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

228

Teri McLaren

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.

SONG OF TIME 229

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

230

Teri McLaren

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

SONG OF TIME 2 3 1

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."