthed a silent prayer, and raised his spear. If he was going to die, he would take some company with him. He backed up one step, bracing himself, and felt the massive oak at his back like another fighter. Doulos put his foot into the next branch down and lowered himself to the ground, ever so slowly, holding his breath, listening beyond the hideous laughter for sounds that Javin was conscious.
One more limb down, and he would be able to throw the spear…
In the darkest hours of the night, Cheyne finally found sleep, but no peace. The bad dreams of his youth came back, this time with an intensity and sharpness he had not experienced since the months directly after Javin had brought him home for the first time. Over and over again, he saw the figure with the clawed hand drop down onto him, ready to devour him, and the shape of the totem's glyph flashed in front of his eyes like a bright beacon.
Then the dream shifted to a terrifying new image. He saw Javin, his hand awash in flames, the fire about to consume his body, fighting dark shapes in the moonlight. The three sisters tilted overhead, and a hundred gleaming red eyes burned in the darkness, circling and closing on Javin.
Cheyne awoke, his lungs strained with unvoiced agony. He sat up and peered around the lodge, slowly remembering where he was. Clarta lay still and lovely in the darkness, moonlight glowing on her skin as it shone down through the lodge's skylight. But Cheyne thought he was still dreaming when, out of the shadows of the smoky lodge, stepped a tall elf, his face divided by a long scar, a silver chain for his belt and a brooch carved with the glyphs of the Sarrazan potters upon his breast.
"You!" Cheyne shouted. "Who are you? Have you been following us, too?"
"Who's there?" said Wiggulf sleepily from the far side of the hall.
The tall elf held up his hand, long thin fingers pale in the low firelight. "Forgive me, Riverking, for the intrusion. But I have urgent business with your guests and have just come from the Treefather with a message for the Argivan."
"Naruq? Is that you? You are always welcome here. But why do you come under the cloak of secrecy?" said Wiggulf, ambling over, dragging his covers, his round face troubled.
"There is one who seeks this man's life." Naruq pointed to Cheyne. "And his killer has been watching me for a very long time. I have risked enough by coming here, by showing myself in Sumifa before. I could make no direct contact."
Cheyne threw off his blanket and stood up, hand on his dagger. "So you were in Sumifa. I know Riolla's henchman is spoiling for my head. That's no secret."
"It's not the assassin Saelin you need consider. Although that fight outside Riolla's shop was a little too close for my liking. You handled yourself well, though. And you make friends fast, it seems."
"Who is the Treefather?" said Cheyne.
Wiggulf pulled at his bushy beard. "He's the Sarrazan elder. The Ancient. He never leaves the forest. No one knows how old he really is, but there are rumors that he was around at the time of the Wandering. If anyone would know what your totem says, he would."
"And he does. He has been expecting you since the lost caravan. He will answer all your questions. Time is of little consequence to the Treefather, but not to you. The curtain will part for us only for another hour."
If the elf had pierced him through the heart with his own knife, Cheyne could not have been more surprised. It was the answer to his every prayer. He had come so far on sheer hope. And to find the answer to his greatest need, he had only to go now, this minute, with Naruq.
And leave Javin to his death. The dream had followed him into consciousness. With every passing second, Cheyne's conviction of favin's predicament grew even more certain.
"Naruq, I can't go with you."
Claria looked at him through sleepy, unbelieving eyes. "Cheyne, why not? This is what you have come all this way for," she said groggily.
"Because Javin's in danger somewhere behind us." He crawled out from under the thick covers and found his boots. By now, the whole lodge had awakened and Frijan had lit a candle with an ember from the fire.
"What is it? Intruders?" she whispered, looking out the window toward the riverbank.
"My father…" Cheyne began.
"I will go with you," said Claria, rising and folding her bedding.
"No. Please. I don't-"
"Need help? Really?" she interrupted fiercely.
"I don't want to worry about you, too. Please. Please," he begged her, holding her hands in his, Maceo's ring a cold reminder of their different paths. "It may already be too late."
"Then I will go," another voice added. "My nose can find them in the dark."
Cheyne turned and saw Yob looming over him in the eerie light of the low fire. His big jaw was set and he had found a spear.
16
"Javin!" the shout echoed through the rocks from Doulos's left.
"Cheyne?" came the weak answer. "Is that really you?"
A hail of stones rained down on the snarling, laughing canistas, and they broke off the attack and scattered through the low brush in all directions.
"We are here, Muje! By the tree," cried Doulos.
Just then, the canistas, no longer confused, herded back together and bounded through the brush and charging Cheyne and Yob. Half the pack separated and circled warily around the ore while three others took turns rushing Cheyne. The beasts were quicker than anything Cheyne had ever fought, and seemed to enjoy dancing in and out of his dagger's range, snapping at his heels as he whirled around and around, keeping them away. The others, wide grins on their slavering jaws, paced around Yob and began to narrow their circles.
They were within seconds of closing in when Doulos began to yell an ancient Neffian war cry at the top of his lungs from the tree. The shrill sound bounced around the flinty rocks and echoed off the mountainside, causing the canistas to hesitate just long enough for the big ore to drive through their circle and reach Cheyne. As they met, Cheyne pressed himself to Yob's back,
and when the canistas rejoined the attack, two of them had their throats slit before they knew it. They fell slowly, never seeming to notice they were dying, their jaws continuing to snap and snarl. The others hopped over the bodies of their packmates with no concern. Frustrated, Doulos could not aim his spear for their constant motion.
"Over to the fire, Yob," cried Cheyne. The ore grunted his understanding and they began to move slowly, a step at a time, toward the dying fire. "Good. Get ready."
Cheyne took his opening when one of the beasts jostled another and fell into the firepit. The fire caught at its fur instantly, but the beast died before it felt the burning as Doulos finally got his opportunity to stab it. Cheyne leapt away from Yob, retrieved the spear with a quick jerk, and rolled the dead canista off the embers.
He took the stick on which Doulos had roasted a rabbit and stirred the embers into new life as Yob moved around behind the fire, keeping the rocks at his back. The canistas drew back, growling low. Cheyne cautiously worked the fire until it caught on the greasy stick, then he advanced on the canistas, swinging the flaming stick in the midst of them.
He tossed Yob the spear, then ran from behind the firebed, crushing the pack together, causing them to turn and bite one another in their fear and frenzy. There were still too many. At least they still couldn't get to Javin. The biggest of them broke from the fur fight and loped off a short distance to gather speed, then ran back at Cheyne. Cheyne stood his ground as the beast charged, and opened him from breastbone to belly with his dagger as the canista leapt onto him. Their leader dead, the others scattered, wailing and crying and snickering into the night.
"Good fighting, master. We don't have long," said Yob. "They'll come back again. Canistas are a worthy enemy. They never give up."
"Neither do I, Yob. We'll play until we win," said Cheyne, wiping the dark, sticky blood from his dagger and hands. "Come on."
They found favin with Doulos crouched protectively over him, quietly weeping. Javin appeared to have lost a lot of blood from several bites, Javin was calling for his son. Cheyne bent over him, straining to hear what his foster father was saying.
