Riders of the Storm

Chapter 13

“THOUGHT TRAVELER SAID THE OUD would come for their machine.”

Haxel raised an eyebrow. “And they needed this?”

“This” being the surprise that greeted them at dawn. An Oud tunnel mouth had opened on the other side of the river, complete with support beams and a ramp leading into the depths. Aryl shrugged. “The machine’s gone.”

Along with the corpse. No Hard Ones in sight, but she didn’t doubt they’d been the first to arrive. As for the tunnel? “Before it died, the Oud told me something was coming here,” she reminded the First Scout. “This could be what it meant. Maybe this is how the Oud establish their presence. A—door. There’s one at Grona.”

“Theirs is tucked under a bridge. Discreet. This is in our way.”

Aryl’s lips quirked. Haxel gave her a sidelong look, then chuckled. “You’re going to tell me to be grateful they didn’t put it through one of our homes.”

“Not in so many words, but yes.”

“Glad you’re the Speaker, Aryl Sarc.”

With that less than comforting statement, the First Scout headed back to the village.

Aryl lingered, trying to see down the tunnel, but the contrast between daylight and the faint glow within was too great to reveal detail. It went down, that was all she knew for sure. She tried the geoscanner. Its red symbol told her what she could see for herself: Oud, here, and active.

A mere five days after Om’ray stumbled on its ruins—ruins they’d caused in the first place—Sona’s Oud were ready, even eager, to resume official relations. Had the creatures been waiting all this time or had they watched them leave Grona? Would any Om’ray have done, or was there something about the exiles they approved?

Disturbing thoughts.

Aryl pulled the small bag from her belt and stared at it. The dying Oud’s “gift.” Probably should open it, she told herself. They might show up at any moment, and ask for it back. Or not. Who could predict what they’d do?

The pendant. The headdress from the ridge. The blade Enris found. Sona itself. Things from the past had an unsettling way of changing the present.

The wonder, she decided, wasn’t that the strangers were interested in what happened long ago, it was that they dared look.

Were they braver than an Om’ray? Aryl pressed her lips together, then untied the bag’s fastener, shaking its contents out on her open palm.

A circle of green metal.

A familiar circle. Her fingers trembled as she brushed dirt from its inner curve.

There. A small square. Inside, six tiny dots. His stars. His name.

Aryl slipped her hand through, pushing the band up her wrist until it was covered by her sleeve. The chill of the metal warmed to her skin. Enris had made this. He’d shown her the memory.

She could guess how the Oud came to have it. An Oud—possibly the same one—had stolen the Tuana’s token and pack, before dragging him for days through their tunnels. But why bring this to her? Why now? There was a message in both timing and gift.

Aryl tasted change, bitter and ominous.

Something was coming.

Despite what she’d said to Haxel, the Oud hadn’t meant this tunnel.

Whatever it was took its time. Their second fist passed, marked by clear skies and bitter cold. Hoyon professed this to be more typical weather. The exiles took full advantage, working outside from firstlight to truenight, using large fires to stretch the day. The Grona might be unused to heavy work, but even they seemed swept up by the enthusiasm to rebuild Sona. It helped that each new structure meant more space and privacy.

Hoyon preferred to work with Gijs sud Vendan, who seemed flattered by the older Chosen’s attention. Juo was not, and continued to avoid both Adepts. Oran and her Chosen took their ease—when they had it—with Chaun and Weth. Kran, not yet accepted by the Sona unChosen, hovered near his sister.

When he wasn’t, Aryl thought uneasily, staring at her.

On the surface, Sona was a unit, working to the betterment of all.

But the Adepts would stop talking when she walked by, and neither volunteered a word to her. Bern barely spoke at all, perhaps because Oran made a point of sleeping with others—to the blunt-spoken dismay of his great-grandmother. Husni, in no uncertain terms, expected babies. Sona needed them. What was Oran thinking?

Oran, Aryl knew, was thinking about being a proper Adept in a real Cloisters, trained and valued. She’d do nothing, yet, to risk her chance of a return to that life.

Nervous, quiet Oswa, little Yao her shadow, went from useless at cooking to useless at mending. Taen, normally the most patient of Om’ray, declared the older Chosen an inept menace following a too-close call pouring hot oil.

There was, however, something Oswa did very well. Aryl discovered it when she entered the meeting hall looking for Veca. The woodworker wasn’t there, but the Grona sat at one end of a long table—the hall now boasted two—Yao beside her paying rapt attention to what her mother’s hands were doing.

Oswa was writing.

She used a splinter and a liquid from a small pot to draw symbols on a length of white fabric. A child’s undercoat, Aryl realized.

“This is me?” Yao asked, pointing at a double curve.

“This,” Oswa replied, touching the ink-free end of the splinter to a series of circles and lines. “See? There is the road. The river. This is where you mustn’t go. This is the way—Aryl. I didn’t hear you.” She laid her hands flat on her work, not to hide it, but hold it, as if she thought it would be taken away.

Perhaps it would, in Grona. Oswa was no Adept. If she knew how to read and write, it was knowledge gleaned through her Joining to Hoyon. Also Forbidden.

This wasn’t Grona. “May I see?” Aryl asked. A way to represent the world that didn’t rely on their inner sense? She’d never heard of such a thing, but she wasn’t the one with a crippled daughter.

Yao climbed into her lap when she sat beside Oswa, snuggling into place with a contented sigh. Aryl put her arms around her, feeling the mother’s shields. “It’s Sona,” the child said proudly. She was a warm little thing, happiest when touching others. The exiles believed it made her feel less alone; even Haxel would put aside her work to ruffle Yao’s fluff of brown hair and smile.

Aryl, who knew Yao could sense them all through the M’hir, thought it just the child’s sweet nature, blossoming under the exiles’ attention.

Young as she was, Yao knew better than to climb in her father’s lap or touch any of the Caraats. Hoyon and the rest treated her as if she was not-real, at best uncomfortable when she was near. Aryl had to believe he’d been willing to risk his daughter’s life to reach Sona because he hadn’t felt there was a life to risk.

If he or Oran knew Yao existed partly in what Yena’s Adepts called the Dark, it would be worse.

Aryl pressed her cheek to Yao’s head. “How does it work?”

“I can’t bear her to be lost again,” Oswa said defensively, her hair lashing. “I can’t.”

None of us could, Aryl sent, putting commitment beneath the words. “Show me. I’m truly interested, Oswa,” she persisted at the other’s look of doubt.

The Chosen spread the undercoat. “This is here.” A symbol like two sticks braced against one another. Her finger went to one side of the ’coat, indicated a line from which three others rose. “This is where we see the sun in the morning.” To the other side, a line alone. “This is where it sets. The empty river.” Two wavy lines. “The mounds.” Dots of black.

Sona. Defined not by the Clans around it, but by its relationship to other places. Aryl’s eyes shot up to Oswa’s. “Remarkable.”

“I wrote her name—she knows it—here, with mine. So we’re together.” A line of symbols beneath. Painstaking, detailed work. The Grona sighed. “Foolish, I know.”

“It’s clever,” Aryl said sincerely. “Like looking down from the sky.” Was this how Marcus saw his surroundings? Was this how he found his way from place to place—world to world? She felt dizzy trying to imagine it. “Would you teach me?”

“Why?”

Freeing one arm from Yao, now half asleep, Aryl touched the mark that was Sona, then drew her finger across the empty white and pressed where she thought would be the waterfall and Cloisters. “Yao will go here, one day. She’ll need to know the way. I’d like to draw it for her.”

“She can’t go out on her own,” Oswa objected, reaching for her daughter. Unconcerned—or familiar—with the talk of adults, Yao stirred only to settle in her mother’s lap, promptly closing her eyes. “She never will,” the Grona continued. “You know she’s—” a whisper, “—she’s not like other Om’ray. The world isn’t there to her.”

Aryl regarded the now-sleeping child. Before meeting Marcus, she would have shared her mother’s grief. Now, she found herself smiling. “The world is there—and more than the world, Oswa. Yao may be the first Om’ray able to walk beyond the end of the world, to see what’s there.”

“Om’ray are the world,” as if Aryl was the child. “There’s nothing more.”

She didn’t argue. “So, how should I draw a mountain?”

A tenth later—and Aryl’s attempts at drawing the valley—Oswa relaxed enough to laugh. She had a lovely smile, belied by the lines on her face. With Yao asleep, the burden on her Power lessened, though she continued to shield against any dreams. Sleeping children didn’t confine themselves to their own minds.

Dreams. Maybe, Aryl thought, it was time. She put down her splinter and wiped her fingertips on a scrap. “Has Yao had any unusual dreams, Oswa? I don’t want to concern you, but Seru, Ziba, and I—” she decided not to mention Juo’s unborn “—we’ve each had one or more since coming to Sona. Dreams about what this place was like. That’s how we found the supplies hidden in the mounds.”

The Grona didn’t look surprised, though her cheeks paled and she held Yao a little tighter. “Teaching dreams.”

Aryl blinked. “You know what they are?”

“Adepts use them. That’s how they learn.” A flash of bitterness, quickly stilled. “Memories are stored in the Cloisters, I don’t know how. But certain skills and knowledge—whatever must be known by those who come after—those are kept. To learn from them, an Adept dreams.”

Aryl’s heart pounded. “Why are we—why would Choosers dream?”

The other bent her head, rubbing her cheek against Yao’s soft curls. Her own hair moved restlessly, but didn’t disturb the child. “I don’t know. But…A few years ago,” she said so quietly Aryl had to strain to hear, “a sickness came. It weakened the eldest first, and the children. The Adepts stayed in the Cloisters, searching the records—” while a young mother waited outside, alone, and in fear, Aryl thought with pity.

“One truenight,” Oswa went on, “our Choosers, all of them, dreamed the same memory. A teaching dream, sent out of the Cloisters as well as to the Adepts within. The sickness came from one of our plants. Because of the rain and cold during harvest, it had a growth inside that made a poison. We had only to stop eating it. The Adepts rushed from the Cloisters to save us—” a note of triumph “—but we had already saved ourselves.”

The Sona Cloisters, sealed and abandoned. Could it have been sending dreams all this time, Aryl wondered, trying to save a people who no longer existed?

“I dreamed,” she said, picking up the splinter and reinking it from Oswa’s little pot, “that everyone in Sona learned to read and write. Even unChosen.”

When Aryl looked up, Oswa Gethen was smiling.

“I don’t trust either of them.”

Aryl traded looks with Seru, who gave a pained lift of her eyebrows. Cetto sud Teerac had been a Councillor for Yena, confident of his authority and purpose until handed a token of exile with the rest. Husni had taken the Adepts’ betrayal of her Chosen and family personally indeed.

“We’ve seen it,” she said now, driving a needle through fabric with unnecessary force. “Adepts have their own schemes and plans. None for the good of ordinary Om’ray. You saw that, young Aryl.”

Since her own mother had been one of those Adepts, there wasn’t much Aryl could do besides gesture agreement.

“Oran healed Myris and Chaun,” her cousin spoke up.

“That one?” Husni made a rude noise. “Smaller stitches, Seru,” she ordered, “or the cold will find its way in.”

Aryl slipped to the floor beside Seru, crossing her legs comfortably. Much as it pained her—and much as she inwardly agreed—there was nothing to be gained if Husni continued to speak against the Adepts. “I’m not suggesting you trust them,” she began, sending sincerity through her shields.

Another jab of the needle. “Never will. Never!”

“But Sona is a fresh start for all of us. Including Oran and Hoyon.” Who, despite being worked as never before, showed no signs of leaving. “We should give them a chance to prove themselves.”

Husni, who had no hesitation expressing herself when away from her larger-than-life, outspoken Chosen, made a rude noise. “They talk about you, too, young Aryl, and not words you’d like to hear. ‘Forward.’ ‘Doesn’t know her place.’ ‘Just an unChosen, barely more than a child.’ ‘Who does she think she is, ordering everyone?’ ‘Haxel’s favorite doesn’t have to do real work.’”

Aryl’s lips twitched. “Here I thought that’s what you said about me.”

Wrinkles creased in a wicked smile. “Of course. But to your face. Though you haven’t done badly for a Sarc.” The smile disappeared. Husni laid her hands on the pile of clothing in her lap. “Mark what I say. The two from Grona mean you no good and they’ve found fools to listen. If Sona is a fresh start, is that what we want? Secrets? Spite behind shields? You should do something.”

She had. It had only made things worse. Secrets indeed. Aryl wished she could believe all would be well once she could offer her people the ability to move through the M’hir. If she should. She’d give anything to have someone she trusted to talk to about it.

If only Enris had stayed…

The other two were watching her, Seru with a slight frown. Aryl rose to her feet. “What I have to do is catch up to Haxel. She’s waiting for me.”

“Don’t trust her either,” Husni grumbled, picking up her needle and giving the sleeve in her other hand a dire look. “Upstart Vendan with her notions.”

Aryl smiled sympathetically at Seru as she left.

The First Scout’s notion of a meeting place would have raised Husni’s hackles even more, Aryl thought with amusement as she climbed the rope ladder. Haxel, wanting a better vantage point to watch the valley, had built her own—a platform rising the height of three Om’ray from the top of the nearest mound. That this exposed whomever she assigned to watch to the full brunt of the ceaseless winter wind didn’t appear to bother her.

On second thought, Husni probably approved. Anything that smacked of their life in the canopy brought a gleam to her washed-out eyes. Climb a swinging rope to a perch that, to be honest, shook with every gust of wind?

Just like home.

Aryl swung herself up and onto the platform. Haxel waved at their surroundings from her perch on one edge. An invitation.

From here, she could see the Oud tunnel, the dead grove of nekis, and follow the road and river to the first bend in the valley. The snow that fell no longer melted by day, although the wind scoured it from any rise. The result erased shadows, leveled the landscape. Did snow keep the Oud underground?

Looking across the valley, the snow emphasized the pattern of pebble-filled ditches that led from the empty riverbed, a pretense of water.

Beyond that?

Aryl squinted at the formidable cliff on the other side. Beyond that was Vyna.

Deliberately, she turned. Looking down the valley, she found it easy to tell where the destruction of the Oud stopped and started. Not random. The village, the road from it, the wide open fields. Anywhere a Sona might have run to escape.

“Any sign of our little friends?” she asked. Haxel had become, as she succinctly put it, “familiar” with the Hard Ones. Hammer, ax, or burning fuel oil only made them roll away. Nothing daunted, Haxel had stayed with a group for the better part of two days, finally baiting them close with her rations. Hard Ones, she discovered, exposed a soft body part underneath to feed—what she called their “sweet spot.”

As well as triumph, she nursed broken toes. An unusually large Hard One had managed to pin her foot—an event Haxel dismissed as an excellent opportunity to test if jabbing a knife point up through the sweet spot was how they could be killed. It was.

But she wouldn’t eat one.

“They don’t cross the river,” the First Scout observed. “Or the ditches. My guess is the Sona knew how to keep them away. Have you dreamed anything about it?”

“I haven’t dreamed since coming back.” The others hadn’t either. It would have been helpful to know how to unlock the mound doors—or the Cloisters.

“Our Adepts claim it’s because we have what we need. That these ‘teaching dreams’ are for emergencies.” An undertone of frustration. The First Scout never enjoyed relying on the Power or knowledge of others.

Oran had had a difficult time believing in the dreams; after all, she’d had none. Aryl refused to argue the point. It hadn’t been necessary. Little Ziba had dismissed the Adept as “silly” in front of the entire Clan, then proceeded to demonstrate how to dismantle and clean one of the Sona oillights—a skill she’d never been taught.

Oran had believed then.

“What we need is water.” Aryl gazed up the valley again, feeling the wind redden her cheeks. So far, the road had been passable, though the cart had yet to roll. Morla refused to admit defeat, though the mechanism to let the round wheels turn smoothly remained a mystery. Veca built one design after another; Tilip busied himself with tables and benches, avoiding his wife’s mother as much as possible.

The road was passable—but only until another ice storm, or much more snow on the ground. At least that could be melted for water. “If I knew how to call the Oud,” Aryl said with her own frustration, “I would.”

“Taisal used to say the same about the Tikitik.”

Aryl’s thoughts scattered like biters tapped from a window gauze, settling in a new pattern. She hadn’t tasted Taisal’s presence in the M’hir since that day. It didn’t mean she wasn’t there; Taisal’s control in the other had advanced, too, and she had an Adept’s trained discipline. She might be able to hide among its currents.

As a comfort or threat? It would, Aryl decided, feeling as old as the ruins below, depend on whether they were on the same side or opposed.

“Did she find a way? To contact them?” She tried to sound vaguely uninterested and doubted it worked.

“No. We tried following them once, she and I.” Haxel stretched like a predator. “Before she was Speaker and Adept. I, First Scout. They lost us within a tenth.” As if that long-ago failure still rankled.

Aryl couldn’t wrap her mind around the image. Her mother…racing through the canopy after Tikitik on a whim? Taisal di Sarc had never been that young, or foolish.

Had she?

“Don’t worry, youngling,” Haxel went on. “I happen to agree with Cetto. The Oud showed some sense there, making you Speaker. You’ve already talked to strangers—which is more than Taisal or any Clan Speaker can say.” A too-innocent pause. “I wonder how our Marcus is doing?”

Aryl checked her shields, but it was only habit. Haxel couldn’t read her thoughts without her permission. The gibe was dangerously accurate, though; she hoped her face hadn’t shown anything. “All he wanted was to dig for the past in some hole.” The truth was always safer. “I’m sure that’s what he’s doing.”

“If it had been up to me…” The First Scout didn’t bother completing that sentence. Instead, she went off on another topic. “You’re right. We need the Oud back here. Get them to put water back in the river. Hoyon tells me going down their tunnel is out of the question—”

Only Haxel would consider such a thing. For once, Aryl was in complete agreement with the Grona Adept. Go beneath the ground, where the sun couldn’t reach?

Enris had barely hinted what it had been like. He hadn’t wanted to think about it. And he was Tuana—used to spending truenight under the pathetic glow of stars.

”—so what we should do is backtrack the one who did come. Either find more Oud, or find out what happened to that one. Have a story to tell its relatives, if need be.”

“You want me to go back up the valley.” Aryl paused, suspicious. “Alone?”

“The rest are busy.” That scar-twisting grin was a challenge. “You can practice that new Talent of yours without an audience.”

Other than Taisal, Aryl thought with an inward wince.

So much for the First Scout’s unusual patience over the last few days. She managed to gesture gratitude. If her gloves made it less than gracious, Haxel could take it as she wished. “While I appreciate the thought—” not much, “—I don’t need practice. I need—” She hesitated.

An esask would quail under the anticipation in those eyes. “Need what?”

To be desperate…?

The First Scout would gladly supply such a situation, Aryl knew. “Among other things, a peaceful, clear mind—” this, sincerely, “—which I won’t have until we’ve a water supply.”

Haxel settled back, again the image of patience. “You’re the Speaker.”

Patient only to a point. “I’d better get going.” Aryl tried not to climb down in haste. It might feel like an escape; unwise to make it look like one.

Husni had been right to warn her about Haxel’s “notions.”

Marcus Bowman lifted the lid from the first pot and waved his bioscanner over its contents.

“That’s no way to treat a gift,” Aryl complained from her perch on his table. She’d come straight here, reasoning it was the best place from which to launch her search for Oud—given there were some busy at work in the distance.

Besides, Marcus needed real food.

The Human grinned at her. “This is the right way. You don’t want me to be green and die. I don’t want that, too.” He went to her next offering, a fragrant loaf baked with pieces of rokly. The ’scanner shrilled a protest and he showed her its agitated display, for all the good that did. “See? You can eat this. I can’t.”

“Fine. You can have all of Lendin’s swimmer stew. I’ll eat the treat.” As she helped set out a pair of dishes, she glanced at him curiously. “You’re speaking much better.”

“I practiced.” He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Would you like sombay?”

“Yes, please.” She’d never had to learn a language, but this seemed exceptional progress for a single fist, when he’d told her they’d studied words from the Oud for years. “I’m impressed.”

Instead of getting cups, the Human sat on his bed with a thud. “Geoscanner,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“Do you need it?” She hoped not, but it was his. She drew the device from its pocket and held it out. “If you don’t, I’d like to keep it.”

Instead of taking it, he tapped the side with one finger. “Comlink.”

The device he used to talk at a distance. Aryl opened her mouth, closing it as she understood. No wonder he looked like Costa when she’d caught him sneaking the last dresel cake. “You’ve been listening to me.”

“No. Not listening. Not. Collecting. Words. Phrases. Sentences. How Om’ray put words together. Syntax. When I had enough data, I ran through sleepteach.” A hint of pleading in his voice. “I don’t want to sound like an Oud.”

After sorting all this out, Aryl held up the geoscanner. “Show me how to make this so you can’t listen—collect—” when he tried to protest, “—any more words without my permission.”

He leaned forward and pressed a depression on one side. “This is off. Press again,” which he demonstrated, “and it is on.”

“And ‘on’ means you can hear me.” Satisfied, Aryl pressed the depression once more. “Off,” she asserted, putting the valuable device back in her pocket. “Now, how about that sombay?”

As Marcus moved to get their cups, Aryl considered him. They weren’t the same; there was, nonetheless, a tantalizing possibility. “You called it ‘sleepteach,’” she began. “Does that mean Humans dream to learn?”

“What is ‘dream’?”

“When you sleep, sometimes you feel awake. You can see things. Hear things. Dream. Don’t Humans?”

“Ah!” Marcus looked pleased. “Yes. Humans dream. Good dreams.” He feigned a shudder. “Bad dreams. Sleepteach is different.” Putting down the cups, the Human went to one of the many crates stacked on the counters, returning with a clear bag filled with metal threads and disks. “This sleepteach device.” He pulled out the contents and showed her how the disks fit against the sides of his forehead. “I sleep, this teaches what I want to learn. When I wake up, I remember new things.”

So it was the same, only under his control. “It gives you dreams,” Aryl concluded.

Marcus grimaced. “It gives me a headache. Pain here.” He pressed his fingers into his temples where the disks would go. “But works.” After a moment’s hesitation, as if debating with himself, he thrust the device at her. “You could use it to learn Comspeak, the language of the Trade Pact.”

Silly Human. Aryl chuckled. “Why would I want your words? I have my own.”

“With Comspeak, you could talk to any visitor, from any world, and be understood.”

“You understand me.” She had no intention of being drawn into more. “This is the world that matters to me.”

He shoved the sleepteach back in its bag, tossed that on his bed. Made unnecessary clatter getting the sombay into the cups and adding water. Bumped into the table and muttered in his own language. Put the cups down so hard they sloshed.

Something bothered him. She waited.

Sure enough, Marcus sighed and stopped, his eyes troubled. “If we prove we’ve found Hoveny ruins, Aryl, your world will matter to many others. There are rules, not to talk to indigenous remnants, not to interfere. But no promise it won’t happen.”

It had happened. She looked away, her fingers toying with a fold of her tunic. “If you don’t find them, will you leave?”

“Is that what you want?” Another, heavier sigh. “It’s not something I control, Aryl. I’m Triad First, but there are other Triads, other seekers. What we have found on Cersi looks already good. I can’t give a falsenegative. Do you understand? I can’t hide the truth. They won’t believe me. I can’t stop them.”

He’d thought to do that for her, for Om’ray?

Aryl’s heart pounded. Her fingers gripped the fold. Her right hand, she noticed, momentarily distracted. “What I want…” What did she want?

He was the only one to ask her. The only friend she had left. She didn’t want Marcus to leave, ever.

She hadn’t wanted Enris to leave.

Or Bern.

“What I want,” she said finally, “doesn’t matter.”

The Human had learned it was impolite to touch without invitation, but he lifted her chin gently, a contact Aryl could have avoided, but didn’t. His eyes searched her face. “Something’s wrong. Is it what happened at the Cloisters, when you and the other Om’ray—when you fell to the ground, when the other woman was sick? I couldn’t help, then, I knew that. Maybe I can help now.”

Was that how it looked to him? She laid her hand on his wrist, telling herself it was to move his arm, finding it impossible to do any more than leave it there, pressed to the warmth of his skin. “Yena don’t fall,” she said obliquely.

“My mistake.” A lopsided smile. When Marcus released her chin and drew back, she let go. He sat on the seat attached to the table, looked up at her. “I went over the place afterward. There’s nothing emanating from that building. No unique bioticsignatures or disease organisms. I’m not a scantech, but I’m sure.”

So no stranger device could detect what passed between Om’ray minds, or between those minds and whatever the Cloisters might be sending to Sona. Their astonishing technology had its limits.

Let Marcus capture her words from a distance, take images from the air; he remained safely deaf and blind to what made Om’ray real.

Aryl tore off a piece of the sweet loaf, finding herself in a much better mood. “The Grona,” she improvised, “brought a stomach illness with them. Impolite and a nuisance.” Which tidily described the two Adepts, in her opinion. “We’ve recovered.”

Marcus appeared doubtful. “I can help,” he repeated. “I have medicalsupplies—I can help make sick Om’ray better. Stop spread of illness. Your people are vulnerable.”

The Human excelled at being difficult. Offer to heal? She didn’t doubt he could, but this was a notion she had to end, here and now, or how could she keep Haxel—or any Om’ray—from tearing that knowledge from his mind? Hating herself, Aryl forced an edge to her voice. “Break your own rule? Interfere with the ‘indigenous remnants?’”

Instead of the offense she expected, he took one of the neglected cups, passed her the other, then took a sip, gazing at her consideringly over the rim. “No one would know. You take a bioscanner, put close to sick Om’ray. It sends me data, here. I would make a medicine or tell you what could help. Not perfect,” with a shrug and a bright-eyed look. “Better than no help.”

She was beginning to fear Marcus liked to run on thin branches, too, a daring that had led him to explore a world far from his family and kind, to befriend her.

It could get him killed here. Or worse.

She should never have accepted the geoscanner. She’d encouraged this.

Another sip. A shy smile. “Our secret?”

Secrets upon secrets. Her fingers explored the shape of the handle, the cool smooth exterior of the cup.

Without warning, touch became the most intense sensation. Distracting. Consuming.

Important.

The room was too warm. She was. But she wasn’t…

“Aryl?”

“Yes. No! Let me think about it.”

Think? How could she? She’d never felt everything like this before. The lines of shadow and light through the windows were knife sharp. The air—it was full of scents, some strange, some pleasant. Her own breathing…his…they blended like songs in the canopy at firstnight.

“What’s wrong?” Words that meant nothing. “Are you sick?”

There was nothing. She was nothing. She was utterly empty…Aryl bent over, hearing her cup drop, hearing the Human’s alarmed outcry, with all that mattered in the world to hold her hollow, empty self together with all her strength.

Abruptly, the world was normal again. She sat up, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I’m all right.” When Marcus would have waved his bioscanner over her, she held up her hand to keep him away. “No. I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t.

She was becoming a Chooser.

Secrets upon secrets…the Chosen had no secrets from one another. Someone else was going to know about Marcus, about his devices, about her, about…

“Aryl—”

“I’m not sick. Leave me be!”

Was there a worse time her body could have picked? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or pull her hair.

What would it be like, to have a Chooser’s willful hair?

Trouble, she decided. It was all trouble. Starting with how soon the sensations overruled her self-control. Sarcs were not known for being quiet, polite Choosers. Seru Parth’s tantrums would be nothing compared to hers.

“You should reheat the soup,” Aryl said desperately. “It will taste better.”

The Human, perhaps because he was Chosen and a father, grasped when to allow himself to be distracted. He helped clean the floor, then settled them both at the table. Among the marvels of his kitchen—a kitchen she’d yet to see Marcus actually use for anything but storage—was a spoon that warmed what it stirred. While she pretended to enjoy the sweet loaf—and a fresh cup—he heated his soup, giving a startled look of pleasure at the first mouthful.

No wonder. Nothing could taste worse than those e-rations of his.

“Thank you,” he said, then pointed the spoon at her. “You are not sick—?” A pause while he waited for her to mimic his head shake of denial. “Good.” Another pause, then that innocent look. “You didn’t come to bring me swimmer soup and talk about dreams.”

He wasn’t slow. Aryl half smiled. “The Oud built a tunnel entrance near Sona, but we haven’t seen one since the day I visited you. Haxel’s impatient. She sent me looking.” Her smile faded. There was worse to tell him. Where to start? “The Tikitik have been around, too.”

“Tikitik?” Marcus’ forehead creased. “Where!? Here? Close?”

She wasn’t sure what qualified as “close” to the Human, so settled for, “It was with the Oud. I haven’t seen one at this end of the valley, but they’re hard to see against the stone. It was different from the Tikitik in the canopy. Gray, not black.”

“Chromatophores,” he replied, one of his words. “Their skin change—changes—color. What did it want?”

Interesting. Slow-moving and tasty, an aspird could hide against any part of a rastis, changing its patterned back to match fronds crossed with shadow or the feathered texture of the stalk. Making the Tikitik more dangerous than ever.

“I don’t know. It said the Oud were ‘precipitous.’ Accused it of ‘misjudgment and haste.’ And—” She hesitated. Marcus had learned to fear Tikitik. They’d attacked his aircar; his escape had left an uncounted number of them dead. And he’d seen what they’d done to Yena. The Oud, however? He had to work with them—was here alone with them. Maybe he needed the confidence of not-knowing.

“What else?”

She could hear Enris now. When had she believed ignorance was of any use? “Thought Traveler—the Tikitik—told me the Oud don’t understand how fragile we are. That they think we’re the same Om’ray who lived here, long ago.”

Marcus gave another of his nods, remarkably unconcerned. “Could be. Different lifecycles.” At her frown, he clarified, “Every species has its own way of living, of growing. Common problem in the Trade Pact. Confusion always. Rude to one, not to another. It can make for good jokes.”

She’d forgotten. He was accustomed to other races. More than she could imagine existed—or wanted to know about. Cersi’s three were enough.

And there was nothing funny about this misunderstanding. “The Oud was attacked. Three deep cuts, here.” She indicated the slashes against her own side. “It died, Marcus, to come to us.”

“An emmisarymurdered?” She’d seen many expressions on the Human’s face, so like an Om’ray’s. She’d never seen outraged fury before. “The Tikitik?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. Your machine watched us leave and I—” She stopped. He was already in motion, tripping over a boot in his rush to one of the consoles.

Once there, his hands flew over the controls of the device. Aryl went to stand by his shoulder, silent as he worked. An image of the valley appeared on the screen, from above. A perspective she usually enjoyed; now all she felt was impatience. Had it seen the attack?

The display soared over the barren nekis, over the hill of debris, swooped lower as it found and followed the road to Sona. And three figures, two staggering.

“I watched this narrowfield. To see you.” A tap of the control and the view expanded to the full width of the valley, as well as before and behind. The pace became quicker. The figures, much smaller, now moved their legs and arms at a ridiculous speed. Rock hunters appeared and rolled in pursuit with ominous—and unreal—haste, using the arched bridges, which she hadn’t realized. Shadows slid past, as if Marcus hurried the sun as well. She swallowed, dizzy.

The Oud would have been ahead of them. This was where she’d picked up its track for the first time.

A bulge of dark at the rock face caught her eye, moving differently from the shadows cast by the sun. “Wait. There!” Aryl pointed and he pressed a control, stopping the image. “Can you look closer?”

It was like falling, the way he took them diving to the ground. She kept her eyes fixed on what she’d seen—or thought she’d seen. Larger, clearer, still confusing.

Marcus grunted. “Good. Watch.” The fall stopped. The bulge of dark was set in motion again, this time slowly.

It was the Oud, on its flat vehicle, emerging from the rock. “There’s no tunnel,” she protested. Impossible she could have missed it—she’d been by that very spot five times now.

“Clever.” Marcus did something to the image and a doubled line appeared. “The opening is hidden from the road. Like this.” He leaned back and put his palms together, sliding them apart to leave a gap between. “The Oud came out behind a wall of rock. From the side, can’t be seen.”

He let the vid play, but the vehicle and its passenger disappeared around the next bend. “Sorry I stopped recording,” the Human commented grimly.

Aryl gestured apology. “It’s not your fault. I should have seen it.” She’d let herself pay more attention to Hoyon’s complaints than to their surroundings, been too confident the only threat was what rolled and tumbled behind. Haxel would never have made that mistake. In the canopy, she wouldn’t have.

Walking on the ground wasn’t only boring; it dulled the senses. She’d be more careful from now on.

“We should—”

The lighting in the room flashed red, then blue, then back to normal.

“What was that?”

“Company.” Marcus tapped once more. The image on the screen was replaced by a view she recognized, behind the stranger encampment, over the tracks made by the Oud.

A pair of their vehicles were approaching.

“Good!” The Human swept their dishes into an empty—she hoped—crate and lowered the table and seats into the floor, as if he expected to entertain the enormous creatures here. An Oud couldn’t possibly fit through his door, but Aryl didn’t bother pointing this out. Marcus babbled at her as he gathered equipment and clothes, an excited flood of his words and hers. “They must have found something. I thought maybe yesterday, when they penetratedthenextstratum, but they didn’t come then. I told Tyler—the other Triad First—when he checkedin. He thinks I’m wasting my time here, wants to send P’tr sit ’Nix to retaskthestation. I told him we should give the Oud a good chance to prove or—”

“Marcus,” Aryl interrupted.

He stopped, one arm in his coat, and gave her an abashed look. “Sorry. I’ve been here too many days, waiting for access to their site—”

Passion, if no common sense. “That may not be why they’re coming,” she said gently. “Remember the dead Oud?”

Offense. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“No, but they could have seen me arrive.” She hadn’t, Aryl thought with disgust, used any stealth in her approach. She’d been more concerned with soup.

Not that she knew how to hide from what lived underground. Haxel, who assumed the worst as a habit, thought the Oud could feel footsteps over their heads, the way an Om’ray heard footsteps or rain on a roof.

“If true…Aryl, you should leave. Now.” Pulling on his coat, Marcus went to the door and threw it open, gesturing wildly. “Hurry!”

“Not a good idea,” Aryl told him, pulling out the pendant.

Through the open door, she could see what the Human hadn’t.

Coming through the nekis grove were five Tikitik.