Song of Time

14

As the odd group walked upriver toward the selkies' lodge, Og dropped back a bit and fell in beside Wiggulf.

"Urn, sire, I was wondering if you could tell me just a bit more accurately when you think the, ah, orcess you left on the bridge piling will be arriving at your lodge to be reunited with her father…" he whispered nervously, thinking Yob could probably still hear him. Wiggulf turned and smiled, his large front teeth white against the shadows of the darkening forest.

"Oh yes, of course. Well, I would suppose her to be coming soon, unless the guards meet trouble. I take it you do not return her affections."

"I have been promised to another for many years," Og said delicately, as Yob's left ear twitched a bit in his direction. "I could never break that vow."

"I see," said Wiggulf, his bright eyes twinkling.

"Soon, you say? When might you be reckoning as soon, sire?" Og waited for more information, but the old selkie held his peace, an odd smile upon his lips. The songmage gave up and caught back up with Cheyne and Claria.

"She's coming. What are we going to do? You know what kind of trouble Womba can be. If she sees me, she'll never let me go. You have to protect me," he pleaded. Cheyne shook his head.

"Og, you have just sung us over the sea, turned a rash of vipers away, and brought Yob back to life. What can we do to protect you? You are holding half of your power again, in case you hadn't noticed," said Cheyne wearily.

It occurred to Og only then that Wiggulf had not asked for the water sapphire to be returned. Even more strangely, Og noted that he had not thought once about stealing the gem for himself. He opened his hand and looked at the stone.

"Oh. So I do," he said quietly.

They walked the next mile in companionable silence, watching the woods for unwanted company, though Wiggulf had agreed with Cheyne that it was unlikely Rotapan would follow them until he could find reinforcements, now that Og had the staff. But Riolla was very resourceful. And Wiggulf was quick to recount that she had long ago allied herself with Drufalden, the queen of the cold country, and the seIkies' other main enemy.

They stopped on a rise about a mile from the lodge. The sentry, a man with skin the color of copper and a head of short, blond hair, saluted Frijan readily, but had to be told his king was also present.

"Forgive me, sire, and be welcomed." Somewhat shaken by Wiggulf s changed appearance, it was all the young guard could do to sheath his coral knife and lower his bow. "It has been many tides since you were home. There has been much activity here this day. We have watched as a party of three travelers passed on the old caravan road, and then two more came in stealth behind them. The first group appeared to be going toward the queen's mountain, the last seemed to be following them. All wore their hoods low and walked on foot. We could not give them names, though one, strangely, resembled the Wyrvil king himself."

"Thank you, Dunsan. We are bound for the lodge. Send ahead to them," said Wiggulf. "Watch well, my friend. You are the very image of your father, you know."

"Safe waters, sire," said Dunsan heartily, his eyes already back upon the road.

Wiggulf led them on without comment, his thoughts his own counsel in the early gloaming. The forest seemed to grow more dense the closer they came to the lodge, and a light mist swirled among the trees. The nightbirds flew from branch to branch, awaiting the small prey that scurried before the rustle of many tired and noisy feet.

"What do you think Riolla is up to?" Claria whispered to Cheyne.

"Would you credit my words if I told you that I truly do not know? I'm sure it has something to do with the totem, but I know no more."

Claria pulled out her combs and rearranged her hair. "What about your family? Are you alone?" she offered.

"What about them? Javin is all I have. He's just a foster father. Not the real thing. And right now, he has enough to concern him with worrying about me ever finding anything else about who I am."

Claria said in amazement, "You don't know who your family is? You don't have a name? But you are foreign- surely you have a name from your home country."

"Did I introduce myself with one? No, I have no name. No home country, either. That's why I'm going to the Sarrazan forest. The elves-"

"That's your final destination? Cheyne, there are no maps of the Borderlands. That place is so strange that time itself seems to bend around it. The elves come out of the forest only to trade their wares. What makes you think you will find them when they don't want to be found?"

"I have seen one in Sumifa. They are the only ones who might know."

"That's absurd. There haven't been elves in Sumifa since-"

"I know, since before the Wandering." Cheyne sighed, recalling receiving the same reply during his futile search for the tall elf in the city. "But I did see one, and if he isn't in Sumifa any longer, at least I know he came from the Sarrazan forest. As I said, the elvish potters are the ones who will know."

"Know what?"

"About the last glyph on the totem I found at the dig. They still know the language. They use it on their wares as decoration."

"The totem… that's your quest, isn't it? You think the totem is your real family's." The picture of her chroniclave and its matching glyph flashed in her mind for the first time since she had opened Kalkuk's crate. "What has this got to do with the Armageddon Clock? I thought that's what we were after."

"That's probably what Riolla is after. That's what Og is after, I suppose it's what even you are after. I told you back in Sumifa that I was no treasure hunter."

Claria backed off. "So you did. Fair enough. I never thought you really meant it, though. I've never known a man who would swim oceans and wrestle vipers and tramp across deserts for anything that he couldn't spend. You are a very unusual man, Cheyne… forgive me."

"It's all right. Sorry you won't get what you came for."

"I have no name, either," she went on, ignoring his last comment. "I was about to have one-Maceo would have given me his. I would have been queen for the rest of my days. He told me so, and I believed it would have been true. People would have respected me, would have had me to tea and named their children after me. I wouldn't have had to lift a hand- Neffians everywhere. But now that won't happen."

"If that was your only choice, I wouldn't be too sorry if I were you."

"How would you know what it's like to live in Sumifa without a name? How would you know what that feels like? People won't look at you, won't meet your eyes. They talk about you as though you weren't in the room, if they let you in the room to begin with."

"I just meant that you seem like someone who needs more out of life than to be waited on."

"Oh… like what?"

"Like a regular challenge, something that would make your talents shine, keep your mind sharp. You handle those combs like an assassin handles blades. You don't run from a fight-in fact, I'd bet you go looking for them sometimes, don't you? A woman like that doesn't sit still and be waited on very well."

Claria turned her head from him, letting the darkness hide how flattered she really was. Something about this cool-headed outlander confused her, made her think of herself differently than the way she had planned her life. Trouble was, she rather liked it. Though she had crossed the desert, been attacked by hostiles, and swam against time and tide to save her life, she had never had a better time in all her city-living days. Cheyne wasn't hard to look at, either. And he was right. Thoughts of herself as the queen of the citadel were somehow less appealing out here. She considered all that she might have had with Maceo, against what she had now-the only thing she truly owned, the chroniclave. It didn't seem so uneven anymore. As she turned the possibilities of what the matching glyph on the chroniclave's base might mean, one thing was becoming very clear. She would have to tell Cheyne about it, whether it meant giving up her inheritance or not.

"I have something to tell you…" she began weakly, but he did not hear her.

"Look, that must be the floating city." He pointed through the trees at what looked like a marooned forest, piles of timber and branches stuck on a bit of rock in the sluggish stream. And along the water's edges, bits of debris tilted and bunched, frozen in an icy, haphazard hedge.

Wiggulf stopped to take in the sight of his home. Then he began to cry. "What has happened to it?"

"The ice queen has frozen the mother waters, Father. Barely a trickle of the mighty stream that once flowed under our feet in the lodge remains liquid. Our people are starving for fish and have taken to hunting the forest, instead-I tried to tell you how little food we have. But you are home now. All that will change," said Frijan.

"It looks to me like the river is still pretty high," said OgWiggulf shook his head slowly. "Not a tenth of it remains passable. None of the rock used to show. Where the stream passes under the lodge, there-that is the way all of it once was." He halted them at the icy shoreline and waited for the guard to appear.

Cheyne found himself fighting to focus on the misty island in the middle of the river, but after awhile, if he persisted in looking at just the same place, it took more definite form. He could make out what looked like a log jam, huge trees cut down and hauled into place to form a sort of floating barrier. A very effective one, he thought. If people tried to walk out on that, falling would be inevitable, and if the cold water didn't kill them, the disturbed logs banging together could easily crush swimmers before they ever got to the lodge. Then from the mist itself, Cheyne thought, six more selkies appeared before them and saluted Frijan.

"Your king is home. Clear the way for him and his guests," she commanded, and they immediately dove under the icy logjam, disappearing in the dark waters. In a few moments, the timbers parted, and several huge otters bobbed and swam in the wake.

"Go, ore. They will see that you don't drown, fust lie back and relax," said Wiggulf.

Yob obeyed, having little strength to do otherwise. The otters caught him from underneath and ferried him somewhat roughly to the lodge, but his head never sank below the waterline.

"Can't you do some magic here, Og? I don't want to dip into that water again." Claria stood frowning at the river's edge.

"I'm a little worn out, if you please. And I haven't had a drink since before we left Sumifa," said Og, his eyes bleary and tired behind his huge, sun-blistered nose.

"Are there no rafts?" asked Cheyne.

"We keep nothing around that would provide access to our lodge by our enemies. Unfortunately, it discomfits our friends as well. It will be a quick crossing, though the water will be unnaturally cold," said Frijan to the others. "Concentrate on your breathing and know that we will be there to bear you up should you falter."

Claria set her jaw and went next, under her own power, then Og with Cheyne's help. Wiggulf and Frijan brought up the rear, visible only as sleek, dark streaks under the low fog.

As the cold, black water swirled around his head, Cheyne felt rinsed of the layers of salt from the seawa-ter, his skin soothed by the river's gentle current. But for Og clinging to his back, he could almost have fallen asleep, sinking down into frigid peace, forgetting why he had ever wanted to be anywhere else. At length, Claria brushed against him, and he reached numbly for the rock that appeared in front of him.

"Cheyne, are you all right?" She crawled up after him onto the river-worn boulder.

"I think so. Yes." He shook his head, clearing it, his thoughts coming sharper and faster again. A few seconds passed before Wiggulf and Frijan appeared from behind them.

"You did well. Despite our best efforts, the water is still fouled with deathsleep from Drufalden's cold heart. Let's get inside where the fires are. You're all shaking," said Frijan, climbing over the smooth rocks to a wooden platform.

Og slung off his pack and dripped steadily, regard2 1 6

Teri McLaren

ing the selkie's blue-and-purple earring, which he still clutched tightly in his hand.

"I might be able to help you," the songmage managed to stutter, despite his chattering teeth. "But I'll need to ask to keep your stone," he added quietly, his eyes upon Wiggulf.

"My daughter knows the state of our affairs with Drufalden far better than I at this time, Ogwater. I must defer to her judgment."

Frijan shrugged, pointing to the doorway. "When Drufalden's heart thaws, the river will be warm and the fish will return. Until then, we suffer her icy curse. And we need the stone. I can never give it up."

"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.

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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 hand 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.