But the Oud of Sona were destroyed by the pirates who’d tortured Marcus Bowman, and the Om’ray of Sona became the M’hiray, and abandoned it.
“Sona lives again,” I finished out loud. “And is Tikitik,” I nodded to the creatures. “Thought Traveler accused the Oud of no longer caring for the Balance, of no longer having Speakers. Is this true?”
The Tikitik’s head bobbed up in annoyance; it didn’t interrupt.
Odon rose to his feet. “The Oud,” said as if spat, “claim Cersi.” He echoed my gestures, finger stabbing the air. “Amna and Rayna are theirs. The Tikitik cling to what’s left of Tuana and Sona, for however long they can keep them.”
No reaction this time from Thought Traveler.
“There is no Yena Clan. No Pana or Grona. If there ever was,” he finished, and sat.
Aryl’s presence vanished from my mind; I let her be. “Is this true?” I repeated, but to the Tikitik.
“Regrettably, yes. The Oud did not reshape Yena, Grona, and Pana,” he replied, eyes fixed on me. “They obliterated them, burying their Cloisters as well.”
Gasps. Horror.
Numb, I asked Morgan’s question. “Why?”
“The Oud remain inscrutable. Perhaps they thought to smother those inside. Perhaps they expressed frustration. Oud have been unable to penetrate these structures.” With a certain grim satisfaction, Tikitik having managed just that.
“What does it matter? Without a Cloisters, no Clan could survive,” Teris said fearfully, her fellow Councilors nodding, faces ashen. “Will they do this to us? Is that what the Oud intend for Sona?”
The Tikitik Speaker’s eyes moved frantically, as though looking for Oud under the benches. Thought Traveler bobbed its head again. “First they would have to drain the Lay Swamp. I suggest you save your panic until its water begins to disappear.”
The poor Sona looked ready to run down to the platform and start measuring the water level.
Pre-Stratification, Cersi’s three species had abided by the Agreement: that none should change the Balance between them. My implanted memories, as well as what Aryl had shared, suggested this Balance was more about the Oud and Tikitik dividing the Om’ray Clans—and land—evenly, with any change being “balanced” by another. They’d traded Clans, back and forth, at terrible cost to the Om’ray.
However dreadful that sounded, what I was hearing was worse. “If the Tikitik still value the Agreement,” I said slowly, “why haven’t you stopped them?”
Thought Traveler’s eyes rested on me. “You misjudge the situation, Far Traveler. There is no Agreement left to value. As for stopping the Oud?” That guttural laugh had nothing of humor in it. “These,” a three-fingered hand indicated the Council, “descend from stock we plucked from Amna as we ran for our lives. That any Om’ray still exist there astonishes me.” Another laugh. “Perhaps the ocean contains more water than the Oud can remove.”
I translated for Morgan.
“Descend from stock.” A grim pause. You’re sure that’s the meaning?
Yes. They think of these people—of us—for I saw less and less difference between Om’ray and M’hiray with each moment together—as animals to be raised. I didn’t doubt the Tikitik had picked those Amna to be saved based not on compassion but something else entirely. Where have I brought us?
With the aching depth of despair I’d show no one else.
You’ve given us options. But we need more. We need—with conviction—to hear the Oud’s side.
I looked to where he stood, relaxed to less knowing eyes, waiting at the door where we expected the next arrivals. You think they had some reason. To kill all those—I couldn’t bear to say more.
He shook his head at me. Sira. You should know by now. There’s always a reason. It’s finding it—comprehending it—that’s the challenge. What do the Oud want? What could they possibly think to gain by killing so many Om’ray?
They may not know that’s what they’ve done. Aryl to us both, her mind voice like ice. Marcus believed Oud didn’t know to count individuals. To them, a Clan might be a single thing. Also, with hesitation, I heard an Oud once say Tikitik die to become Om’ray who die to be reborn in their shape. “Best is.” That, more firmly, I won’t believe.
What matters is what they believe. Morgan was firm. Remember the Drapsk, Sira. We can’t rely on what others say about the Oud. We have to talk to them.
Alien communication being our specialty, no one else’s, not here. I hoped my Chosen also remembered that the Drapsk, dear as they’d become to us both, hadn’t stopped being a particular nuisance.
Though they didn’t, as a rule, kill others.
Morgan was right. I said firmly, “We want to talk to the Oud.”
Thought Traveler took a step closer to me. Or away from its fellow, I reminded myself. Alien ways. “To what gain, Far Traveler? Believe me, in our desperation we invited the Oud to Tikitna. To ‘talk.’” It came closer still, closer, until I felt the soft brush of its cilia against my lips.
Don’t open your mouth. From Aryl.
Sira! From my Chosen.
It’s all right, I reassured Morgan, mouth firmly shut.
“The Oud, predictably, died of that conversation.” The contact added a vibration to its low voice that rang through my clenched teeth. “Imagine our consternation when their Workers tunneled up from below and Tikitna was laid waste.”
Aryl supplied images of a thriving city made from living things, of walking on water, of hard-won understanding . . .
She finished with loss.
“Since the destruction of our sacred meeting place,” Thought Traveler continued, “no two factions of my people have met without blood spilled. That, for ‘talk’ with the Oud. Will you still risk this?”
I waited, lips closed, for it to retreat before answering.
Before I could, its head bobbed up. “I see you will.”
“I must,” I agreed.
“You must not!” The Tikitik Speaker leaped to its feet. “Makers protect us! You cannot interfere with Their Design! What will be—” A blow sent it scrambling.
Thought Traveler smacked it a second time to be sure. “Factions living near a Maker’s Rest tend to be superstitious,” it apologized calmly. “Ignore its ravings.”
The Hoveny site. Marcus’ find. I saw Morgan start as he received Aryl’s sending, too. The Tikitik name any such place a “Maker’s Rest.” Dismissively. I told you they liked the word.
Morgan’s face settled into an expression I knew very well: the one that usually preceded an unexpected—and often profitable—shift in our plans. We’re not treasure hunting, I warned him, quick and private. Not yet, anyway.
We aren’t, he agreed, only to add disconcertingly, Who else might be?
The other Tikitik was cowed, but not silenced. A small eye appeared in the crook of an arm, glaring up at Thought Traveler. “Our ’Rest was desecrated by the diggers! Desecrated!”
“As have been all such ruins, fool.” Thought Traveler held out his hands in an almost Human gesture of exasperation. “Does no one listen? The Oud have—”
The door spun open, admitting Destin with five of her scouts right behind, weapons in their hands. Morgan lifted his, empty, and backed out of their way.
Odon stood. “What’s the meaning of this interruption? Your Council is in session!”
The First Scout came to a stop, her mouth slightly agape. Snapping it closed, she gave me an accusing look.
As this was—most definitely—my doing, I gestured apology.
Certain Destin di Anel would like what I planned to do next even less.
Interlude
SOFT GRAY FEATHERED the undersides of airy fronds, their tips wider than Morgan’s outstretched arms, the rib down their center strong enough to bear his weight. Whorls of the fronds girded the mammoth tree fern the
Om’ray called a great rastis, but weren’t used for climbing. Instead, healed scars formed a ladder up the straight stalk, a ladder leading—“How much farther?” he called up, again.
“You don’t want to know.” Sira was above him, a pleasant view in Sona clothing if not for the unfamiliar ease with which she climbed.
He suspected Aryl asserted herself.
If she gave his Chosen confidence, fine; if she’d any to spare, he could use some. With rare unanimity, the Sona and Tikitik had agreed this was the only possible place to find an Oud in the Lay Swamp.
At the top of the canopy.
Which the Oud flew over, to Morgan’s relief, in proper aircars. The Oud—other than being mass murderers, tragically confused or not—were gaining promise as allies. All they had to do was attract an Oud’s attention to this one tree, and them.
Deni sud Kessa’at, the closest they had to a communications expert, was certain he could do just that. He and Holl di Licor were on the ladder above Sira, each accompanied by a Sona charged with making sure they didn’t fall. Food remaining their greatest concern, Holl had come to expand her search.
When they weren’t offering the Clanswoman samples, Destin’s nimble scouts used the fronds to move beyond those confined to the ladder.
Sentries, Morgan had guessed and asked against what. When Destin replied “Everything,” he regretted leaving his coat—and its persona-shield—in the Cloisters. True, it would have made his climb a misery, but could have warned of things larger than the ever-present biters.
The First Scout came last, behind him. She hadn’t assigned him a helper; the Human might have been flattered, if he hadn’t been sure there were no Sona left to spare.
When he glanced down, he could no longer see the swamp through the intervening foliage. His shoulders burned, his arms were weights; sensations he ignored, drowning in scent and sound and color. The canopy of the Sona was another world, one of grays and browns and brilliant green. The higher they climbed, the more colors appeared. Flowers, some plant, others mimics that took flight or folded into balls. Other growths hung from the bone-white limbs of different types of trees. Vines wrapped and hung and twisted—
Forget his coat. He needed his sketch pad—and time. Everywhere he looked, Morgan found something else he ached to study, something new to paint.
Forget the Hoveny’s dusty relics. This was treasure.
Well, he could do without the biters. Fortunately, here they were hunted in turn. Small winged not-quite-birds snapped them from the air, sometimes pausing to hover near him, gemlike eyes intent.
Sira disappeared through the next platform. It was built to take advantage of the rastis’ own strength, the ribs of fronds supports for the floor. A gap left room for climbers on the ladder; there was a hatch the Sona closed behind them, as if to prevent something following.
Rope bridges linked the platforms to others on neighboring stalks, for this rastis was one of many, a grove harvested in season. The plants, he’d been told, were a source of many materials for the Sona, most importantly, dresel.
While young rastis functioned as a birth cradle for Tikitik, the details of which Aryl refused to share.
As for the Tikitik?
They belonged here. Thought Traveler, having invited itself along, promptly disappeared the instant Destin had indicated the rastis to be climbed, leaping up and away with fluid speed.
A ladder was fine with him. Morgan heaved himself up and onto the platform, cheered to find Sira and the other M’hiray sitting on the floor to share a gourd of water. He planted himself by his Chosen, accepting a drink with a smile, and waved at Deni.
The Clansman heaved for breath, sweat pouring from his face, but managed a wan smile in return. “They—stopped for—me,” he panted, gesturing apology.
“My thanks,” Morgan assured him. “I need the rest.” He rubbed a shoulder and made a face. Sira, he won’t make it to the top and down again. Not sure I will.
I’ll ’port them back to the Cloisters, she promised. And us. “We’re almost there,” aloud. “Look. The crown.”
Above, the stalk widened into a giant bulb. Thin vines hung like hair from its outer rim, dense and coiled. Some were pale, oozing a white sap. Others were beaded with yellow galls Morgan didn’t want to see any closer. Nor did he trust any of those vines to support a climber.
He wasn’t the only one with doubts. Holl frowned, “How do we get past that?”
“You climb.” A familiar triangular head appeared, upside down, in the midst of the vines. Familiar, except that Thought Traveler’s skin was pale green, the knobs scattered throughout now brown. It bent one eye in their direction, the rest busy with its surroundings.
Arriving on the platform, Destin motioned vigorously at the Tikitik. Don’t disturb the “##$%$#@!”
Stingers. They nest in the galls. Aryl’s sending turned amused. She’s calling it stupid.
Thought Traveler barked its laugh and faded from sight. Destin glared at where it had been, then shrugged. “This way.”
She led them around the platform to where a ladder hung waiting. It was, Morgan saw with resignation, of slats and braided rope. Any vines close enough to touch were being tied back, with care, by the other scouts.
The ladder did lead past the width of the bulb.
To where?
Vines trembled; the hanging ladder swayed. All at once, the platform tilted!
Holl cried out. Morgan resisted the urge to grab Sira and hold on to whatever wasn’t moving only because everything was.
Sira glanced up him, a dimple in her cheek. “Just a breeze.”
He’d have to talk to her great-grandmother, he would. And would, Morgan realized suddenly. Aryl would be born—when would she be born?
Climb first, Aryl suggested.
Good idea, Morgan told himself, not at all ready to think about Aryl di Sarc as a baby in his arms.
The platform steadied again.
“I want to set this before we get to the top.” Deni pulled out his comlink, newer and more powerful than Morgan’s. Those from Mirim’s group had been the only M’hiray to bring such tech.
The Sona who’d been helping him made a disapproving sound.
“It will only take a second.”
“Watch—” Morgan began as the preoccupied Clansman stepped close to the edge, but Destin was quicker, grabbing him back by the arm.
As vines trembled and the ladder swayed—
The platform tilted again, this time farther and farther over.
DOWN! Aryl and Sira ordered as one.
The Sona moved first, grabbing the less experienced and pulling them to the floor. They drove their short knives into the wood, holding to the hilts with their free hands.
Over . . . over . . . then back again even faster—
“Catch it!”
The comlink rolled and bounced by, dropping over the edge.
To reappear in a black three-fingered hand.
Thought Traveler landed on the platform, balancing with artless ease. Its frond-mimicking camouflage extended across torso and limbs; the neck and hands alone remained black. “You really should be more careful,” it chided.
The rastis settled, once more vertical. Deni scrambled to his feet, snatching the proffered ’link from the alien’s hand. “You might have broken it!”
“I assure you—”
Change!
Morgan looked around to see black fingers reach through the opening in the platform.
But it wasn’t a hand.
Chapter 46
STITLER! I passed Aryl’s warning to the others as Morgan moved in front of me, drawing his weapon, and the Sona pulled their knives.
Thought Traveler? Gone.
As usual.
While climbing, I’d lowered any barrier between Aryl’s mind and mine. I�
�d instinctively done so again, feeling a rush of memory and awareness. My hand curled: her desire for a knife. My breathing steadied.
Her courage.
What looked like fingers proved fiercely hooked claws. Even as Aryl/I wondered why an ambush hunter that lurked deep in its trap would be attacking in full day, those claws dug into wood, pulling its body through the opening.
A nightmare rushed forward, jaws open.
A male. This must be mating season, when solitary males willingly risked exposure in their search for the traps of waiting females. That their dance of desire would see them eaten alive didn’t matter.
While searching, however, they were fiercely territorial. Big one, Aryl/I admired. I’ve seen bigger.
Who’d want to?
The thickened black body likely outmassed mine. Worse, it was quick, spinning on a multitude of jointed legs, spikes rattling. It hissed with fury as the Sona struck at it, gave a sharp cry when Morgan shot off a limb.
A cry repeated by another. A second—yes, bigger—male squeezed through the hatch, jaws snapping.
They’ll fight each other.
Part of me had her confidence.
The other, more sensible part clung to Holl and Deni while our protectors formed a ring around us, the stitlers circling—hissing as much at each other as at us—and wondered why I hadn’t already ’ported us anywhere but here.
Because we can deal with this, Morgan sent. His Power surged and one of the beasts disappeared. It reappeared in midair, falling out of sight with a surprised wail.
Knives buried themselves to the hilt in the body of the second.
“We did it!” Deni shouted, then stopped, staring down to where a black hooked claw protruded from his stomach.
Before anyone could move, the claw ripped up and back, slicing him open. Blood and entrails spilled on wood, on our hands—
What had been a third stitler died with a shudder.
Deni sud Kessa’at was gone.
I hadn’t seen Tekla di Yode die. Morgan told me she’d spotted the last stitler before anyone else. Her blade had been trapped within the body of the second beast, so she’d used her bare hands to try and protect Deni.
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