The trees crowded over their trail, and the ground was dry, loose sand, littered with seasons and seasons of pine needles and stickaburrs. Hard country in which to track. Still, he felt the presence of followers.
'Og, step it up. Stop dreaming of Riolla. She would have drowned you back there without thinking twice. Come on. You're supposed to be my guide, not the other way around.'
'I know. I know.' The little man sighed, one ugly boot in hand. His waterlogged sandals still squished a little. 'I just wish it were otherwise. I just wish she loved me like I love her.'
Cheyne gently pushed the songmage in front of him and hung back for a moment, listening. Not far away, to the right, he knew he had heard someone moving among the trees-someone who seemed to know their way. From Claria's estimation, that's where the river lay. The trees seemed less dense there as well, affording him a protected view. He stood silently listening to the whisper of the cooling wind in the fragrant pines.
And then he saw them. Yob, his shoulders stooped and his hand at his neck, lumbered along not fifty feet away; behind him a dark-skinned woman walked as if she owned the forest and everything in it. It was Yob who made all of the noise. The woman moved as though her feet never touched the ground, as though she swam through the air. They seemed to be walking with purpose and speed. And Yob seemed very unhappy about all of it.
Cheyne slowly let go of the bough he held in front of his face. In a few steps, he was back with Claria and Og and had bade them to stop.
'Ogwater, it's your old friend, Yob. And he looks to be injured, though he's on his feet well enough. A dark woman walks behind him, and I think she has a definite destination,' he whispered as the trio crouched low under the pines.
'She'll have a definite purpose, too. She must be a selkie,' replied Og, his face furrowing.
'A selkie?' said Claria.
'Yes. Riverfolk, you know. Change from humans, or nearly human form, to otters and such, depending on their clan. Live in the forest here, further upstream, but they know everything that happens in the water. She must have found Yob at the delta. Selkies really love three things in life: games, baubles, and fishing in the tidal pools. They used to frequent these parts, before Rotapan poisoned the Silver Sea.' Og smiled. 'But I've never been this far west. That's just a guess, from what the ores say and the old ballads I know about them.'
Cheyne idly drew his foot across the speckled white sand. 'Why would she want an ore, Og?'
'Oh, I would think she's taking him home with her. Remember, Rotapan has had their king in his water dungeon for years now. Something of a trade-off, I would guess…'
'Rotapan doesn't strike me as caring much about anyone except himself. Why would he ransom Yob?' asked Cheyne.
'He wouldn't. But Yob would ransom Womba,' Og said slowly. I was hiding under Krota's broken pot-I heard Rotapan say to Yob was that he was holding Womba prisoner until Yob brought all of us back to the temple. Well, actually, just our heads.'
'How would the selkies know that?'
'If Womba is in the water dungeon, they know from Wiggulf himself. He sings constantly. Nothing happens in the water without the selkies hearing of it within the hour.'
'Let's follow them. If nothing else, we'll find our way through the wood safely,' Cheyne said, thinking of the canistas he had seen earlier; a bedraggled group of exhausted travelers would be just the sort of prey the beasts liked best.
Warily, he led the way. Claria took the middle position, keeping a sharp eye on Og ever since she had seen him mooning over Riolla. The songmage clutched the serpent-headed staff tightly, the red ajada covered with a shred of Og's overshirt. Every so often, when Claria cast a glance at Cheyne, Og would look behind him, tuning his ears to any sound that might mean they were being followed. Especially any sound like Riolla's voice.
An hour more into the pine forest, the trees began to thin into deciduous, understory saplings, which provided almost no cover. Cheyne dropped the party back
several hundred yards, trying to keep quiet in the rustling, drier leaves that lay scattered under the dogwoods and maples. Claria moved well in the noisy rubble, but Ogwater sounded like Yob. Finally, at the river's edge, in the relative shelter of a huge, storm-fallen willow, Cheyne bade them stop.
'Looks like we can wash now, Claria. We'll need to take to the water if we want to continue to follow them. How far upstream are we, anyway?'
Claria had already waded into the clear, cold water. A low mist hung inches above the river, almost like ice crystals suspended in the air.
'Birr! The water is like ice! It shouldn't be this cold this time of year. The leaves haven't even fallen,' she complained, quickly splashing down and wading out again. 'I recall that there is some kind of enlargement in the river around here soon. I drew it about four miles into the forest-sort of an island in the middle of the stream. That's all the traders' maps showed. We should be very close to that,' she replied.
'That would be the rock of the main lodge. Wiggulf s personal quarters are supposed to be as big as a banquet hall,' said Og. 'I know a song-' He began to hum, but Cheyne hushed him with a glare.
'Come on. Back in the river.'
'Not me. We won't last ten minutes in that water,' said Claria, still shivering. 'Besides, how are we going to follow them into the main lodge? It'll be surrounded by selkies, won't it?'
'I'll take you.'
They all turned at once toward the husky voice. The female selkie stood smiling before them; at her side, Yob shook violently, his face as pale as a dead leaf.
'Let's go. This greenskin is fading fast on me. He's too heavy to carry and they never float, and I need to keep him alive for awhile. He'd probably like that, too. I finally had to come back for you because you were so slow. He hasn't got long before he falls down. But now you can carry him when he needs it.' She waved a
graceful hand at Yob, then motioned to a nearly invisible path in front of them.
Cheyne looked cautiously over his shoulder, the sensation of being followed rising up his back again. He fully expected to see Riolla and Rotapan bearing down on them. What he saw instead made him only a little happier. Two dozen burly, bearded men, skin the same color as the woman's, long coral knives in their hands, appeared and encircled them. Water droplets gleamed in their dark curly hair and clung to their beards. Bits of colored shells and sea urchin spines dangled from their ears and necks and at the belts of their ghomaskin breechcloths.
'You didn't think the riverking's daughter travels alone, did you?' Frijan beamed.
Yob remembered something, then, stirring out of his stupor,
'Daughter… Womba…' he cried softly. 'The temple fell down, and you are left there, my little flower.'
She wished he would stop that infernal singing. Womba shook the iron bars of the water dungeon and let loose with a mighty roar, causing the grizzled old selkie to cease his mournful song for a moment.
'Qh, good one. A few more of those and we'll be out,' he chittered appreciatively. 'Pray tell, orcess- why do they have you in here?'
Womba hung onto the rusty iron gate, the strong tide lapping up to her neck, and fitfully scratched at a bit of gray seaweed caught on one of her chin whiskers. The saltwater was ruining her dress, and if it rose much higher, she would surely drown. When she didn't answer, the old selkie flipped his tail playfully and resumed his song. Womba sighed and contemplated how much energy it would take to catch and eat the old furbag. But then she would be alone down here, and that, despite the dolorous singing, would be much, much worse. It had taken eight armed guards and a net to get her in here. She must have been really tired, she told herself. Such weakness was inexcusable. Og would not want her now… A large tear formed in her right eye and dropped into the rising sea.
'Oh, please, don't make it worse. The water will drown you soon enough without help.' The old selkie chuckled as he swam over. He floated on his back and looked up at her, compassion and pity radiating from his huge brown, shining eyes. The bright sunlight on the water outside the dungeon sparkled through the arched gate and played against the ceiling, its soft overhead rays making his gray whiskers gleam silver.
'For whom do you cry, orcess?' he squeaked, his voice small and strange in Womba's ears.
'What?' she sputtered,
'Is it a young warrior? Your mother? A long lost friend?' The old selkie paddled around her slowly, keeping just out of swatting range, his words echoing off the wet, salt-encrusted walls of the dungeon.
'I have shamed him with my weakness; I let myself be taken prisoner. He was destined to be my husband,
