“He's burned his arm,” Beko said. “We'll need to treat that so it doesn't become infected.”

“What's he likely to be like when he wakes?” Rhiana asked.

Beko shrugged. “He wasn't violent. Just angry. I've never heard of anyone having a bad sway from this place, have you?”

Rhiana shook her head. “Everything still feels good and fine to me.” She took a small roll from her jacket pocket. It contained herbs and pastes; she had come prepared.

While Rhiana went to work on Ramus's wound, Beko stood and came to Nomi. He touched her shoulder, hesitated, then pulled her close, pressing his cheek against hers. “Perhaps it was a mistake,” he said.

“No!” Nomi said.

“You young lovers piss off and take it somewhere else,” Rhiana said. “Whatever happened here, I don't want him waking back into it. It's a light faint. He'll come around soon.”

Nomi half expected Beko to berate Rhiana for talking to him like that, but he grabbed Nomi by the arm and guided her away.

They emerged back into the camp, to find the other Serians sitting around the fire, brewing red root tea and obviously doing their best to come around.

“There's no problem,” Beko said. “But that tea's a good idea.” None of them asked any questions, and for that Nomi was glad.

“Beko . . .” she said. Can we talk? she wanted to ask. And she wanted to tell him about her and Ramus, how their friendship was fraught with complications, how there had never been anything more serious between them. Not physically, and not in her mind. What went on in Ramus's head had always been a mystery to her, and now rather than being enlightened, she was more confused than ever.

But Beko looked at her and shook his head slightly, then went back to his saddle. He sat and stared into the fire, accepting a mug of red root tea from Noon, and by the time Rhiana helped Ramus back into the camp they had been sitting in silence for some time.

RAMUS, COWED AND in pain, still uncertain on his feet, still trying to shake the sway from his system, allowed Rhiana to help him settle beside his saddle. He leaned against the smooth leather and rested his wounded arm across his lap. The burn scorched a path of pain all through his arm and seemingly down to the bone, but the Serian had told him it would heal well. The paste she had chewed and then smeared against the wound was dark in the moonlight, but better that than the sight of his own blackened skin. He was grateful to her, and he told her so.

“Just rest,” she said. “I'll redress it in the morning.”