Riders of the Storm

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The voice came from its…did she call them arms or legs?

  “Me? What are you doing?” she demanded, trying her best to portray dignified offense, which wasn’t easy, half buried and terrified. Though she could see for herself.

  Sona’s Cloisters stood beyond the Oud. Not lifted on a stalk like Yena’s, but set on the ground, like Grona’s or Tuana’s. What she could see of it was achingly intact, both levels within their encircling platforms, their petal walls broken by a series of tall wide arches; each of those a triplet of smaller arches: two of a clear window taller than three Om’ray, the centermost a door of metal; the whole roofed by a series of overlapped white rings.

  Beautiful.

  Once. Now it was, like her, half buried in newly turned dirt. The lights within shone, but to her inner sense it was empty, either abandoned or full of the dead.

  There were abundant signs of a prolonged and vigorous attempt to find a way inside. Unsuccessful, since what showed of the Cloisters looked unmarked, though its walls and windows were filthy, muddied with strange tracks. The creature must have been digging for days to move so much rock and dirt. The lowermost platform was filled. She couldn’t tell where its paired main doors would be.

  It would take Om’ray days to dig it back out again.

  The Oud had turned still as stone, though still upright. Then, “Way in? Yesyesyesyes?”

  Even if she knew, she’d die first. Aryl thrust out her arm and pointed, her hand shaking with fury. “That belongs to us, not you!”

  “Us?” The Oud dropped with a thud, then raced back and forth in front of her, every limb a blur of motion and flailing dirt. It didn’t turn around, merely changed direction, as if it didn’t matter which end went first. The loose ground didn’t slow it at all.

  She had no idea what the creature was doing, but while it was doing it, she wormed her legs free.

  The Oud plowed to a stop in front of her and reared. “No us!” it declared. “You. Only.”

  A threat? Was it telling her she was alone and defenseless?

  Or confusion, that until it “looked”—however it managed without eyes—it hadn’t been sure how many Om’ray had surprised it?

  She needed Enris. Or her mother. Someone who could talk to something not-real.

  As she’d talked to the strangers.

  Remembering that, Aryl stood a bit straighter. The Oud was of Cersi. A neighbor. If they still lived beneath Sona, the last thing she should do was antagonize the first one she met. Say something, she told herself. Anything. “My name is Aryl Sarc.” Her voice sounded weak. She firmed it. “I came to find water for my Clan.”

  “Water too much.” It sounded annoyed.

  Maybe it was. Drops of spray smeared the dusty dome covering its “head” and were rapidly turning the loose dirt around them both into mud. Aryl’s lips twitched. Her own face was clammy with it. She must look like a lump of mud herself. “There is water here,” she clarified, “but the valley is dry.”

  “Yesyesyesyes. Way in?”

  Stubborn. Determined. Did this Oud know what had happened so long ago? Did it care? Or were they like Om’ray, interested only in what was happening now, to those alive? Vital questions. A shame she didn’t dare ask them.

  “Why do you want to go in the Cloisters? Not,” she added quickly, “that I’m offering to let you in.”

  “Curious.”

  One word. A good word. Possibly the only one she would have understood from it.

  Aryl tugged her boot free of the dirt and took a cautious step toward the Oud. It lowered its “head,” lifted its midsection, and humped itself rapidly away, stopping a body’s length from her. Afraid of her or loath to have an Om’ray so close? She stopped and regarded it for a moment, at a loss.

  Finally, desperate. “Do you want us to leave?”

  Rearing, the Oud fastened on one word in return. “Us?”

  This wasn’t going well.

  Maybe she should try something else. “Are we safe?”

  Its limbs moved rapidly, the lowermost churning through the dirt with such force she had to step back to avoid being showered in it. It sank backward—if that was backward for an Oud—into the ground.

  “Wait!” she cried out. “You didn’t answer me!”

  It paused, its “speaking limbs” barely free to move. “Goodgoodgoodgood. Wait.”

  Then, in a final flurry that made her duck to protect her eyes, it was gone.

  “‘Wait,’” she echoed.

  The creature was ridiculous. Insane. She should ignore it.

  What if it had left to confer with others of its kind? What if they discussed the upstart Om’ray who dared reinhabit Sona? What if it returned with some ultimatum that she must be here to answer or her people would suffer?

  What if it forgot she was here and went to dig another stupid hole?

  “This—” Aryl kicked dirt into the oval depression left by the Oud, “—is why—” another kick, “—I hate—” kick, “—talking to—” kick, “—not-real, not-Om’ray, not—” She stopped.

  What was that?

  Careful to move only her eyes, she sought what had caught her attention. It couldn’t have been a sound. The rumble and drone of the falling water masked all but a shout at any distance.

  Had she sensed something?

  Enris warned her not to use Power near Oud. He hadn’t been clear if that meant near any Oud or only certain Oud, not to mention reared-and-talking-to-your-face Oud as opposed to might-be-in-the-general-vicinity-don’t-care Oud.

  A giggle worked its way up her throat, and Aryl pressed her lips together.

  Avoiding the worst of the Oud’s work to keep her feet from sinking again, she walked as naturally as possible toward the Cloisters. A reasonable goal, being the only shelter outside of the shadowed grove. Mist hung over its round roof, distorting the shape, but the ground grew drier as she approached—farther from the waterfall and spray, though closer to the gigantic wall of rock that ended the valley. The Cloisters had stood before that rock, gleaming and full of life. Sona’s Adepts. Its age-weary Chosen, seeking peace. Newborns, to take their names and be recorded. The newly Joined, to give theirs.

  There. To the side where the grove bordered the open space.

  Aryl did her utmost not to react, but she was certain. Something, or someone, watched. She didn’t know how she knew—it wasn’t quite a taste. The sensation followed her, as if her watcher mirrored her steps.

  The ground became more pebble than dirt, those pebbles familiar despite the best efforts of the Oud to overturn them all. Belatedly, she realized she was walking across another of the ditches, but this was much wider and curved. Shallow, she thought, though that was difficult to gauge after the creature had plowed its way back and forth and, from the disturbance, in circles.

  If she imagined the space full of water…for an instant, Aryl could see what had been here before…

  The Cloisters rose like a blossom before a still pool, its lights reflected on itself so that it glistened in welcoming splendor against the dark stone of the cliff. Sweeping groves of nekis and other plants, fragrant and full, rose behind and to the side. Paired paths of stone, white and clean, curled around the water and soared over arched bridges to link the building to the road from Sona. The road was filled with laughing figures, some carrying baskets, others bearing oillights high on poles. More Om’ray than Tuana or even Amna could claim. So many, there was a second settlement behind her, across this made-lake, where the elderly could take their ease close to care, and those waiting to give birth could be watched.

  The waterfall had its own lake, wide and churned to perilous froth, spilling and tumbling and babbling where it overflowed down the valley, contained by the river channel, celebrated by Sona. There should be a festival to mark the end of ice and cold, that day when fields and gardens received their first gift of flood and seeds began to grow…

  Aryl came back to herself with a jerk of dismay. She’d moved forward; she did
n’t remember the steps. The M’hir! It was smotheringly close, pulling at her, demanding her attention. She refused and shoved it aside, an easier effort this time.

  Her slip into it had been easier, too. Was her skill growing, or was it consuming her?

  What mattered was here and now, she scolded herself. Firstnight was coming. Water and wood weren’t problems, but she’d left her supplies—oh, so cleverly—on the other side of the last outcrop and her coat somewhere in the grove, for what good its soaked mass would be. The Oud had said, “Wait.” She had to believe it had meant to stay here as long as she could.

  And she was being watched.

  Ambush hunters were common in the canopy. As Aryl continued toward the Cloisters, she kept her distance from likely cover, watched for any trace. The flutter of web or hair on a branch. The remnants of digested bone or skin.

  Nothing.

  The hairs on her neck rose as she walked over the buried lower rail and platform of the Cloisters. The digging of the Oud had left a wide ramp of dirt and stone over the upper rail on this side. Elsewhere, that rail curved upward, too smooth to climb. Aryl took the ramp and found more dirt and stone. The Oud had filled in the upper platform as well, for what reason she couldn’t guess.

  The windows arched ahead of her were too dust-smeared to offer a reflection. Wrong, wrong, wrong. They should be clean. There should be life.

  Despite her dread, Aryl lifted her hand eagerly as she approached and laid it on the window, expecting…what? Cool, hard, solid. Nothing more. She tried rubbing dirt away with her palm. There was light within, too faint to reveal more than hints of a wall and floor inside.

  She went to the door next to the window. Familiar—the same multicolored metal, same shape. It would turn, thus. This could be Yena, if she weren’t standing on Oud leavings. She knocked on the door, hearing only the dull thud of her fist. How did it open? Adepts had the secret. It was something an Om’ray could do. Frustrated, Aryl studied the door and its frame, looking for any clues.

  What she found were scuffs in the newly disturbed ground at its base.

  Leading away.

  She followed, pretending to examine each window arch and doorway. The ground—the Oud’s pile—descended until her feet touched the metal floor of the upper platform.

  Darker here. The platform rail normally admitted light, but the Oud had thrown dirt against its outer surface. Stupid creature. The dimness made it possible to see more through the windows. She gazed with longing at pale walls and floors, the unique lighting that ran at the junction of wall and ceiling. There were no furnishings, no objects in sight. An unreachable, vacant perfection.

  She would open its doors, Aryl vowed to herself. It wasn’t merely a symbol of a Clan’s existence—the Cloisters promised shelter and safety for her people even from the Oud.

  After she learned who or what was trying to get there first.

  The platform was coated in fine dust, another result of the Oud’s diligence; the waterfall’s spray didn’t reach this far to mottle it. Lines of paired steps made a beaten path. Aryl grinned without humor. She didn’t need Haxel’s training to read these tracks. Multiple trips, the most recent crossing the rest.

  Aryl bent to take a closer look. No beast or Oud. She’d seen a Tikitik’s long-toed foot. These tracks had been made by a boot—an Om’ray boot.

  She lowered her shields and reached at once, finding the exiles and the distant solitary glow that was Enris, no Om’ray closer.

  These were fresh tracks.

  Aryl frowned. Only one kind of being on Cersi had a foot like an Om’ray, while being as not-real and invisible to her inner sense as an Oud or Tikitik.

  He wouldn’t, she told herself, shaken. Marcus Bowman had promised to stay away—to keep his people away. Besides, with the stranger-technology at his disposal—aircars, flying eyes, distance viewers, who could guess what else?—why wander around in Om’ray boots?

  Alone, too. Each pair of tracks was identical.

  The most recent led to an arrangement of wood pieces, arranged as a stair against the rail. Since the rail was only waist-high, Aryl didn’t see the point. She jumped lightly to the rail top, crouching as she landed to present a smaller target. Beyond was the start of the nekis grove.

  Through which had been cut a nice, neat path, straight as a beam.

  She almost laughed. Had the wanderer wanted to be conspicuous?

  No taking that path. Not because it was a blatantly obvious site for a trap—she trusted her own ability—but the Oud hadn’t returned. Might never, she realized, but she couldn’t go out of sight of this open area until sure.

  There was, however, another kind of ambush. Aryl stood on the rail, making a show of fighting for her balance. She took one step along it, then missed the next and fell through the air.

  “Ooof!” she let out as she landed on her back, body twisted in a position she hoped looked painful, though it wasn’t.

  Her eyes had to be closed for this to work. Easy enough. She’d picked a spot free of sharp pebbles. Remarkably comfortable. Not that she planned to sleep, but it had been a long day. And truenight. And day before that.

  She chewed her tongue for distraction.

  The waterfall’s deep vibration traveled through her bones. Its damp breeze stole warmth from her coatless body and left an acrid taste on her tongue and lips. Aryl didn’t move, barely breathed. She’d always won Fall/Dead. Her playmates would leave in search of dresel cakes long before she tired of the game.

  The sensation of being watched never left her. She sought to grasp how or what she felt.

  Elusive. A scent more than a taste. Her inner sense responded, but it was like trying to catch a flitter with a dresel hook. The effort was too quick, too slow…or was it too violent? That was it. Whatever she touched disappeared if she reached for it. If she let her inner self still, be less attentive, the sensation returned.

  Snap! A branch. Crunchcrunch. Boots on pebbles. Bad as the Tuana. The footsteps grew hesitant. She didn’t move.

  They stopped short.

  Patience, she told herself. Her hand was on her knife hilt. Now she tightened her grip, tensed every muscle. Her position was part of the ruse: far from being helplessly on her back, one lithe twist and she’d be on her feet, knife out, ready to strike or run.

  The footsteps started again, moving away with clumsy haste. Aryl snapped to her feet, hitting a run by her second stride in pursuit.

  A figure—Om’ray shape and size, Grona clothing—struggled to keep ahead of her. He—she guessed that much from his movement—made it no farther than the start of his path before she launched herself.

  They fell together into the shadows. Aryl dug a knee into his spine and pulled his head back with an arm around his forehead. Her knife edge found his throat. “Who are you?” she asked politely.

  His hand clawed for something on the ground and she pressed the knife in warning, waiting for him to subside before she looked to see what it was.

  Not a weapon. A hand-sized box, aglow with tiny lights. A familiar box.

  Aryl jumped up, giving his backside a hard shove with her foot. “You promised to stay away, Human!”

  Marcus Bowman grabbed the bioscanner and rose to his feet, his so-Om’ray face a mix of chagrin and offense. “Aryl not hurt!” he proclaimed fiercely, brandishing the device. “Trick!”

  “Spy!” she shouted back.

  “Not spy! I promised. Not interfere. Not visible. No Om’ray here.” He gestured at his clothing. “Disguise, me.”

  Her lips quirked. “How could wearing our clothes—” a closer look, “—clothes like ours—hide you from us?” Silly Human. “You know we can sense one another.” Though he had, she admitted, gone to considerable effort to fabricate a Grona coat and Yena leg wraps. And boots. Too new, with stranger fasteners and fabric, but at a distance they might pass. She sniffed. As for smelling like bruised flowers?

  “I remember,” Marcus said with dignity. “Not my idea. New policy
. Hide being stranger. Discretion. Stop problems. Only Human allowed in the field. Look like Om’ray.” He tucked the bioscanner into his belt, a wide un-Om’ray-like affair of loops and hooks, most filled with more devices. “Maybe work for not-Om’ray.”

  If he dressed like an Om’ray to hide his Human identity from the Oud, what had the Oud thought? Aryl didn’t want to imagine. “Better stay out of sight,” she suggested.

  He rubbed his throat. “I was. Then you fell. I worried—” this with a grim look, “—you hurt.”

  “Yena don’t fall,” Aryl reminded him. “You should have remembered that, too.”

  For some reason, this produced a smile. He had a nice smile, for something not-quite-real. It crinkled the skin beside his brown eyes, and produced a dimple in one cheek. “So what do?”

  A general question, about why she was here? Or a more specific one, about her immediate intentions?

  Embarrassed, Aryl put away her knife. “I’m waiting for the Oud to come back.”

  An anxious glance around. “Night soon.” He paused and said carefully, “Truenight is soon. Dangerous for all.”

  The Human had been practicing proper speech, a distinct improvement over the Oud babble the strangers had learned first. They had their own words, bizarre but fluid-sounding. They knew others. Before meeting Marcus Bowman, she’d believed there was only one language, one time. Aryl felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air and her lack of coat. “Do you know where you are?”

  She’d seen that wary look in his eyes before. “Mountains. No Om’ray,” with emphasis, to prove he’d followed her rules. “Old place.” A casual shrug. They had that gesture in common.

  Aryl didn’t believe words or gesture. “Where are the others?” Marcus had lost the two colleagues of his Triad, killed when their aircar crashed near the Yena Watchers after a disastrous encounter with the Tikitik, but he was by no means on his own. While with Enris, Aryl had seen several, Human and not, and buildings to house more.

  “No others. Aryl, it will dark be soon.”