“Our puzzle to solve. You will come.”
Her mother’s words.
The flanking Tikitik bent lower, their flexible arms reaching in—
“Joyn!!!” That shout didn’t come from a Tikitik. Aryl sagged with relief. Joyn, with blithe disregard for strange creatures or danger, pushed by her and ran out between the Tikitik.
HERE HERE HERE!!!
The joyous flood of welcome and reunion mean Rimis was out there, near enough to take her missing son in her arms, somewhere behind the Tikitik. Aryl felt three other Om’ray as well and didn’t hesitate to learn who: Joyn’s father, Troa sud Uruus. Haxel, First Scout. Ael.
“I’m going home,” she told the Tikitik firmly, and started to walk by them, too.
Like the wastryls’ strike, they grabbed her, their three-fingered hands fastening like claws on Aryl’s arms and legs, lifting her into the air. Before she could draw breath to scream, a hideous face pressed against hers, its gray writhing finger-things racing over her cheeks to find and enter her mouth.
She couldn’t breathe!
The world dimmed and disappeared.
Interlude
“ ‘BEST IS.’ ” ENRIS SHOOK HIS head in disgust. “Huh.”
The mysterious cylinder sat on the turntable, mocking him, its secrets quite safe. Frustrated, he stood and kicked his stool under the bench. The heat should be shunted back to the melting vat soon anyway, and there was always sweeping to do. They didn’t waste a shaving, not here.
But his steps slowed and stopped before he reached controls or broom.
Enris turned, caught again by the puzzle. “What are you?” he whispered. Not that he’d be overheard. These days, he woke well before dawn and made his way to the shop through the fields rather than the road. It let him work in privacy on what shouldn’t be in their shop at all. Jorg and Ridersel understood.
That this clandestine approach also let him avoid Naryn S’udlaat was something he didn’t share with his parents.
He went back, pulling out his stool to sit, his eyes locked on the cylinder. A sophisticated device— no doubt of that. A tool, not an ornament. But how to discern its function without power? He’d tried touching an Oud cell to its exposed inner workings. While those ably fed the ubiquitous strips and beads of glows, the cell had had no effect on this.
The materials of its manufacture were equally unhelpful. Yes, the outer case was metal, but the kind? It defied everything he’d tried, and he’d tried everything short of tossing it into the melting vat. Tempting as that seemed at times.
The object might be safe from him, but Enris feared his failure to understand it. Not because of what the Oud might do if it returned before he had an answer for the creature— though his father was sensibly anxious on that point— but because he was sure the cylinder held a meaning important to Om’ray, not Oud.
Three fists since the Oud left the cylinder and, beyond the leaving of those on Passage and the arrival of two others, nothing had changed. As for the Oud? Some seasons, the Visitation drums sounded but once; in others, the Oud seemed obsessed with the village, and their Speaker reappeared so often nothing could be accomplished for days at a time. They hadn’t returned yet, but there was no way to predict or understand them.
They hadn’t made this.
“Who did?” Enris asked softly. Someone with incredible skill. Someone, he knew, who could teach him more about metalworking than he could imagine.
And maybe more about his own people than they knew.
“Not if I can’t—” His eyes narrowed in thought. If this was made by an Om’ray . . . someone like himself . . . there was one way to possibly learn more.
If only a name . . .
His fingers hovered over its surface as if asking for permission.
Nothing else had worked, he reminded himself, licking suddenly dry lips. And he was alone.
Feeling thoroughly foolish, Enris let a strand of Power reach toward the cylinder, as if the metal was something he’d made and given his name. Let Power touch.
His lips parted in wonder as unheard sounds flooded his consciousness . . . they were words that made no sense, uttered by a voice he’d never heard before . . . another voice . . . another . . . some different, some the same . . . until it was as if everyone in the meeting hall spoke at once . . .
He tried to isolate one, follow it, but the words . . . they were noise . . .
Disturbance! Something was twisting his Power. Something that rebuffed and snatched for it at the same instant, as if compelled to consume what it knew was poison.
Enris broke free, his head spinning until it was all he could do not to retch.
An Oud.
That much he realized as the nausea faded beneath waves of pain, each new onrush worse than the one before. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a vise being screwed over his temples. By no friend either.
He fought to think . . . being too near certain Oud when using Power caused an unpleasant reaction. Every Om’ray knew that.
This was “unpleasant?” He’d have laughed except the movement would likely remove his throbbing head from his shoulders.
What, he knew. But how? He was alone. There’d been no drumming. The Watchers would never let an Oud enter the village without that warning.
An Oud had brought the device— had handled it. Had the creature imprinted its own version of Power, its name, into the metal?
Something for Adepts to pick at, not a metalworker.
Enris made his way to the sink, put his head under the tap, and turned it on full. Clenching his teeth at the cold, he kept the water pounding against the base of his skull until he felt able to stand. Which he did, after a fashion. His hands gripped the solid, rounded rim of the sink and his arms braced his shaking body so he didn’t collapse. He stayed that way and stared, trying not to think, watching drips from his face and hair vanish into the torrent swirling to the drain.
After a few moments, Enris took a deep breath and turned off the water. He eased himself straight, the muscles of his back burning as if he’d pushed a full cart all day. One hand swept still-wet hair from his brow.
Instinct made him reach for those around him, to reassure himself with his own kind. But each speck of warmth was distant, as if he had been pulled away from them without moving at all. Even the Call from Tuana’s eager Choosers was dimmed and strange.
Shivering now from more than his wet hair and shirt, Enris reached farther, intent on reestablishing the world and his place as it should be.
It was as if his Power was smothered by sand or blankets. He could, if he wanted, lift his hand and point to Yena and the other clans. He couldn’t feel their existence as richly as he should.
If this was why the Adepts cautioned every Om’ray to keep shields tight around the Oud, he was more than willing to obey. As for how long he’d be affected? Enris didn’t dare flinch, but his heart sank. It was said to be worse depending on a person’s individual Power.
“Wonderful,” Enris muttered. He might not share Naryn’s craving for an Adept’s robe, but he knew his own strength.
He didn’t need Power to work. That was the truth. He forced himself to the furnace controls and disconnected the village shunt, keeping a steadying hand on the wall as he worked. The edges of the vat doors began to glow.
There were four in total. The first, the mouth they called it, was close to the door and had a ramp that allowed the cart to be pushed up and its load dumped. Through that opening was the vat’s fiery heart, where Oud metal leavings were quickly melted into liquid. Farther along the vat, itself twice as long as any shop bench, were two lower, small doors that opened into troughs. The troughs were of stone, like the vat itself, and as impervious to the immense heat. They led to the assembled molds for the day’s pour, some created by Jorg and Enris, others older than any memory of their making. Once the streams of molten metal began to flow, every window and skylight would have to open to keep the shop bearable.
; The fourth and final door was outside the shop and could only be opened by Oud. They supplied the heat that melted their own metal, as well as warmed the Tuana village by night. They kept the manner of that heat secret, like their power cells, like their glows, like all other scraps of technology they doled out to the Om’ray above them with as much charity as a sandstorm. Cells that failed were replaced with new ones. Over time, the melting vat would fail as well and the Oud needed access to its interior to restore its function.
For all they knew, Enris scowled, the Oud collected something of value only to themselves from the vat, using the Tuana to do the work.
Once sure the vat was heating properly, Enris turned open the upper windows. It was still too dark outside to open them all and risk lopers. Then he went in search of the cylinder, finally locating it under his father’s bench within a curl of shavings. He found himself loath to touch it, and had to force his fingers to hold the cool shape.
They slipped, naturally, into those five indentations. He was as startled as if this was the first time. In a way, it was, for now he had a glimmering of what the device could be. Each indentation was softer than the rest of the outer case; the pressure of a finger was enough to push a spot further in or release it. Controls, he decided. The positioning of it in his hand? It was easy to lift and hold it near his mouth.
As for what he’d sensed, before being hit by whatever remnant the Oud had left behind?
“A voice keeper,” Enris exclaimed.
“A what?”
He slammed tight his shields and slipped the precious cylinder beneath his shirt before he turned to face the intruder. “A rude interruption,” he snapped, “by someone who should have better manners.”
The young Om’ray standing inside the door gestured apology, but his eyes were bright and curious as they gazed around the shop, then back to Enris. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But my room went cold. Someone told me you control the heat?” This was offered with caution, as if the other felt the brunt of a joke. He came farther in, ignoring Enris’ warning scowl. A sudden wide grin split his face as he came closer. “I don’t believe it! You do! This is the first warm place I’ve been since I arrived.” He gave an exaggerated shiver despite wearing not one, but two heavy coats.
Enris relaxed at the other’s delight in the heat radiating from the vat doors, recognizing one of the newcomers recently arrived on Passage. A stranger. “Try working here during the day,” he suggested. “Then you’ll want to be anywhere else. I’m Enris Mendolar.”
“I’m good with a broom,” the stranger offered, taking the one near his hand and waving it about. “Yuhas Parth, at your service.”
There’d been a Parth who arrived two generations ago; those vivid green eyes were now part of Licor heritage. Enris, though his Power waxed and waned uncomfortably with the effort, could sense nothing but goodwill through Yuhas’ weak shield. Goodwill and a dark, terrible grief.
Enris withdrew, somewhat surprised to discover himself already nodding. He shrugged. “If you like,” he said. “There’s a place—” he pointed “— by the back wall for anything you sweep up. We don’t waste metal.”
“Who does?” Yuhas took off one coat, putting it on the hook Enris indicated, but kept on the second. As he got to work, he said over his shoulder, “There’s more in this room than is owned by my entire clan— outside the Cloisters. Not that there’s much call for metal in the canopy.”
Enris had gone back to his bench, waiting for an opportunity to put away the cylinder. Now he looked at Yuhas with greater interest. “That’s right. You’re from Yena.”
“Called halfway across the world by the lovely Caynen S’udlaat.” This was said with that wide grin Enris now suspected was the other’s mask. “Her family has given me permission to lay my heart at her feet. We’re having supper tonight. I don’t suppose you could turn up the heat in their home before that?” A comical look of dismay.
“Not really. I can turn it on or off,” Enris admitted. “The Oud built the underground pipes that heat the floors. Some buildings have more than others. You’ll get used to it.”
“If you say so,” Yuhas replied, clearly doubtful.
Both were silent for a time after that. Enris busied himself wrapping the handle of a new carving blade, glancing at his new assistant once in a while. Yuhas plied the broom with such intensity it threatened to wear away the flooring, but he didn’t comment.
The heat continued to rise, now joined by rays of sunlight. Since he couldn’t strip off his shirt while it hid the cylinder, Enris opened the remaining windows, grinning to himself when Yuhas, far from objecting to the sudden cool draft, shed his final coat. Beneath, his muscular arms were bare, since he wore only a body-covering tunic of white-and-black fabric, belted over what appeared to be tight leggings of a gauzy material. No wonder he’d been cold last night, Enris thought, rather amused.
Otherwise, Yuhas appeared ordinary enough, with a strong frame that rivaled Enris’ own. He began to seriously consider the advantages of an assistant who could push a full cart— after all, each stranger would need to find a workplace once Chosen and part of Tuana.
But first . . . his attention was caught by what hung from Yuhas’ belt. “May I see those?” he asked, indicating the unusually long knife and hook.
“Of course.” Yuhas leaned the broom against a bench and handed Enris the knife first. “It’s Tikitik,” he said with a note of apology. “Yena don’t make things from metal like you.”
“It’s fine work,” Enris said sincerely, surprised by the lightness and edge of the blade. He’d never seen such— no surprise, he’d never met a Yena before. The hook was next and he turned it over in his hands, trying to imagine what it was for, then shook his head. “What’s this? To help with climbing?”
Yuhas took it back. His lips quirked oddly as he settled the big curve of metal against his palm. Without warning, he leaped from the floor to the cluttered benchtop in one easy move, the hand with the hook continuing that upward motion in a smooth overhead sweep as if to capture something hanging from the rafters. The metal flashed in the light.
Enris opened his mouth to protest, closing it as he saw the Yena Om’ray balanced on the very edge of the bench, using only his toes. With another too-quick move, Yuhas was on the floor again. He looked, if anything, less confident on that flat surface than he had in the air.
The hook landed in the pile of shavings beside the broom. “Of no use here,” Yuhas said, his voice flat.
He meant himself, too. No need to touch the other’s deeper thoughts to know. They were close in age, but Enris had never felt anything close to the black despair leaking through the other’s best efforts. The Adepts— Council— would have read the memory of Yuhas’ journey here. They would have listened and recorded any stories he brought concerning his kind. But those weren’t always shared with all of Tuana. “What happened to you, to Yena?” he asked, sinking to his stool.
Bitterness now. “Why do you care, metalworker?”
“I—” Enris checked that the door was turned closed. It was early for anyone else to be about; nonetheless, he lowered his voice. “My brother went on Passage three harvests ago. I— I have reason to believe he went to Yena. That he died there. Alone.”
“Kiric Mendolar. You look like him.”
He hadn’t wanted to be right. “How did he die?” Enris asked heavily.
“His Passage was slowed by flood. When he arrived, the Chooser he sought had Joined elsewhere.” Yuhas paused and shrugged. “Now that I see your part of the world, I understand why our Speaker said our way of life killed him as surely as that loneliness. Yena do not set foot upon the ground.” His voice grew husky. “Death waits.”
“Tuana don’t set foot below ground— not without permission.” Enris searched the other’s face. “Kiric’s why I care what happens to Yena— what may have happened. He died there, yes, but he went willingly, full of hope for the future. He wanted to become one of you as much as I—�
� He stopped there, unwilling to say the rest and offend his visitor.
“As much as you want to stay here,” Yuhas finished for him. “Don’t look surprised, Enris. I didn’t want to take Passage either.” Hard strokes of the broom sent shavings and hook into the collection pit. When done, he leaned his crossed arms on top of the handle and gazed at Enris, his face bleak. “So much for what any Om’ray wants.”
Chapter 17
ARYL SCREAMED.
The echoes were strange and deafening. She tried to cover her ears.
Her hands . . . she couldn’t move them! Couldn’t move her arms . . . her legs . . . her . . .
Swallowing another scream down her raw throat, Aryl made herself stop struggling. Where was she? The darkness seemed to press against her face. She blinked to prove her eyes were open; that nothing covered her face. It was still dark.
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