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