Teri McLaren
over the water. Bright red-and-green parrots chattered in the trees overhead.
"Why?" said Cheyne, annoyed. There was no one in sight, no tracks, the birds haggled undisturbed over the abundant ripe dates.
Og pointed to something half-buried in the sand by the old fire. Cheyne put his boot back on, walked over to it, and took out his sweep to brush the sand away. Before the broom ever touched the object, he froze, his hand suspended in midair over a long-toothed, lowbrowed, hollow-eyed yellow skull.
"Ore," said Og. "Probably a rival tribe. The Wyrvils eat them. Or if they really respect them, or really hate them, or if they gave good sport in battle, they keep the heads. They build their temples with bones. This fellow must have been old or easy to kill. Skull was too soft to use in construction, so they left it. See that ridge just north of the rocks? The desert turns into scrub and the clouds coming off the inland sea drop their last rain there. That is the beginning of Wyrvil territory."
Cheyne drew his hand back slowly, an odd tingling making its way up his arm. He found a bit of broken bamboo and rolled the skull away into the bushes, then took the little man by the sleeve and led him back to the pool. Claria still lounged in the water, a couple of the parrots' feathers now tucked into her hair.
"How does a raqa-loving vagrant know about the weather and battle customs in Wyrvil territory, Ogwater?" asked Cheyne.
Og sat down on the grassy bank and put his miserable feet into the pool, sandals and all. "Ahhh…" He laid back and closed his eyes blissfully.
"Og." Cheyne persisted.
"Oh, all right," said the little man, his nose pointing skyward like a beacon. "I… was a songmage. A long time ago. Years and years. I was the best. Worked in the Citadel for the royal family. They treated me like one of their own." He cupped a handful of water from