The bridge system through Sarc consisted of five major sections, each meeting at the greatest rastis of the grove, and three lesser, leading to nekis used for the Harvest. They were convenient passageways for more than Om’ray, and Aryl kept watch for anything not on two legs as she walked. She didn’t bother with her hood, preferring to see her best. Biters were an accustomed torment, and there were fewer in the open, where the M’hir still stirred the air. The bridge swung gently underfoot, its soft creak no more than strong rope and wood welcoming her confident steps.
Until she started across the third span. Despite the need to hurry, Aryl found herself slowing, her free hand seeking the rope rail. She looked up and saw only the undersides of fronds and branches, the tips of hanging vines, but she knew.
Here.
It had been here.
Involuntarily, she stopped, leaning to shift some of the pods’ awkward weight from her shoulder to a hip.
And below.
She wouldn’t look down. That much grace she gave herself, in this place where Bern had stood to watch Costa and the others fall to their deaths.
Where she’d sent him.
The wood was improbably solid underfoot; the braided rope taut under her fingers. It might have been a dream, except for the lives lost that day and threatened now.
Except for the Dark. Aryl could see if she looked just so, a place that billowed and surged and snapped as if the M’hir had wings of its own . . .
... Like the great wind, the Dark had no boundaries, only irresistible force. Like the M’hir, it stole the breath from her mouth and hammered against her skin until . . .
Aryl shuddered and blinked herself free.
Free of what?
Her fingers still gripped the rope, the knuckles white. The grove filled her nostrils when she inhaled, redolent of ripe fruit and rot. She hadn’t gone anywhere.
Had she?
“Enough,” she told herself, letting go. It had been a long day. Her body said so; as for the rest— the less thinking about that the better.
If all this was her fault, Aryl vowed, the only way to atone was to stay away from the Dark and, she gave the nets a settling heave, help those she still could.
* * *
The lights of Yena were in sight between the stalks, the inner glow of her kind a magnet, when Aryl first heard the sound.
No, she decided, stepping into a shadow and holding still. She’d heard it before, when she’d stopped on the bridge within the grove. The canopy was a noisy place, day or truenight; experienced climbers learned to ignore what wasn’t a threat. But hearing it again, she knew what it was.
The hissing Tikitik made to one another.
Sound bounced from wood, softened against frond, carried over water. It was why Om’ray Scouts and Harvesters relied on mindspeech. Aryl listened as intently as she could, but over the ambient squawks, whirrs, and buzzing, couldn’t make out a direction. Not close, she thought, unless the faintness was an effort to speak quietly because they were close.
Which meant they could be right below her.
Aryl felt the weight of the pods on her shoulder. Her mother had warned her not to let the Tikitik know. They’d demand their share of what she held, that at least. Or they could want it all. She didn’t know or care what they used dresel for— she only knew they couldn’t have what she’d carried all this way, what Bern had left.
Six fists of life.
Weary and sore, she assessed her options. There was the path ahead, the one she’d planned to take. Straight along the wide bridge, around the platform ringing the next rastis, down the ladder to this end of the village bridge, from there, a handful of steps to where the glows marked safety. There might be a Scout on the platform, certainly one at the ladder’s base. At truenight, once all Yena were safe, they would remove several rungs and replace them with false steps, some coated with poison and spikes, others weakened to the breaking point. No friend to Om’ray climbed in the dark.
If she took that straightforward route, she’d be walking over the platform and dock— and be visible from the waters of the Lay below. She had time yet, Aryl decided, to take another way home.
Taisal di Sarc had never remarked on her daughter’s constant climbing, except to insist on a tidy and prompt appearance at supper; Costa, well, he’d had her pick plants for him he couldn’t reach on his own. But the Teeracs, Aryl remembered vividly, had taken a dim view of their eldest son, as they put it, chasing that Sarc scamp through the canopy when he should have been learning to braid rope like his kin.
To be fair, she hadn’t been the problem; Bern didn’t like braiding rope.
Or anything else that involved sitting still for five breaths, unless it was to eat. His parents had been forced to make Bern promise not to walk the bridge from their house until he did his share of the work.
He’d braided for a full day and his parents had been cautiously happy. They were less amused when they discovered this diligence had produced a rope ladder that Aryl secured to a branch over their home so Bern could leave without breaking his word.
They’d eventually given up. Bern had eventually become dutiful enough to braid every day, at least until Aryl climbed down the ladder to wave through his window. A ladder that still waited, wrapped in toxin-soaked cloth.
As she left the bridge and climbed the rastis itself, Aryl half smiled. Even Bern’s parents had grudgingly admitted they were perfect for each other.
Had been perfect.
Feeling empty, Aryl moved as quietly as she could with the nets. She crossed between rastis by balancing on their overlapped fronds. A child’s trick, not without risk. Old fronds could crack at their base from the main stalk, young ones were supple and bent unpredictably under the weight of an adult-sized Om’ray. Especially— she staggered once and caught herself— one carrying an extra burden. But she couldn’t be seen from below and there were more reasons than a daring Om’ray for a frond to sway, including the M’hir.
Firstnight had arrived, the sunlight now diffuse and rapidly losing to lengthening shadows. As she climbed, well above the Yena rooftops, spots of warm yellow light peeked through openings between the fronds. Their glow turned the world upside down, as if she walked with her feet to the sky. She fought the disorienting sensation as much as the gloom. This path was as familiar as the floor of her bedroom.
Of course, now she had a new one, Aryl told herself, forced to slow her steps to keep her direction as everything turned dim and strange.
She started as something soft and unseen brushed her face. A nightflier. Harmless, but something had flushed it from its perch.
She didn’t want to know what.
Truenight was almost upon her by the time Aryl reached the ladder. With feverish haste, she tore off its wrappings and tossed them aside. The braided rope had held Bern; she had to trust it could support her plus her load. There wouldn’t be time to lower the pods first.
The steady splashes from the Lay below gave warning— the hunters were out and on the rise, tracking by scent and heat. She could hear their stealthy, clattering movement on every side, claws digging in as they climbed, muted clicks as they shoved one another for best advantage. No screams rent the air yet. They would soon. These hunters killed by eating their prey, swarming in such numbers they fought each other for room to bite.
No swarm would eat her, Aryl vowed. She pushed the ladder over the branch, starting to descend before it finished unrolling. The weight of the nets made her unbalanced, threw the ladder into a swing. She didn’t falter, hands and feet flying from grip to grip. She not only had to get herself down, she had to make sure this ladder wasn’t left as a road for what pursued.
She let go at the third last rung, landing on her toes, unable to believe she’d made it. Shrugging off the nets, she grabbed the retriever cord twisting in the air beside the ladder. With both hands, leaning her whole body into the pull, she drew the ladder back up to its resting place. Release and pull. Release and pull. Om’ray la
dders were meant to be removed; Bern had known his craft, however much he detested it. One more. There.
Out of habit, Aryl bundled the loose cord and tossed it over that very convenient frond above the Teeracs’ roof. She spotted a cluster of Om’ray running in her direction and raised a weary hand in salute.
She didn’t move at once. Her body wasn’t inclined to do anything beyond taking deep, shuddering gasps, now that she was safe.
Safe. Her mouth twisted. Here, on this bridge in the midst of well-lit and protected homes, encompassed by the inner warmth of her kind, she could close her eyes without fear and breathe, imagine cleaning the sweat and dust from her skin and hair, plan supper. Sink into sleep.
While Bern and the others remained out there, alone.
They’d each huddle over a glow for truenight, their bodies wedged between branches as high as they could climb. They wouldn’t dare sleep until dawn, though the Lay’s hunters rarely ventured into the sparse open growth of the upper canopy. There were other dangers, things that flew over the rastis crowns by starlight, hunting the hunters. Things that wouldn’t mind plucking a careless Om’ray from his perch.
Council had sent them on Passage; she’d felt their grief. The Tikitik had made it impossible to do otherwise; she couldn’t blame them for needing dresel, too.
Whoever sent that device to spy on their Harvest, she thought, that’s who was responsible. Aryl felt a sudden fierce anger, deeper than any she’d felt before.
It lacked only a face.
She picked up the nets and went to meet her welcomers.
Chapter 12
“SIX PODS. ALL BY YOURSELF.”
Aryl nodded, again, doing her best not to slouch. The pods in question had been taken immediately, their precious dresel to be dried and stored— most within the security of the Cloisters. She, on the other hand, had made it only these few steps from the sorting table toward the meeting hall door. The door through which she had to pass to go home. Her skin itched from bites and thorns, her muscles ached with fatigue, but none of these were as taxing, she discovered, as trying to keep her temper.
Evra and Barit sud Teerac, Bern’s parents, made no such effort. They blocked her exit, their angry voices collecting more than a few looks of disapproval from those working here. It wasn’t Om’ray to confront one another. It wasn’t Om’ray to shout either.
They’d lost their only son. Aryl found a little more patience.
“Did you steal these from Bern?” Evra demanded, again. “Leave him to starve?”
So much for patience. She straightened with a jerk. “I told you— I found them—”
“Don’t lie!!!! You followed him!” thundered Barit. He raised the net in his callused hand and shook it in her face. “We made this for Bern. Did you think we wouldn’t recognize it?”
At this, Haxel Vendan broke away from the discussion she was having with two of her weary scouts to stride over to them. When the First Scout scowled, it twisted the deep puckered scar that ran from her left brow to the corner of her wide mouth, a reminder that she was one of the few Om’ray to survive a stitler trap. She was scowling now. “What’s going on here?”
“Aryl’s obsession with our son!” Usually placid, Barit’s face was flushed and his mouth worked between the words. “She put his Passage at risk—”
“She’s no Chooser,” Evra broke in, her contempt slamming against Aryl’s shields. “She’ll never be. Look at her. Pretending to be adult, as if this is some new game. Any proper Om’ray would have matured by now.” At the appalled hush around her, she paled, but stumbled on. “Everyone knows it. Being the Speaker’s daughter doesn’t give her the right to destroy our son’s chance for happiness.”
How could Bern’s mother believe that? Aryl felt the words like a blow. How could anyone? She tried not to hear the sendings speeding through the hall: thief . . . violator . . . how dare she! . . . Forbidden.
Haxel sketched a gesture of appeasement, the movement of her hand brusque and almost impolite. “Control yourselves,” she ordered. “Aryl,” almost gently. “The truth, now. How did you get this net? Did you find Bern’s body?”
Evra gasped and whirled to press her face against Barit’s chest. He glared at the First Scout, his arms around his Chosen. “Our son isn’t dead! Ask her!”
Haxel turned to Aryl. “Well?” Pursing her lips whitened the scar.
There were over thirty now-silent Om’ray standing or sitting in the meeting hall. None were working, too intent on the unaccustomed scene. Anything she said would be heard by everyone here; shortly after, by everyone else. The only choice was the truth.
Her heart hurt.
“I picked Teerac grove to search for pods. I did find two there, but that’s not the only reason I— I went,” she confessed. Barit and Evra glared at her and Aryl shook her head. “Not to stop him,” she protested. “I knew Bern would travel through his family grove one last time. He— I— I just wanted to spend time where he’d been, that’s all. Bern must have known I would. I believe he left the pods for me to find. Yena needed them, and he trusted me.” The thought made her smile.
“Nonsense,” Evra snorted, pulling free of her Chosen. “Bern’s on Passage to his Chooser. Why would he think about you?”
“I’m sorry you’ve never approved of me or our friendship,” Aryl said, weary beyond caution, “but we were friends. Dear friends. I would have gladly been more. I would follow Bern Teerac across the world, if I believed it could be. But it can’t. My place is here, helping Yena survive. I don’t know what else I can say.”
Haxel nodded, as if this confirmed something she knew. She faced the Teeracs and gestured gratitude. “Yena thanks your son for his gift.” The gesture was repeated by everyone present, including Aryl. Then the First Scout fixed her difficult-to-meet gaze on Barit and Evra. “Without Aryl, his gift would have fed flitters instead of Om’ray. Remember that, if you ever again think less of their friendship, or her skills as an adult.”
* * *
Glows vanquished truenight’s terrors, or at least held them at a forgettable distance. Aryl walked the bridge to her home, that safety lulling her into a pleasant numbness. The day’s triumph, the Teeracs’ accusation, Haxel’s unexpected intervention— she let it all fade to a blur. None of it mattered as much as rest.
When other footsteps matched hers from behind, she reached to sense the First Scout and hoped it was coincidence. Haxel could be on her nightly rounds. There wouldn’t be anything further asked of her now, especially conversation. She’d be lucky to make it to her bed without falling face first on the floor. Finding something to eat? Taking off her filthy arm and leg wraps? She couldn’t imagine that effort.
Once at her door, she unlatched and turned the panel, hand almost trembling.
“Aryl Sarc.”
Groaning inside, she looked around. “Yes, First Scout?”
“Could we talk?” Haxel walked through the opening without waiting for an answer.
Holding in a sigh, Aryl followed and closed the door.
Haxel stopped by the long Sarc table, her eyes sweeping her surroundings as if she checked for an escape route. “You’re here on your own.” Her shields were impeccable; her voice revealed even less.
With an arm that protested the motion, Aryl pulled down a sling chair. She motioned to another. “For now,” she nodded. “My mother’s sister and her Chosen may join me soon.” She eased her body into the chair; the relief of sitting made her close her eyes for an instant.
“This won’t take long.” Haxel had her hand on the chair rope, but didn’t pull it. Instead, she studied Aryl. “Few Om’ray climb with your skill.”
“Then why wasn’t I selected for the Harvest?” The accusation— for that’s how it sounded even to Aryl’s ears, startled them both. She gestured apology at once. It had to be the exhaustion. “Forgive me, First Scout. I meant no disrespect.”
“You know your strengths. That’s good.” Haxel frowned slightly, the scar twisting h
er brow. “I did select you. Council overruled me.”
“What?” Aryl leaned forward, holding the chair still with her toes on the floor. “Why?”
Haxel pulled down her chair at last, sitting with care as if she distrusted the sling. Or, Aryl thought, was more used to branches than civilized furniture. “I believe they chose not to risk your special Talent,” the First Scout said. “I find I agree.”
“What Talent?” Aryl asked in her best “who me?” voice, the one that had worked, most of the time, to shift blame to her brother. With luck, her face was too dirty and swollen with bites to show her dismay.
“You played with my nephews.” Haxel gave a thin smile. “I’m curious, Aryl. Do you always know who an Om’ray is? Or does it take conscious use of your Power to identify someone?”
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