Last, but not least, Aryl took the final short strip and used it to bind her hair out of her way.
She had no idea what the strangers would make of her preparations, but she’d done what she could with what she had. First Scout Haxel, she thought wryly, would approve.
Now, to hope for opportunity to escape.
* * *
Aryl had dreamed of flying. The model pressing into her ribs had been her first bold step beyond dreams. Now, in the strangers’ aircar, as they called it, she knew herself a fool.
The aircar entered the sky as she’d leap from branch to branch, the embodiment of assured, confident speed. It sped forward under its own mysterious power. The morning mists curled away from its clear, hard roof as if acknowledging a master. Pilip was at the controls, its twig-fingers almost casual.
Aryl had no idea how any of it worked, except that this machine could ignore everything she’d so laboriously learned with her fiches. Her plan to save the unChosen? Her dreams of giant fiches, able to carry Om’ray safely over danger?
Pathetic, she decided glumly.
This aircar carried the four of them. Janex’s bulk filled most of the space behind the front paired seats where Marcus and Pilip sat, looking forward. She was squeezed into a makeshift arrangement of blanket and box beside the Carasian. Behind them were, she decided, too many boxes for a short trip.
The other, larger machine had left first, taking more boxes and the new strangers. She hadn’t spoken to them, though they’d stared at one another. The flitter-stranger couldn’t form proper words at all with its hard mouth. A second voice came out of a white tube it held in front of its face, overlapping its utterances with a sound more like those made by the Humans. It didn’t trust her. Aryl was sure of that much, given the way one of its huge eyes stayed fixed on her if she was near, no matter what else was happening.
The scale-stranger— who reminded her of Myris though its face was nothing like her mother’s sister’s or any face she knew, for that matter— hadn’t looked at her at all. What this meant, Aryl couldn’t guess, yet it moved and spoke its incomprehensible words with a gentle grace she found appealing.
The other two were more Humans. One was like Marcus, though larger and quicker in his speech. The other was like a Chosen Om’ray in having mature, feminine curves to her body and face, but her black hair barely covered her ears. Worse, it hung as dead as a Lost’s. From her alert expressions, she wasn’t mind-damaged. Did Humans deliberately disfigure their Chosen? Aryl found her disturbing.
She’d seen enough of them together to know that, while they’d argued as much as conversed, all deferred to Marcus for decisions. A relief in one way, Aryl thought, since she’d tasted his goodwill toward her. A little too much goodwill. Even now, he looked over his shoulder at her and smiled encouragingly. She made herself smile back.
Such attention worried her. No Om’ray wanted to be of interest to those in charge. Obey and respect Council and the Adepts, of course. Come to their special attention, no. Aryl had learned that lesson. Already, Marcus’ interest had tangled her life, possibly beyond repair. She could only hope he wouldn’t become interested in the rest of Yena as well.
Janex snicked a claw near her ear. “Goodgoodgood. Lake gone,” it proclaimed. “Too young for pool, me.” This drew a laugh from Marcus.
While the comment made no sense, when Aryl looked out she discovered that mists no longer obscured what lay below. For the moment, she forgot her worries, content to see her world from the sky. The Carasian was right. They’d left the Lake of Fire. If she looked back, she could see its flat gray appearance and just make out the strangers’ floating place. The shore itself was already hidden behind towering stalks.
The canopy. From this unique perspective, straight down, it appeared fragile and thin, torn by gaps filled with either the vivid green of dense young growth, greedy for sunlight, or the black consuming flood of the Lay Swamp. It was impossible to see the truth, that the canopy was a strong, safe passageway, lush with its own life. Safe, Aryl reminded herself, for those who understood its nature.
It was where she belonged. Her longing was so great, she touched Marcus on the shoulder, careful to keep her shields tight. When he turned, she pointed outside, then put her hand on her chest. “Home. That’s my home, Marcus. Please. Let me go.”
He dutifully looked out. The side of his face she could see grew pale, as if what he saw frightened him.
“Home,” she insisted. “Take me down.”
Instead, he said something to Janex, who rumbled back what seemed argument. Aryl clenched her hands together, hoping the giant creature could convince its companion where she couldn’t.
Sure enough, Marcus spoke their words to Pilip, who muttered but moved its fingers on the controls. The aircar began to descend!
Aryl didn’t say a word, but her head snapped toward Yena, so much closer than before. She didn’t try to reach for Taisal, not yet. When they stopped at a branch— that’s what they would do, she was sure. Let her be free first, and away from their curiosity.
They dropped to barely below the height of the tallest rastis, but no farther. The aircar resumed its forward motion, now weaving between those giants.
“What are you doing?” She couldn’t help the outburst. To be this close . . . “Stop! Please!”
“Aryl, peace.” Janex laid its large right hand claw on her lap. “Fly low, better you see home. Not go home. We go all. There.” The claw lifted to point ahead, almost to Grona. “Sorry.”
Nothing was straight ahead. Nothing but rock, where mountains stopped the groves. “No,” she whispered.
“Sorry,” the Carasian repeated, taking back its claw.
Marcus put his arm on the back of his seat to twist and face her. “Sorry too, Aryl,” as if he meant it. “Home later. Promise.” As if he could.
Aryl turned to look outside, blinking away tears.
So she was the first to see the figures swarming through the branches of the nekis ahead. They moved faster than Om’ray, differently, staying near the main trunk. There had to be hundreds, she thought. Then, with a shock, she realized who she saw. “Tikitik!” she cried. “Look out!”
The strangers had spotted them, too, now busy talking in their stupid words and paying no attention to her warning. To Aryl’s horror, the aircar slowed and began to descend. The strangers’ curiosity was taking them too close. “No!” she cried.
She grabbed for Pilip, for Marcus. Janex stopped her, saying words, words, more words, holding her in her seat. Aryl wouldn’t listen. She struggled against what felt like a piece of metal across her chest. They were in danger and taking her with them.
“Stupid strangers!” she shouted. “No!”
A web of massive vines, the kind Om’ray used to build bridges that would last M’hirs, slammed over the clear roof. More stretched in front. Caught, the aircar slewed wildly to one side, making the first noise she’d heard from it, a shrill metal on metal complaint. It jerked the other way . . . back again. Aryl clung to Janex’s claw with all her might as Pilip fought to steer them free of the trap.
For that’s what it was. Aryl could see Tikitik running across the vines toward them, balancing as surely as any Om’ray, faster than a nightmare. They might have only knives against the metal machine, but the aircar kept dropping, each plunge sickening and quick. More vines landed on top, pulled taut by the machine’s fight.
Aryl had watched brofers trying to escape webs like this. Watched them try and fail.
Fail and die.
But the strangers weren’t done yet. The roof went from clear to opaque. Aryl jerked her arm away from the side as it grew hot. A vibration rattled her teeth. Then they were moving!
The roof cleared, though now it was streaked with black. The instant Janex let her go, Aryl swept around to look back.
Vines burned in midair. Tikitik fell. Some clung to the scorched remains of branches or the ends of other vines, fighting with one another so that more fell. Th
ere was fire.
It was the Harvest . . . the Harvest . . . Aryl shoved her fist into her mouth to keep herself quiet.
It wasn’t the Harvest, but it was.
This time as the strangers sailed away, leaving carnage in their wake . . .
They took her with them.
Chapter 24
SOMETHING WAS ABOUT TO change. Soon. The taste was strong, as when she’d sensed the coming of the M’hir. Whatever it was, she knew it would be bad. Very bad.
Not that this moment was much better, Aryl thought. Marcus and Pilip conferred in anxious tones, the Trant’s twig-fingers now locked on certain controls. The Carasian had begun talking into a tube like the one the flitter-stranger had used, its voice a monotone, repeating the same sounds over and over. Beneath the voices, the aircar whined and groaned, shuddering more and more often.
Aryl provided the only help she could, keeping still and quiet. Janex spared some eyes for her once in a while, but otherwise, she was ignored.
Out the window, through the smudges she realized now were traces of burning, she watched their progress over the canopy. Pilip hadn’t taken them any higher; in fact Aryl judged they were steadily, if slowly, descending. She didn’t take this as hopeful.
The canopy was changing. Yena Om’ray did come this far, to tend the Watchers, or, if on Passage to Grona, to pick their way through the rock cuts between mountain ridges. Climbing the mountains themselves was, Aryl had been told, impossible. A bleak and inhospitable landscape.
The reality she could see past the Human’s head was worse. Huge sloping walls of brown and red-streaked gray rose in front; the closer they approached, the less sky was visible above. Clouds appeared, snagged on the rocks like dresel wings caught on branches.
How tall were mountains? She wondered this for the first time in her life. It explained why the M’hir roared, if this was the barrier it had to overcome first.
The aircar began to climb. Did they have to cross, too?
The shudders and vibrations continued. Aryl thought of her fich, dropping from the sky, thought of falling, thought of . . .
Suddenly, it was calm, silent. Before she could sigh with relief, the aircar tipped forward and plunged toward the ground.
Pilip let out a cry, fingers working frantically. The plunge slowed, but didn’t stop.
Then everything did.
* * *
The first thing Aryl noticed was the smell. Not of growing things. Of the dead.
She fought her way to full consciousness; short of that, she realized she was pinned in place, unable to move. She pushed with all the strength fear gave her, gasped, and pushed again. Again.
Her arm was free. A shoulder. She pushed harder, sobbing with effort, and light blinded her as something shifted loose above. She paused, trying to see, then smelled something else. Smoke.
Desperate now, Aryl shoved and squirmed. Her clothes tore. She left skin behind. But finally, she was free of what held her.
Who.
The air was thick with fumes, smoke only part of it, but Aryl could see well enough to know Janex was the weight she’d struggled against. The slick black of its body and claws were scraped, fasteners broken off, but none of that looked serious. Yet its eyes drooped, motionless and dull.
She eased to a shaky stand— the roof, and most of the aircar itself, was missing— and found the reason. A huge shard of metal was wedged into the side of the Carasian’s head, cracks from that terrible wound leaking soft yellow flesh.
Had Janex not thrown itself over her, the shard would have gone right through her body. Aryl pressed her hand against the creature’s chill shell. “Thank you,” she whispered.
A groan drew her attention to the others. The sound came from Marcus, slumped in his seat. Pilip was— what was left of the Trant was thoroughly broken and the source of the odor competing with the smoke. Aryl scrambled over the ruin to reach the Human.
His eyes were closed beneath a mask of blood. As red as an Om’ray’s, she noticed with a calm that astonished her. Her quick inspection was a relief— nothing worse, that she could find anyway, than shallow cuts on his face and through the cloth to lightly score his chest.
Aryl finally found the courage to look at where they were.
Jagged gray rocks, the smallest larger than her body, surrounded them on all sides. They looked as though they’d slipped from a great hand to lie in a vast even sweep that continued as far as her eyes could reach. The mountainside. She’d feared as much. Well away from the first pass that led to Grona. She looked toward Yena. From this height, the great rastis groves looked like the surface of the Lake of Fire, flat and featureless.
Aryl didn’t know what lived here. She’d never cared before. Now, she worked quickly. There was nothing she could do about the corpses— they would attract hunters. She almost laughed. Hunters who were in for an otherworldly surprise.
“Enough of that,” she scolded herself, knowing the only chance she had was to keep a clear head.
That they had.
Decision made, Aryl worked to free the Human’s legs, presently trapped in a spongy white substance. It pulled away easily. She didn’t wish harm to him, despite what he’d done with his meddling. He might even be of help, though she had her doubts on that score.
Marcus groaned again when she was done, but didn’t wake, not even when she shook him roughly. Not giving herself time to doubt, Aryl placed her hand on his forehead and lowered her shields. She’d given strength to Yorl for his healing; she didn’t have that Talent herself. But she could rouse the Human. Or try.
If he didn’t wake, she’d have to abandon him. That was the cold truth.
His thoughts were dazed and full of pain. Aryl concentrated, sending his name into that unfamiliar mind. His name plus her image of him, all she knew of him, everything she felt. That couldn’t be helped. It was what Om’ray did when summoning a mind back. It was what she had to do.
“Set— nam?!” He gave a violent shake that dislodged her hand. Aryl moved to give him room, checking their surroundings as she did.
She hated the rocks already. The perfect cover for an ambush or lurker, they obstructed every path, adding time to walk around. Time— she looked at the sky— time they probably didn’t have.
“Ar-yl?”
She turned back to Marcus. “We must leave. Now. This—” her fingers brushed the Carasian’s shell, “— there will be hunters. Do you understand me?”
Under the blood, his face was stricken. His hands shook as he stood at last, shook as he touched first the Trant, then, with an anguished cry, the Carasian.
Was it a difficult thing she asked? Aryl wondered. An Om’ray would walk away from the dead, feeling grief, but no connection to the flesh once the mind was gone. Did a Human feel the same?
They were so different. How could he trust her?
Because he must. The swarms might not threaten them in the dark; Aryl was quite sure something would. It was the way the world worked. “Come, Marcus,” she said gently, taking his hand. “We need a safe place before truenight.”
She was relieved when he nodded. “First. Comtech—” then a rattle of his words, which he stopped almost at once. “Find what need first,” Marcus managed to tell her. “Quickquickquick.”
Quick she approved. And if there was anything left in the wreckage of use, she was willing to look for it. While Marcus fumbled around the area where Janex had been, she looked everywhere else.
Her search took her outside the remains of the aircar. Pristine white boxes lay everywhere. Aryl didn’t like how visible they were. Her gaze kept returning to the groves below, alert for the signs of pursuit.
The Tikitik wouldn’t leave them alone. That, more than night hunters, drove her to search for anything that could be a weapon. But the aircar had been made of tough materials, and she found no broken pieces small enough to carry though many were sharp. She settled for a length of flexible tube, scorched and hollow. Whipped through the air, it would deliv
er a substantial blow.
“Are you ready?” she asked Marcus, having spent all the time she dared.
He supported himself on one hand, shaking his head. He’d wiped most of the blood from his face. The deeper cuts still dripped— a significant problem they could do nothing about here. He had a bag with a long strap over his shoulder. She reached for it, and he shook his head again, the movement causing him pain.
“I’m stronger,” Aryl reminded him.
“Comlink, bad. Stay here, us.” With a pat on the ruined aircar. “Help. Help come. Here. Comtech, good.” A gesture to Janex’s body. “Call help. Safe soon.”
“Not soon enough.” She pointed down the slope. “Look.”
Flickers of movement where the vegetation met rock. She’d seen them for a while before recognizing what caught her attention. These were cautious, deliberate moves. Not hunters or grazers. Tikitik. Never out where they might be clearly seen, but Aryl felt no doubt, only a quiet dread. “Tikitik,” she told her companion. “The ones who tried to trap us in the air. Do you understand, Marcus?”
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