Yena Om’ray could not exist without it. Unlike other clans, with the luxury of growing all their bodies required in the ground— something Aryl couldn’t imagine— the Yena lived where no other food could fill their needs.
The rest of the dresel, and the sprouts from each pod, were bundled for the Tikitik. Whether their neighbors couldn’t climb the rastis, or collect enough intact pods from the grove edge for their needs, whatever those were, Om’ray didn’t ask. They simply took the power cells, glows, and other items the Tikitik provided in return.
Some pods had other contents. There were a host of tiny riders who schemed to place their offspring with the rastis’ own. Costa collected them in small jars; Aryl avoided those. A very few would contain a more lethal invader, somgelt, its puffy white threads deceptively innocent as they frothed outward from a carelessly opened pod. All, like the Yena Om’ray, timed their lives to take advantage of the dresel’s flight.
For flight it was. Despite the risk, Aryl willingly rose with her brother. They held each other as well as the now gaunt and bare stems, to watch the rastis send forth the next generation and Yena begin the Harvest.
The M’hir was hot, dry, and steady. It was a hand brushing over the world, taking with it whatever chose to go. Aryl watched, amazed, as the red fluttering wings rose higher and higher, only their load of dresel keeping them from the wind-ripped clouds overhead. The pods themselves hardened almost instantly, their brown taking on a dark rich gleam.
Aryl’s cracked lips parted in a surprised smile. The drying pods rattled and clicked against one another, like the clumsy chimes made by children and hung from fronds. As the sky filled, the various rattles and clicks blended into a wave of lighthearted percussion, as if the rastis sang their children to their futures.
It wasn’t an easy or sure one. Some wings were immediately torn by the M’hir, or shredded by collision with the sharp twigs of the nekis. These folded and dropped in great twisting loops of crimson, caught in branches where flitters and climbers quickly claimed their hapless pods. Most wings continued, sailed higher and farther, but they weren’t free yet. There were those waiting to reap the wild wind.
Already, hooks were flashing as Om’ray snagged wing after wing from the air. The goal was to collapse each over the nearest guideline, ideally in neat folds that might still catch the wind, but not be taken by it. Those with a few Harvests behind them took their time, avoiding those wings which were already tangling in the air in favor of sure catches. Aryl frowned as the tiny figure she knew was Bern flailed after everything in reach.
She’d have done better. Though he did calm down and improve.
The growing load of hanging wings and their pods gave stability to the lines. The Om’ray began moving along, chasing streams of red.
They weren’t the only ones.
A shadow whooshed by overhead and Aryl flinched, startled. Another. And another. Costa shouted in her ear, as if too excited to concentrate on a sending. “Wastryls!”
The giant creatures soared in with the M’hir, a confusion of black and white set with bright yellow eyes that caught and flashed the sunlight. Aryl had only seen a dead one before, and that damaged. These, very much alive, plunged at the dresel wings, their great claws out and ready, tentacles poised.
They weren’t a threat to the Om’ray, being unable to maneuver in tight spaces and wary of the lines. They were mountain dwellers, drawn to the canopy by the M’hir. Like that wind, the wastryls passed by, taking what they could grab. Aryl saw how the claws snatched wings from the air, then tentacles plucked free and held the pods. This first flock— there had to be dozens in it— came and went like the brief shadow of a cloud. She watched them tumble and wheel about, turning toward the mountains with their treasure.
Red drifted down below them. It would smother new growth along the grove edge, but there would be no seedlings to take advantage.
A second flock arrived, larger than the first. Aryl laughed when two wastryls clutched the same wing and screamed their outrage at each other. The battling creatures almost fell before letting go. Their loss was another’s gain. A ready Om’ray snared the falling wing, adding it to the growing harvest.
A glint that wasn’t eye or sun caught her attention. Aryl tugged at Costa. “What’s that?” she shouted, risking her hold to point.
He stiffened as he saw it, too. I don’t know.
Whatever it was, it was coming closer. That wasn’t what dried Aryl’s mouth.
It was coming closer against the wind.
Chapter 2
NOT ALIVE.
Aryl nodded at Costa’s mindvoice as she studied the strange object in the sky. The howl of the M’hir, its steady, deadly shove, its choking dust, the now-stripped crown of the rastis— these belonged. She did.
This didn’t.
A device. Tikitik or Oud? she offered, the words colored by the wary distaste they used for whatever involved their neighbors.
The object could have been one of the clear globes Costa used for seedlings. Much larger, Aryl judged, and filled with something that sent out sharper glints, as if its insides turned to present new surfaces to the light. Without wings or other means of moving through the air, it continued to fly toward them. Toward the harvesters. It dipped and rose, out of sequence with the wind or what drifted through it.
Not Oud. An image filled her mind: a large ovoid half buried in a rock slide, its surface gray and edged with black protrusions, most of those broken. Nothing like the dainty thing floating in the wind. The Oud device had two flat arms, long and bent. Wings, she realized. One of their fliers, Costa told her. Probably tried to cross the mountains during a M’hir and crashed. Leri saw it the summer she helped clean the Watchers.
With the ease of practice, Aryl shielded herself from the rush of heat that flowed beneath the name of his Chosen; the recently Joined were indiscreet at best. “Tikitik, then,” she shouted aloud.
“Why?”
Good question, she acknowledged to herself, stretching to keep the object in sight. The Tikitik, cued by the Watchers and the M’hir itself, would be coming for their share of dresel. Why distract the harvesters?
The object, as if oblivious to its surroundings or too curious for sense, dropped lower and lower until it collided with the stream of red filmy wings still being released by the rastis grove. It disappeared and then reappeared as the billowing masses simply slid over its surface. It slowed and seemed, if such a thing were possible, now to be watching the Om’ray.
Had Bern noticed? Aryl sought and found his figure among the rest. His hook was out and working, a small but respectable line of wings and their pods hanging from the nearest web. Their practice together had paid off. Then she scowled, remembered she was angry. It should be me up there, she sent full force, not caring if the oaf heard or not.
The M’hir gave the crown an extra push and Costa’s arm tightened around her waist as the rastis swayed in response. “It’s not bad, being Joined,” he shouted in her ear, half laughing. “You’ll find out when your time comes.”
Aryl felt her face burn under its coat of dust, hoping against hope this was Costa being annoyingly old and not some veiled warning. They’d been careful, she and Bern. They’d made sure to be alone before slipping inside each other’s thoughts to forge their inner connection, delicious and secret. They would be heart-kin forever, able to reach each other’s minds more easily, closer than siblings. It was the bond of the best of friends, but they intended more. They’d touched trembling fingertips, made breathless promises in the dark. When Aryl’s time came, there would be no other, for either of them. Her Choice was made, despite her age.
Even if Bern Teerac was the single most obtuse and irritating—
A shadow swept over them, fast and cold. The next flock of wastryls. Aryl twisted to watch and tensed. These weren’t flying as before, spread apart and claws ready. No, this flock moved as one, claws aimed forward, intent on the gleaming intruder.
Costa’s mind
voice was amused. This should be interesting.
The wastryls keened their defiance as they dove to attack. The M’hir, as if on their side, sent another sudden gust against the rastis. Wings whirled and twisted, caught and tore. Costa and Aryl slid to their knees within the stems and hung on. Her arms ached with the effort but she kept looking.
The wastryls struck.
Thunder and lightning shattered the open sky. A blast of hot air slammed into the rastis from the opposite side, against the M’hir, and Aryl was blinded and falling. Her hands grabbed and held. Her body slammed into whatever it was— a stem that broke— then the ladder— which didn’t.
Everyone was still falling, leaving her behind!
Bern?! She didn’t need eyes to find him. Her mind rang with his terror, his horror as he dropped.
No!
He had to be safe. He had to be . . . the bridge below, the safe, solid bridge. Aryl wanted Bern on the bridge, safe. Bern had to be on the bridge. NOW!
Something inside Aryl pushed.
The crown shifted back; the M’hir reclaimed the sky. She sobbed and clung to the swaying ladder, unable to climb up or down. She could smell burning. Wings and wastryl, caught by fire, being swept clear by the wind.
It was over.
“What have I done?” Aryl whispered. “What have I done?” But she knew.
Bern was on the bridge. Safe, if terrified.
The rest of the harvesters, the cream of the Yena Om’ray, were gone. Aryl had felt them fall through the canopy, the lucky ones impaled on branches, the rest plunging into the black waters of the Lay. She’d felt those who’d survived that impact, their minds afire with pain that was extinguished as they were eaten alive.
Oh, she’d saved Bern.
Aryl pressed her face against the braided rope of the ladder. She closed her eyes. She shut down every other sense, withdrawing deeper and deeper, wanting away until she found herself in a darkness that surged and flowed with the violence of the M’hir itself. A perfect place.
A place where she couldn’t feel Costa die, too.
Interlude
THE SHOP’S BIN SAT EMPTY within the latest pile of metal shards. As usual, the Oud who delivered the leavings during the night had missed the bin— or the point of the bin. Enris Mendolar had yet to hear anyone sure on the question.
That the Oud brought the metal was more important.
Out of habit, Enris picked up a loose, green-tinged shard from the packed earth near his feet and tossed it on the pile. A dozen iglies scattered from their hiding places with bright flashes of alarm, jointed legs working almost as fast as their jaws as they scampered for deeper shadows. Once safe, the tiny creatures made wet smacking sounds, a bravado sure to impress other iglies, if not beings inclined to squash them flat.
Enris dipped his cart forward on its front wheels and shoved it into the tallest part of the pile as hard as he could. Pieces sharp enough to cut flesh spilled over, striking his well-wrapped legs and booted feet, but the cart was full. Load number one of the day.
He tugged the cart free and turned it, heading home again. He took it slow. The path, though smooth, rose in steep twists. Ordinary Oud only came this close to the surface; Om’ray would only go this far from it. His steps were sure and steady, his breaths deeper with effort but unlabored. He was strong for his age, with a last spurt of growth that left him larger than most Chosen in Clan Tuana. His hands were callused and hard, his shoulders already bent from cart and shovel. Though Council agreed with his family’s pride in his skills, Enris privately believed he was most useful here, pushing the cart, collecting the wonderful metal of the Oud.
Maybe one of his younger cousins would grow.
The glowstrip along this section dimmed and then brightened. They’d need to power it up, Enris noted absently. Not that he couldn’t find his way in the dark. Anyone could. Up was toward that warm presence, the rest of his kind. Down was away from it, and dangerous. The Oud didn’t care for company. They begrudged making room over their lands for those on Passage.
The Om’ray didn’t care for the Oud. Made it even.
“Enris!” The call echoed down the tunnel, followed by the rapid thud of boots.
Startled, he sent without thinking. What’s wrong? He quickly silenced his inner voice. Not down here, this close to the Oud. Never this close. “Ral?”
His fifth youngest cousin burst around the turn ahead, catching himself before he stumbled into the cart and its sharp contents. “Enris! There you are. The most amazing thing’s happened!”
Loath to waste momentum, Enris didn’t slow his steps. “What is it this time?” The other Om’ray could enthuse over a rainbow.
Ral dodged and kept pace with him. “Naryn. She’s done it. In front of Council and the Adepts and everyone. Except you,” he added. “I had to come and tell you!”
Bowing his head, Enris leaned into the cart. The next turn led to the final, steepest section.
Ral trotted along. He didn’t offer to help. The last time he’d tried, the cart had toppled sideways and spilled its load the width of the tunnel. His strength lay elsewhere, when he could settle long enough to use it, designing ways to bring water to their crops. “C’mon. You know you’re impressed,” his cousin suggested slyly. “Wasn’t it you who said she’d never dare?”
Enris thought of Naryn S’udlaat and shook his head, dark hair tumbling across one eye. “I said she shouldn’t,” he growled. “I knew the fool would.”
He didn’t have to ask what she’d done. The willful daughter of Adepts believed herself a child of destiny as well, one with great Talent about to show itself any day. Unfortunately, it had, and at him. When he’d refused to let her take her pick from their shop’s display, Naryn had used Power, not her hands, to launch a hammer at his head. Her amazed triumph had been somewhat dampened by his refusal, having dodged the hammer, to relent. When she’d failed to repeat her accomplishment for anyone else— Enris himself bluntly vowing he’d never testify for her without mentioning her attempt to take what wasn’t hers— he’d hoped that was the end of it.
He hadn’t been the only one. They’d tried to hide their relief, back then, the Adepts, the older ones, but Enris had felt it and understood. The Tuana Om’ray lived a fine line between Oud and sky. Troubling those underfoot wasn’t wise; their Clan had paid the price before this. But there’d be no stopping Naryn now.
The vast expanse of tunnel behind him seemed to listen to his thoughts. Enris felt the skin of his neck tighten, tasted change.
The Oud didn’t care for that either.
Chapter 3
BELLS TOLLED ONCE, THEN AGAIN. Aryl heard each deep mournful sound; felt it tremble the bed, crawl up her fingers. She counted ... ten ... eleven ... then lost track. Tears leaked from her closed eyelids. Which had been for Costa? She should know, shouldn’t she?
A breeze lifted the hair stuck to her forehead. She shuddered and drew herself into a ball under the sheet. She couldn’t find Costa. She couldn’t find anyone. That couldn’t be. No one was alone. The world was Om’ray, given shape by their presence.
Where was she, if there was no one else?
Aryl. An identification more than a name, shrouded in grief and worry. She clung to it without understanding. She was alone. How could there be a voice?
The sheet lifted, leaving her cold. She squirmed and whimpered until a gentle hand rested on her forehead and granted her sleep.
* * *
Low, passionate voices. They belonged to no one. There was no one else. Aryl lay still, wherever this was, and heard without caring.
“We don’t have time. Wake her.”
“I would if I could. This is more like retreat than sleep.”
“She’s unChosen. A child. I thought only Adepts could disappear within their own thoughts.”
“Truer to say only Adepts first learn how to return by their own will.” A sharp breath. “Aryl is no longer a child. We must bring . . .”
The voices left.<
br />
Or Aryl stopped hearing.
* * *
“Can she hear me?” Warm, worried.
Aryl buried her head within her arms, pressing their bare, cold flesh over her ears. Not that voice. Never that voice! She hummed inwardly to drown it.
Aryl?
The mental voice was worse, rippling with its own grief. Aryl did her best to shut it out, too.
How could she hear Bern, sense his mindvoice, yet not feel his existence? He couldn’t be here and not here . . . but where . . .
The wrongness overwhelmed her— she slipped toward a darkness of her own. It was so close. She knew exactly where to find the seething black cloud. There. She had only to let it take her, pull her from whatever kept her in this empty, soulless place.
Reap the Wild Wind Page 3
