SONG OF TIME

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the pool and let it drain out onto the bank. "I could make it rain in the desert." He chuckled ruefully. "I could make it snow in the desert. Then I lost my ring, you know. The ring's stones helped me true the tones, find the right rhythms-make the magic work. Without it, the Fascini king had no use for me anymore. And, like one of his family, he banished me from the court.

"So I took whatever work 1 could gel, and one day, I hired out to entertain a caravan of Mercantos before they were forbidden to cross here. We were hit by the Wyrvil on the way back from the mountains-and when I had nothing to give them, they took me prisoner. What could I do but sing, or lose my head? 1 sang. 1 was terrible; one of them, Yob, was impressed. Somehow, I had chosen his favorite drinking song as my debut and he thought it was a sign from the gods.

"They let me live. I stayed with his roving band for better than a year. When they finally ranged over to this oasis, I put them to sleep one night-for a couple of days-and escaped. Yob woke up and came after me, but the city guards drove him back. So he retreated, waited awhile, and then decided that I wasn't worth feeding all of the time anyway, and since he knew where I was, he could always arrange for his boys to sneak into the city at night and find me, drag me out here, or over to his regular camp, and make me sing for them whenever he wanted. Mostly weddings and funerals; same songs, you see." Og's voice trailed off into a quiet sob.

Claria had floated toward them and was listening intently.

"How did you lose your ring, Og?" she said softly.

Og sat up and brushed the tears out of his ears. "I gave it away. To Riolla."

Prince Maceo nearly choked as he tried to swallow a long draught of the fifth of his twelve regular medications.

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Teri McLaren

Since that trouble with the juma some years back, his eyes had slowly begun to fail him. But he was certain there was a cure. For enough money, Maceo was also certain he could have it.

"When? I don't know when. I have only just proposed, Riolla. Is that not enough? Are we not engaged? I know you have no naming ring yet, but it is being specially prepared for you. You know there is the waiting period for your purification. Though I can barely wait to take you to wife, my darling, no Mercantan comes to the rank without undergoing a time of fasting, a time of self-denial, a time of change. A time, well, of accounting. And I want to be invested beforehand. My father's year of mourning has only just begun. I am king, yes, but officially, I cannot make policy until his year is passed. It is an evil beginning to take a throne before your predecessor is properly mourned."

"I do not have time for mourning, my dear," Riolla cooed, draping her veil over her face. "Grave things are afoot."

Maceo looked up from his medicines, finding something about her tone of voice disconcerting. Riolla smiled, meeting his glance with a look of total innocence.

"I have a short trip to take, Maceo. It's business. I want us to be married immediately after I return."

Maceo held his head back and dropped silvery fluid into both eyes, trying to relieve the pain. Nothing had worked for months now. He was all but broke from trying to pay the physicians, and the thought of that lustrous black pearl leaving his presence was almost more than he could stand.

No matter, he would soon be king. What did that mean? If Riolla left him for another, if he did not take this opportunity, all he could see was an image of himself penniless and blind in the Barca, and worst of all, the object of ridicule and disrespect. They would demand a new king, one with the necessary funds, someone who could bring back the grain. The Fascini

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would pass him in their chairs as he stumbled around the streets. They would mock his clothes and toss him coins. Even Claria wouldn't marry him then.

He became just the tiniest bit depressed when he thought of Claria. She had been so wonderful to him, so genuine. What a pity she had absolutely no chance of ever rising through the circles to become anyone he could actually take to wife. She seemed to really love him, had been so upset when he had to break it off. If only she'd had a name! Didn't understand at all about Riolla, and, well, the necessity of making the right marriage, even if it wasn't the best one. Pity about the ring, too. He should have asked for it before he told her; Claria's fingers always swelled when she was upset. But he'd get it back when he was king. Maybe get her back, too.

Maceo brightened at that thought and put another couple of drops into each eye. Someday he'd make her see… it had been so awful telling her, and now all this. He sniffed, wrestling his thoughts back to Riolla.

"Well… I suppose I could find a way to shorten the mourning and the waiting period, since, of course, I am king now, and your purity is renowned, my pearl." He dabbed at his eyes, thinking quickly. "Why don't I stay here and get things in order… and when you return, we will be married."

"What a brilliant idea, my dear. I can hardly wait. You will be true to me, won't you? I shall count the hours while we are apart." Riolla ran her hand along the edge of a gilded dagger, one of twelve that decorated her bedroom wall, arranged equally apart in a circle around the two faces of Nin, their edges forming rays like a noonday sun.

Maceo nodded vigorously, still unable to see.

"You gave your magical ring to Riolla, that-that power-grubbing, backstabbing she devil? Riolla the

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Teri McLaren

Schreefa, who killed my uncle for being three days late with his protection dues?" Claria slapped the water, showering Cheyne and sending a wave up into Og's lap. "Riolla, may she find her future blessed with too many of everything, who sent her assassins to burn my shop?" Cheyne smiled ruefully, thinking of his own encounters with the Schreefa and her thugs. "Are you out of your mind?" Claria's golden eyes flashed fire under her wet lashes.

Og stood up from his growing pile of date pits. "Yes. I am," he snorked. "Always have been, 1 guess, where Riolla was concerned." He found an aloe, broke off a leaf, rubbed its slick juice onto his blisters, and replaced his sandals.

Claria charged out of the water, wringing her skirts and shaking her dark mane of hair. She found a sunny rock halfway up the cliffside and sat down to rub fragrant oil into her skin as her clothes began to steam in the heat.

Cheyne watched her, appreciating how the light broke on the planes of her face, how the brilliant parrot feathers set off the color of her hair. How the air filled with that wondrous scent of bergamot and myrrh, and how she dabbed at her eyes again and again, turning her head away from them to do it. Then he looked at Og, completely puzzled. "I think you better tell her why, Og," he said quietly.

Og nodded. "Fair enough."

Claria whirled on him, waiting to hear his explanation, crouched and ready to spring her anger on him again when it wouldn't be good enough.

"Well… I told you I was a songmage. Well, Riolla once served in the Citadel-" He paused at Claria's sharp breath.

"Yes, Riolla was bom a slave; she was not always the richest person in the Mercanto. Anyway, she grew up as a bought companion to a Fascini child, one of the king's daughters, actually, and the child thought so highly of her that she would pout and trouble her family if Riolla

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were left out of anything she did or wanted. So, when 1 was hired to tutor the princess in music and dance and acrobatics, Riolla was allowed to join in. When it became obvious to the old king that Riolla had the superior talents in these arts, he stopped the lessons.