Reap the Wild Wind

Chapter 25

A SLEEP, THE HUMAN RESEMBLED an untidy pile of laundry. A foot protruded, like a discarded boot. Otherwise, the only difference was that this pile snored. The chance to relax against the curled inner wall of the Watcher had been all the encouragement necessary. Marcus had burrowed into his own clothes like a brofer into its nest, succumbing to exhaustion in moments.

Aryl closed her eyes, but not to sleep. She reached, this time refusing to be denied. MOTHER!

Taisal was there, their link solid. Here.

Yena’s in danger! Aryl sent. Tikitik attacked the strangers—the strangers fought back and killed them. Images flashed from her mind to her mother’s: the vine trap, the appalling skill of the Tikitik in the canopy, flames and death.

The darkness turned deadly cold. What have you done?

Not: are you safe, Daughter?

Aryl didn’t care, worried more about holding their connection despite Taisal’s fury. Her mother—the Speaker—had to accept her warning. You must protect Yena.

Against what? Your companion? This stranger?

My—? Taisal had seen more than the past in her mind. Aryl tightened her shields. He isn’t the threat.

He? Taisal’s outrage was a storm, crashing through the other, stirring it into a maelstrom. It is not he. It is not real. Kill it! Kill it now!

Aryl found herself on her feet, knowing she was about to snap Marcus’ neck. It would be easy . . .

NO! She staggered back.

Easy . . . save Yena . . . SMOTHER IT!

NO! She pressed her back against the Watcher’s wall, stared down at the helpless figure. NO!

Push it out . . . make it FALL!

NO! Aryl didn’t know where she found the strength to resist her mother’s will. All she knew was that her mother tried to force her body to obey and she would not allow it.

The instant that pressure eased, Aryl threw more memories like weapons at her mother: the words of Thought Traveler . . . the Tikitiks’ pursuit . . . the chamber and the swarms . . .

The link between them suddenly faltered, as if Taisal tried to flee; quickly Aryl reinforced it, gripping her mother’s mind with hers. If the Tikitik come to Yena, don’t trust them, she pleaded. Don’t believe them. You are the Speaker, Mother. You must protect us.

The other churned and seethed, their link a slender bridge over utter madness. Taisal’s mindvoice came as a whisper.

What have you done?

Then silence.

“More?”

The Human grimaced. “No, please.” He handed back the pouch of dried dresel. “Awful, is.”

More for her, then. Aryl took a careful pinch to put on her tongue, then sealed the pouch and tucked it inside her stranger-shirt with her knot of blanket. She’d lost the piece of metal and her fich. There’d been supplies in the Watchers’ inner sanctum—flasks of water, dresel, dried fruit and meat, rope—but no fresh clothing. “Yours is awful,” she countered. When she’d wakened him to share her meal—when she’d finally calmed enough to want to eat—Marcus had offered a handful of what he called emergencyrations. Wood tasted better.

He laughed. They had that in common, though Aryl remained disconcerted by the familiar sound coming from such emptiness.

They were in the middle Watcher. There were doors underneath each, an important access since wastryls liked to nest in the mouths. Aryl had pushed a pile of twigs out and over the cliff. The smooth interior of each Watcher had to be cleaned before the M’hir.

They should put gauze over the opening, she told herself restlessly. It kept out biters—it might discourage something larger. A suggestion she’d bring to Council.

If she was ever home. If they’d listen. If . . . if her mother hadn’t tried to make her . . .

“Where Yena? Show me?”

For a being with a dead mind, Marcus had an uncanny knack for reading hers, Aryl decided. She went to stand beside him. He gave her a still-tired smile, the skin below his eyes smudged with shadow. He already moved with exaggerated care; she worried how stiff he’d be by the morning.

A breeze, dry and bitter cold, pulled at her hair. The Human had no idea how vulnerable he was, she thought abruptly. No idea how dangerous she was. The violence of her mother’s command still shook her. Had she not been able to resist, his body would be feeding the rocks below.

Aryl couldn’t blame Taisal for fearing the Human. To kill what wasn’t real—it was something hunters did daily. Trying to force her to that act—she shuddered and hugged herself.

“Aryl?”

“You want to know where Yena is,” she said, and looked out.

The rains were late today, or they came late here. The remaining sunlight struggled to reach the groves—already, the vegetation looked more gray and black than green. She raised her hand to point without hesitation. “There. Where are your people? The other strangers?”

Marcus shrugged. “Know not.”

She frowned. “Why don’t you know?”

He regarded her quizzically. “Lost are. Aryl and Marcus, both. Lost.”

“Of course not. We’re here,” she objected, patting the metal side of the Watcher. “Om’ray there.” A quick reach and she pointed to Grona, Rayna and Vyna, Amna and Pana, then Tuana, behind them.

Then, unexpectedly, her inner sense found something else. Someone else. “And there,” she said, forgetting who or what she was with. Another Om’ray on the mountain. Who could it be? With sudden hope, she reached deeper. But this was no mind she knew, no rescue. An unChosen, doubtless on Passage, perhaps from Grona, though he was well away from the pass. Seru, still waiting for Choice, would be happy.

She wished him luck passing the Tikitik.

“Always know?” Marcus pressed, his voice with an edge.

“Don’t you?”

“Here, know,” he continued, staring at her. He patted the smooth metal tube. “Not been before. How Aryl know?”

Aryl hesitated. If the most ordinary ability caught his attention, what would he think of other Om’ray Talents? She couldn’t know what would be new—possibly Forbidden—to a Human. “I was taught,” she said cautiously. “We all learn about the Watchers, so we can care for them.”

Satisfied by her explanation, or needing to think about it, Marcus eased down to a sit again, his back against the curved wall. He stretched out his legs, hissing as they straightened.

Aryl copied his position, gazing outward.

Truenight was near; it edged the horizon beyond the canopy in dark blue, swallowing more of the sky every time she looked. The rains were moving past, leaving a fresh dampness to the air. The mists hugged the grove and played among the now-abundant rocks on the flat ledge below. More than abundant—they formed a growing pile beneath the hole where she and the Human had entered the cliff, as if able to follow tracks or scent. She gave them a worried look. There was no other exit.

And they couldn’t stay here.

There weren’t enough supplies, even if they shared their “awful” food with one another. His bag had contained objects she’d recognized as coming from Janex, a ring from Pilip, and a flat box he’d tapped with a mournful look, called vidrecord. The hand-carried glow was the only useful item, but she didn’t say anything. “We’ll leave in the morning,” she told him. “Try to find your people.”

“Morning,” Marcus echoed in a tired voice. “Thank you, Aryl.” he added.

If he understood gratitude, the way an Om’ray would . . . Aryl crossed her legs and sat up, gazing across the opening of the Watcher at the Human. “I helped you,” she affirmed, trying for simple words, using gestures he should be able to follow despite the dim light. “To thank me . . . you—all strangers—must stay away from Yena. From all Om’ray. From the Tikitik. From the Oud. Away. Do you understand me? There is an Agreement among us. A peace here. Do you understand ‘peace’?”

Marcus’ eyes were bright. He nodded. “First,” he said, confusing her, and “Commonwealth. Trade Pact.” At her frown, he held up his hands, spreading the fingers. “Peace we. All we. Carasian, Human, Trant, Tolian. Many, many. All peace. Understand you.” He put his hands over his face, pantomimed looking through his fingers at her. “We hide. Stay hide. Contact no.”

Aryl’s frown deepened. Did he think her a fool? “You’ve been in contact already. Who taught you real words?” she accused.

“Oud,” readily. “Good. Better soon. Hide, Om’ray.”

Could the strangers be that ignorant of the world? What he said next confirmed her worst fears. “Talk machine, understand? Years. Talk. Invitation. Seekers, we.” He spoke with great satisfaction, as if coming here was an accomplishment . . .

... instead of a disaster. “The Oud,” Aryl informed him grimly, “don’t rule Cersi. They can’t make their own Agreement with strangers. Do you understand? You put us all in danger. No peace, Marcus. No peace with Humans! Go away!”

He was silent, hopefully thinking. She let him be, too shaken by the audacity of the Oud to know what else to say. Inviting the strangers? No wonder the Tikitik were on edge, suspicious of what was happening. Taisal had been right. The balance of power on Cersi had never included Om’ray; its peace was not their doing. To be caught in some struggle between Oud and Tikitik? Over what . . . a drowned ruin?

Aryl found her voice. “What’s so important under the Lake of Fire? What do you seek, Marcus, that the Oud want found and the Tikitik do not?”

He clasped his knees, resting his chin on top. “No.” Terse and low.

Not: I do not understand.

“ ‘Thank you, Aryl,’ ” she threw back at him. “I deserve an answer, Human. This is my world, not yours.” There, she’d said it. Because she believed it at last. They were too different in every way to have come from the same place. “Tell me what you seek that’s worth all this death!”

Another, longer silence. Then, “Morning. Home, me. Aryl help.”

She made a noise her mother would not have approved. “No. I can’t. I don’t know where your home is.”

The Human looked troubled. “Why? Aryl knows where, Yena, all Om’ray. Why not people mine?”

He thought she could sense Humans, too, she realized abruptly. From his side of things, she supposed it made sense. Aryl stood more slowly. “It isn’t like that,” she explained reluctantly. “Om’ray are—” What? Nothing was right anymore. Om’ray weren’t the extent of the physical world. They didn’t speak the only words.

Her universe grew larger at the expense of her own kind.

Aryl studied the Human, his face, his shape, his expressions. Nothing was unfamiliar.

Even the Om’ray form was no longer special.

“I can only feel Om’ray. Those like me,” she admitted. “If you can’t show me where to look for your people, more Humans, I—” she swallowed once, “—I’ll take you home, to Yena.” Past the waiting rocks and Tikitik, to bring her people a walking nightmare her mother most definitely wanted dead.

As plans went, Aryl told herself wearily, it was the worst she’d ever had. She wished she could tell Bern.

“Take me, Yena? Do that?” She’d startled him somehow.

“I can’t leave you here,” she snapped, then gentled her tone. They were both afraid, both sore and well past exhausted, but the Human had his own burden. “I’m sorry about Janex and Pilip.”

“Thank you. Sorry, Pilip. Triad Second. Good. Janex—” Marcus leaned his head back against the Watcher’s curve. His exposed throat worked for a moment. “Special, she,” he managed at last. “Friend, long time.”

“She saved my life,” Aryl offered.

“Special,” he repeated, seeming unsurprised.

They were both quiet. Abruptly, the Human yawned, another disquieting similarity. “Sleep now?”

“I—” About to agree, Aryl closed her mouth and stood, motioning him to stay still.

Something had just changed.

The Om’ray she’d sensed earlier had moved. No, not moved, she realized as she reached to better locate him. He was in motion toward her, but too quickly and . . . from above?

With sudden comprehension, if not understanding, she scanned the darkening sky for an aircar. “We’ll sleep later,” she told Marcus.

Then she smiled. “I think help’s found us.”

His name was Enris Mendolar, of Tuana. He was filthy, wore bloodstained rags, and rebuffed her one attempt to speak mind to mind. She couldn’t tell the color of his thick hair through the dirt. Stretched out on the opposite seat of the aircar, having fulfilled his task of bringing rescue to hover right in front of the Watcher’s mouth—much to Marcus’ joy—he was now snoring. Loudly.

Aryl couldn’t claim to be any cleaner, wearing her version of the strangers’ clothing—liberally stained with whatever had oozed from the Carasian’s head—and was too tired to care. Enris was Om’ray, real and solid, and by his existence pushed the strangers aside. Not much older, she decided, studying the face beneath the dirt. A heavier build than any Yena, with big hands and wide shoulders that probably moved things better than they climbed. He looked to have gone hungry and without sleep. Bruises and scabs showed through rents in his clothing.

He was Kiric’s brother.

She knew, having tasted his identity. To Aryl, there was a resonance between close kin, a similar flavor to their presence. She wondered vaguely if Enris knew what had happened to Kiric, or if she was supposed to tell him.

Not that she should speak to a stranger, without Chosen Yena present.

Aryl giggled.

His eyes opened at the sound. They were dark brown, wide-set, and presently more than a little dazed. “Wha—”

“Sorry. I was thinking of my grandmother’s caution—about talking to strangers.”

His lips quirked in a smile. It reopened a small cut and he caught the drop of blood with a finger, then wiped it on his pants. “Took her good advice to heart, I see?” This with a deliberate flash of distrust past his otherwise tight shields.

Aryl bristled. “You’re flying with Humans, too.”

He didn’t apologize, but looked more awake. “ ‘Humans?’ Is that what they call themselves?”

“The ones who look like us, but aren’t? Yes. There are others.” She sagged a little. “Too many others.”

“Why are they here?” he demanded. Before she could open her mouth to answer, he went on, each question sharper, louder. “What do they want? Where do they come from? Wh—”

“Aryl?” Marcus looked up from his slouch in the rearmost seat. She’d thought him asleep, too. He nodded his head at Enris, his expression unreadable. “Loud, him.”

“Human,” Enris said, the word an accusation. The two locked stares for a moment, then the Om’ray sank back in his seat, throwing his arm over his face.

Marcus glanced at her. “There soon.” As if she’d find that reassuring.

As if words from a Human, an Om’ray-who-wasn’t stranger, could matter more to her than the perfectly reasonable passion of her own kind.

Confused, Aryl closed her eyes on them both.

Their flight was over so quickly, Aryl wondered if she and Marcus could have walked to this camp of the strangers after all. Though she might have dozed for part.

Enris had that grumpy look she remembered from Costa in the mornings. He’d managed only enough sleep to be truly exhausted, she decided. Hopefully, he’d be easier to talk to once rested.

The other strangers took Marcus away, exclaiming in their not-real words. The Humans patted his back and arms with their hands, as if needing to touch him. The others—a blur of feather, scale, and odd shapes—added their voices to the din. She and Enris might have been forgotten, but one Human stayed by the aircar to take them in charge. Aryl recognized her. The not-Chosen, not-Om’ray female with dead hair.

Luckily, Enris was too tired to pay attention. Or else he was unlike other eligible unChosen of Aryl’s experience, who would, she was sure, have been struck dumb by such a living contradiction.

“Wash. Rest,” this Human said to them with a smile. “Come.”

Truenight, already upon the rest of the mountain, was held at bay here. Aryl was relieved by the sensible lighting as they followed the Human from the aircar. Stalks with too-bright glows at their tips marked the edge of the long, sharp ledge they used for their machines. She’d taken a quick assessing look over the side. Climbable, just. Which meant dangerous after dark.

Their goal was a second, higher ledge, up a short cliff that presented no challenge, especially where it sloped at one end. Aryl tried to notice such details, remember them, though the contrast between intense light and black shadow made it difficult. More glow stalks marched up a wide ramp carved into the rock; so did they.

Enris limped, favoring his right leg and side. Aryl factored that into her—it wasn’t a plan, she admitted, more the preparation for one. If the chance came to escape the strangers, she wouldn’t leave him here; his limp meant certain paths open to her were out of the question. That was all.

Maybe he’d heal overnight.

Look.

Aryl raised her eyes from the junction of ramp to upper ledge, seeking what Enris wanted her to see.

The mountain had been eaten away here, its outer flesh of stone stripped to reveal giant bones. Aryl gasped. Familiar bones. She’d seen the same massive shapes, the same building designs through the eyes of the machine. But those lay under the deep waters of the Lake of Fire. These were exposed to the air.

And accessible.

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t care what technology the strangers had, it must take time to dig so much stone. She remembered the urgent excitement of the visitor strangers—was it only yesterday?—enough to draw Marcus and his companions from their own place. There had to be something else, something new.

A change.

“Come, please.” This from their guide. Aryl gestured apology for stopping to stare, not that the Human would understand it, and started walking again. Their goal was a cluster of three buildings, each a copy of the one on the lake platform. Marcus and his group were ahead, entering the centermost. How had the strangers brought all this? she wondered.

The curves and angles erupting from the cliff loomed overhead as they approached. Darkness enclosed them from the other side, erasing the world they knew. The strangers had claimed this much of Cersi for their own, Aryl decided, and shivered.

Their guide walked faster, as if eager to rejoin her companions. “You’ve seen this before,” Enris said, his voice quiet and quick.

“Not this.” Aryl kept her voice low, too, though she would have preferred the security of mindspeech. “The strangers have another place, on the Lake of Fire. It floats above ruins like these.”

“Ruins?” They passed through a bar of shadow, masking his face, but Aryl heard his surprise. “These were buried in the mountain, but they aren’t ruins. Do you see any marks of age, any damage?”

She looked to the side, tilting her head to better see up the cliff. He was right. The structures being freed were perfect, without crack or weathering. “How can that be? They are old,” she whispered. “Marcus—the Human—said so. And the Tikitik talk of a ‘Before.’ Who made these? Oud?”

Enris shook his head. “I know more of the Oud than I care to—this isn’t their work.” He staggered, catching himself with a heavy hand on her shoulder.

A ploy. Through that touch came a flood of memory. Aryl saw a device . . . somehow heard words from inside it . . . felt Enris’ astonishment at how well it fit his hand . . . his conclusion.

Om’ray? she sent, not holding back her disbelief. You think all of this, everything the strangers seek—what they found—was made by Om’ray?

“Who else?” he said out loud, attracting a startled look from the Human.

Aryl had no answer to that she’d care to have overheard.

Om’ray?

They made almost nothing of their own. Had almost nothing.

Were almost nothing.

Strange how the realization of her people’s insignificance made her sad instead of bitter. This Enris—he didn’t feel that way. She’d tasted his fierce pride; she envied it. But Om’ray, responsible for these marvels? Easier to believe the Tikitik sealed the sun away at night.

They were approaching the first building, Aryl losing herself in visions of the strangers’ wonderful “fresher,” when the sending struck.

DANGER!!!

She bent double and cried out, hearing Enris do the same.

DANGER!!

They straightened as one, to look out into truenight. Toward Yena.

The Human, who’d stopped when they did, raised her hands. Perhaps she said, “What is?” but neither Om’ray responded.

DANGER!!! A third sending, this time mixed with DEATH!

There was no time to think, no time to ask herself if she could do it.

Aryl only knew she must.

She grabbed Enris by the hand. TRUST ME! she sent, flooding his mind with all the Power and need in hers.

Then she pulled him with her into the darkness that marked the cliff . . .