Another bark. “Unacceptable. Two thirds for us. Two thirds of what we have brought for you. Or nothing. You cannot survive without our technology.”
“We can’t survive without food. As for technology?” Taisal’s sudden smile was the most forbidding thing Aryl had ever seen. “There’s always fire.”
“Fire!” The Tikitik flung up its head with a quick snap of its flexible neck as if avoiding an attack. It looked painful. The others did the same, staying in that posture. Their gigantic mounts dozed, oblivious to the distress of their riders. Aryl thought that just as well.
“You may not!” the creature continued, its voice shrill and loud. “You may not! Fire is dangerous! Burning is Forbidden! The Yena agreed never to use fire!”
“We didn’t agree to sit in our homes and die.” Taisal spoke quietly, but with emphasis. “If we run out of power, we’ll do what we must. Do we understand one another, Speaker?”
Slowly, as if grudgingly, the Tikitik lowered its head. Aryl let out the breath she hadn’t remembered holding and relaxed her death’s grip on the pane. “One half of your stores,” it said, “for one half of what we brought.”
“Of our choosing,” Taisal countered quickly.
The Tikitik raised the tip of one of its three long fingers. “Of your choosing,” it agreed, “in return for that.” The tip bent to indicate the piece from the flying machine. “We share an interest in the cause of our mutual problem.”
“Done. Fetch the dresel.”
Taisal didn’t confer with the Council seated behind her, not in any way Aryl could see or sense. The Speaker’s authority, here and now, was unquestioned. Perhaps, Aryl thought, their leaders were preoccupied with the future and how they would manage. She certainly hoped someone was thinking about that. Her stomach growled.
Several Om’ray immediately ran up the ladders, heading for the warehouses. Taisal took their evidence from the First Scout, passing it to the Tikitik. The creature raised the fragment of the device to the fleshy protuberances where its mouth should be. They wiggled and fussed over the pitted curve like busy fingers.
It was, Aryl decided, the most disgusting thing she’d ever seen. The inspection, if that’s what it was, was thankfully brief. “This belongs to the strangers,” the Tikitik announced, tucking the piece within the band that crossed its chest. It stuck out at a funny angle, but Aryl didn’t laugh.
Strangers?
She wasn’t the only one taken aback. The word passed from mind to mind, laced with confusion. Even Taisal looked puzzled. A stranger was an unChosen from another Clan. The only way a stranger could arrive was by Passage; he remained a stranger only until Choice. There was no other meaning, not to Om’ray.
Who were “strangers” to the Tikitik?
Interlude
JORG SUD MENDALOR RAN A finger along a benchtop, then scrutinized its tip with great care, his thick gray brows almost meeting with the effort. “Well done, Enris,” he pronounced at last, giving his best apron a tug to align it properly. “I’d say we’re ready.”
The younger Om’ray hid a smile. His father didn’t mean the not so dust free though tidy surface or the racks of well-oiled tools. But neither of them would mention the strategic relocation of the bench itself. Jorg was aware of his son’s abilities; it was he and Enris’ mother, Ridersel Mendolar, who had stressed the importance of keeping them private. Tuana’s Council was tolerant of new Talent, if kept from the Oud.
At that thought, Enris lost his good humor. He opened the nearest side window and gazed out at the street. Shopkeepers had lifted their awnings, but only a trickle of customers hurried between. Few ventured out when a Visitation was imminent. “She’s going to try something,” he growled. “You know it as well as I.”
“Naryn?” Jorg came to stand beside him. “Don’t worry. She’ll behave.”
Enris couldn’t remember when he’d first seen over his father’s head, but now the other’s mass of curling silver-gray reached no higher than his shoulder. Jorg’s own shoulders, though strong, were curved from seasons of work, his neck permanently bent. He felt a surge of protectiveness as well as pride. His father was the best metalworker the Tuana had ever had, known as much for his kind heart and generosity as the beauty of his creations. He would, no one doubted, become a valued member of Council when Enris’ grandmother passed on.
Just thinking of Council made Enris frown. “They can make all the edicts they want. She’ll disobey. Council can’t control her.”
His father chuckled. “Which would be why Naryn and her friends were invited to the Cloisters for the day.”
“How—” Enris answered his own question. “Council offers those scatterbrains a chance to become Adepts.”
“Oh, they might pass tests of Power.” At Enris’ offended huff, Jorg patted him on the back. “They’ll never have your control, so don’t worry. You’re far more likely to—”
No, he sent, horror coloring the denial. “I work with these,” he said aloud, holding up his callused hands.
Jorg patted Enris again, firmly. “And well you do.” It was his turn to glance out the window. “If they come today at all, it won’t be till sunset. Would you like to help me with a casting? There’s a bit of a trick with this one. I could use your knack with puzzles.”
“You’re trying to stop me worrying, aren’t you?” Enris complained as he followed his father to the vat.
Jorg took up the partly finished mold, examining its reversed shaping of a gear-to-be. His eyes were bright with mischief as he glanced over it at his son. “Is that possible?”
Enris started to protest, then the corner of his lips twitched upward. “Show me the problem, and I’ll let you know.”
Chapter 7
THE TIKITIK SPEAKER SEEMED TO grasp that it had confounded the Om’ray Speaker, if not how. “The material,” it declared, “is from another world. It must have come with the strangers.”
Someone snickered. Bern was shaking his head. There was, of course, no such thing. The world, as everyone could feel from birth, was defined by the seven Om’ray Clans. There was nothing beyond them. How could there be? If you could somehow move farther than that connection could reach, you would be nowhere at all.
But Aryl thought of the Dark. She could sense its churning without effort. It was where she’d somehow pushed Bern to move him to safety, where she’d felt drawn in her grief. Her mother denied it was a place yet admitted it was real. Bern had described it as if he’d seen it for himself.
Was this what the Tikitik meant? Another world beyond this one— unseen but within reach of Power. Could something not-there to her inner sense feel it, too? She felt on the cusp of grasping something vital ...
“Aryl Sarc.”
Bern nudged her and she started, only then realizing she’d heard her name. “What—?”
“Are you asleep? The Speaker wants you. Hurry!” Sure enough, Taisal was beckoning impatiently.
Cheeks warm, Aryl hopped down from the bench, careful not to drop the pane. That would be all she’d need.
Her steps slowed involuntarily as she entered the long crossed shadows cast by the Tikitik. The creature towered overhead like a nightmare. It watched her approach with that disturbing all-eyes’ focus, and Aryl forced her own gaze to the planking underfoot. She walked forward until she could see the hem of her mother’s gown, then stopped.
She smelled something musty, like a blanket left too long in a chest, and yet sweet, like the juice from one of Costa’s plants. The combination roused memories of her grandmother’s tiny figure, huddled deep and motionless within faded cushions. An Adept had come each morning for the full five days of a fist before pronouncing the body an empty shell and ready for disposal in the Lay beneath the Sarc grove. Until then, he’d claimed something of Unnel Sarc’s Power lingered, as though by outlasting her Chosen, she’d locked her mind’s grip on the world.
Dresel laced this scent as well. Aryl slid her eyes sideways. The Tikitik had blunt claws on the ends
of its long toes.
“The drawing?”
Aryl jerked to attention and met her mother’s almost imperceptible frown. “Yes, Speaker. Here it is.”
Taisal took the pane and passed it to the Tikitik without a glance at its surface. “This is a representation of the device. Do you recognize it?” She’d apparently decided to avoid strangers and worlds altogether.
Aryl agreed wholeheartedly. She eased back, hoping to be unnoticed.
The small homely pane looked wrong in the Tikitik’s hands. Aryl swallowed a protest as the creature raised it to its face. To have something from her hands being groped by those gray—worms? Her mother gave her a sharp look, and Aryl tightened her shields to keep in her thoughts.
The creature used its eyes to examine the drawing, that was all, tipping the pane from side to side as if seeking the best light. It was so normal a scrutiny that Aryl relaxed, very slightly.
“Who made this? You?” Four eyes aimed at her. “You were there. What else did you see?”
Aryl wanted to sink into the wood. No one but the appointed Speaker could address a Tikitik. Clearly, the rule didn’t hold in reverse, which wasn’t fair. She looked to Taisal for guidance and received another warning frown.
“This shows the device,” her mother repeated, avoiding the issue of the artist too. “It was observed to move against the M’hir, to hover in place. When wastryls collided with it, there was a release of light, fire, and noise, like a lightning strike. We don’t know if it was by accident or—”
“Not an accident,” the Tikitik interrupted, eyes back to Taisal. “This disrupted the Harvest, causing us hardship. Making you less.” It bobbed its head once, then added, “We will endure. You may not. Do you have a death dispute with the strangers?”
Not stupid, Aryl decided. Insane. From the swell of outrage pressing against her shields, she didn’t think she was the only Om’ray reaching that conclusion.
Taisal clapped her hands. Those lowering bundles to the platform froze, the pulleys and chains swinging gently with their loads. “It is against the Agreement, Speaker,” she said over the faint creaks, “to use terms without common meaning.”
The other Tikitik had been untying gourds from their mounts and passing them to waiting Om’ray on the dock. They halted, too, hissing to themselves.
“What do you need defined?” their Speaker asked. “I can simplify. Is this,” it lifted the pane, “trouble of your making?”
“Of course not!” As her words echoed across the water, Taisal made a conciliatory gesture Om’ray would understand, if not the Tikitik. “How could it be?” she reasoned. “You talk of strangers. Yena has seen only two such in the last handful of M’hirs, Om’ray on lawful Passage. You talk of another world.” Here her voice showed strain. “We know only this world.” Her hands lifted to indicate those behind her, then dropped to her sides. “You have what evidence there is of a device not of our making, a device that has cost too many Om’ray lives already. It’s your puzzle to solve, Speaker, not ours.”
Drawing conclusions from part of this, at least, the Tikitik tucked Aryl’s drawing inside its chest band, to join the fragment. It bobbed its head twice, a signal that sent the others back to work. Taisal hesitated, then nodded to the Om’ray. As the sounds of effort resumed— the slide of chain, the dropping of bundles and gourds, heavy breathing— Aryl felt the tension ease.
She took advantage of the moment to move away from Taisal and the Tikitik, one step. Two. When neither paid attention, she turned and almost ran to her seat.
“You’re shaking,” Bern whispered as she settled into place.
“You would be, too,” she retorted as quietly. “I don’t know how my mother can stand there like that.”
They’d be finished soon. Couldn’t be soon enough, in Aryl’s opinion, an impatience felt by all around her. Once the exchange was complete, the Om’ray would ascend to the safety of their homes. They could forget these not-there creatures existed until the next M’hir.
Which suddenly seemed impossibly distant. There were two hundred and seventy-seven Yena left, between the Cloisters and those here. “Did you hear? Half the dresel is all we’ll have,” she whispered to Bern, afraid to send. “We’ll starve.”
She wasn’t sure what starving to death would be like; she’d rather not find out.
“Of course we won’t. Council will have a plan. For all we know,” his breath tickled her ear, “they’ve hidden supplies against just such a day.”
Aryl kept her doubts to herself. Fresh dresel rotted within days. After each Harvest, the Om’ray pressed their share into flatcakes, dried over heat and kept in sealed casks. To be eaten, the cakes were remoistened and baked— Aryl’s favorite treat was baked dresel with sweet sap— or more usually ground to a powder and combined with other foods as a spice.
Tikitik wouldn’t touch dried dresel, considering it ruined. There wouldn’t be any left anyway. As always, the Yena had feasted while they waited for the Watchers to signal the M’hir, using up the last supplies before Harvest. It was tradition, to make way for fresh new stores. Which now seemed a very bad idea, to Aryl’s thinking— though in their defense, there had always been more dresel harvested than Yena could ever use, more than enough for the Tikitik as well.
Council would meet tonight, Aryl knew, trying to shake off her fear. Their combined wisdom was beyond that of mere unChosen. Bern was right. They would know what to do. They knew everything.
They didn’t know about her, something deep inside countered. They didn’t know about the Dark the M’hir had shown her.
“Aryl.” Bern’s shoulder pressed against hers. “Cheer up. We’ll be all right.”
Heart-kin, she sent, grateful for his dependable warmth, and he smiled down at her in a way no one else ever had. The guilt she carried faded like morning mist. They belonged together, Aryl knew. Whatever was to come, they’d face it together.
And when she was a Chooser, Bern Teerac would be her Choice.
Chapter 8
ARYL AWOKE THE NEXT DAY to a bedlam of footsteps and voices. She jumped from the bed and rushed to the window panel, pulling aside its curtain.
The bridges were bustling with Om’ray, but only those who, to her inner sense, were connected by unseen bonds, some to one another, others to those left in homes. The Chosen.
Adults were always, in Aryl’s opinion, in a hurry to do the incomprehensible. She yawned, rubbing her eyes.
They were burdened, she noticed curiously. Some carried wooden chests with ornate carvings, awkward to manage on the more narrow bridges. Family heirlooms? Others had bags or objects wrapped in cloth. She couldn’t guess. Whatever they carried, they were taking it to the meeting hall.
After a quick wash, Aryl pulled on her tunic and shoved her hair back in its net. She wanted breakfast and answers, not necessarily in that order.
Her mother would know.
* * *
Her mother, it turned out, had left for the Cloisters. Meanwhile, her mother’s sister, Myris Sarc, and her Chosen, Ael sud Sarc, arrived to take Aryl’s home apart. They claimed consent but wouldn’t explain. So Aryl sat at one end of the Sarc table, scowling so fiercely her forehead hurt, and took her time chewing the last bite of the tiny portion of cold breakfast she’d been allowed.
“You could help instead of glaring,” Ael suggested after a while. Like many Kessa’ats, he was dark of hair and slight. He was an excellent climber— only a still-healing ankle had kept him from this M’hir’s Harvest. Myris was a younger version of Taisal, fair and given, normally, to irrepressible giggles. Aryl adored them both.
Until now.
She scowled harder.
She watched as her aunt and uncle opened every cupboard and pulled out the contents, piling these with care on the table until she had to lean to one side to keep an eye on what the pair did next. They pulled down the storage slings, dumping their contents with less care, as if running out of time or patience. Piles began to grow, on the cou
nter, before the window panels.
More pointless tasks. Myris went on hands and knees, running her fingertips along the floor’s finely fitted planks as if hunting dust. Ael, having rolled the carpets, pulled the sling chairs up to the rafters one by one, scrutinizing what was underneath. He freed the fastened one at the table and did the same to it.
Then he eyed hers; she didn’t move.
With a shrug, Ael headed for Costa’s room.
Stop!
Both adult Om’ray looked pained.
Aryl covered her mouth with her hands, as though she could take back that fierce inner shout.
Reap the Wild Wind Page 8
