Reap the Wild Wind (24 page)

* * *

They rode through deepening shadow, the sun touching distant glints from the Lake of Fire as it sank below the canopy. The clouds turned yellow, then pink. A line of darkness began to climb from the horizon. Aryl hadn’t made up her mind if it was beautiful or frightening, to see the sky’s changes firsthand.
She did know how this time would be within the canopy. Yena would be heading for shelter. Glows would brighten, forbidding the swarms.
Aryl closed her eyes and
reached
gently, without insisting.
Mother
 . . .
But Taisal wouldn’t allow their minds to link. Aryl stopped trying, guessing her mother was in a Council meeting or with other Adepts; neither would be good times to be interrupted.
She didn’t, she sighed to herself, have anything new to say.
Aryl clung to the osst’s post as the insatiable beast lunged for another bite. It never stopped eating. For some reason, that made it easier to sip its blood, for that was the only food or drink the Tikitik offered.
Home. Myris and Ael would be sharing their scant ration of dresel powder over supper. Talking about her, maybe. A little concerned, but wasn’t Aryl on a kind of Passage? Maybe they’d think her famous, the first Chooser-to-Be to leave her clan.
After all, her mother would have told them she was safe.
No, Aryl told herself, abruptly certain, Taisal would not.
The Yena Speaker would keep her secret. She would never reveal being able to contact her daughter over such a distance, let alone her use of the Forbidden
Dark
. To do either would only encourage Tikva di Uruus and her supporters, risk the Agreement her mother cared so much about.
Taisal would let Myris and Ael, Seru, all the rest of her family and friends, think her dead first.
Aryl sniffed miserably.
Interest.
What? She shook her head. Nothing. Still, Aryl concentrated, opening her inner awareness.
Yes, there.
A wisp . . . a
hint
of another presence in her mind. Lurking. Hiding from her in the
other.
It wasn’t Taisal.
Aryl
threw
herself at it, like a hook through air.
The
hint
disappeared before she could touch it. That
hint.
Another in the roiling
other,
the merest glimpse, as if she’d seen something almost break the surface of the lake. As if her attention startled it, it was gone. The Dark sang its tempting song, luring her to forget herself, to let herself thin and be consumed.
Aryl pulled free with an effort.
Spies? Set to watch her . . . or her mother. The Adepts?
Or was it something much worse.
She stared out at the line of monstrous beasts, splashing their mindless way between grove and lake, the froth from their steps gleaming briefly before disappearing.
Where, she wondered with a shiver, did the minds of the Lost go? What was left of them? Were they fragments, swept and spun by those remorseless currents, or something more, something that clung to, if not consciousness, then purpose?
Did they hunger for their own kind? Was that the source of the lure?
Aryl couldn’t stop shivering. Taisal had been right to warn her against the Dark. She—
“Do you require something?”
Startled, Aryl glared at the Tikitik. “Yes,” she snapped, her fear turning to anger. “I need to know why you’ve taken me from my home. To know where we are. To know where we’re going. To know why—” her voice cracked. “What do you want from me?”
Its head reared up and back. The other four Tikitik, so silent till now she’d almost forgotten them, broke into agitated hisses.
“You asked,” Aryl said in a voice that sounded thoroughly sullen even to herself. Oh, she was handling all this well.
But it wasn’t fair. She was supposed to be home, in her bed. Not sitting, her legs cramped and backside numb, on a creature she hadn’t known existed before today. All she’d wanted to do was see the sky for herself.
And now even that was disappearing, swallowed by the dreadful black of truenight.
As for the connection to her mother, her one link . . . did she dare touch the
other
again, given what might be watching?
“Are you ill?”
Not for an instant did she dare believe it kindness. Nothing her mother had ever said about the Tikitik offered that hope. Self-interest, perhaps. She had a role to play— Thought Traveler was involved in that role, whatever it was.
“It’s almost truenight,” Aryl told it. “Am I safe?”
Its head lowered back to normal, its shoulders hiding it in shadow. “What do you fear?”
Where would it like her to start? Aryl asked herself, but settled for, “The swarms, for one. You said they could reach here. Last night you sealed me inside a rastis. Don’t tell me being on top of an osst will protect me.” Or the osst, for that matter. She’d seen the remnants of what the swarms did to large, furred creatures who didn’t or couldn’t climb beyond their reach.
“You are safe. They cannot tolerate light.”
“What light?” The clouds had lost their color; the lake itself vanishing gray into grays. “The sun’s almost to Grona. Do you have glows?”
“The Makers will rise.” In the dimness, she could see its left arm pointing up and ahead. Traveler sounded supremely confident.
She’d probably sounded just as sure to Joyn, knowing nothing of what was to come. Thinking of his small trusting face, his warmth wrapped around hers, Aryl was overwhelmed by longing. All she wanted was to be home— away from the stench and unceasing movement of the osst, her bewildering surroundings, and above all her helplessness.
Had those on Passage felt this way?
Had Bern?
She lowered her face into the crook of her arm, shutting it all out. Maybe she should wish for the Tikitik to be wrong, and swarms to consume them all. Make an end to it . . . Bern might hear, one day . . .
“Apart-from-All. Look.”
She didn’t obey at once; having her head down was unexpectedly comfortable. But curiosity, morbid or otherwise, couldn’t be denied.
She rolled her head to the side and opened her eyes.
Then Aryl straightened, slowly, her eyes growing wider.
The clouds had retreated to become pale gray walls of their own, exposing the sky over the lake. That sky was now the deepest blue Aryl had ever seen, almost black at its edges and where it met cloud tops. Holes in that blue let through sparks of light, like glows through leaves. Stars.
Brightest of all were two that sat exactly where the Tikitik had pointed, one larger and so white it hurt to stare at, the other a warm gold, its surface marked with dimples and swirls. Their light didn’t just puncture the sky, but spilled over the lake in two endless lines that never crossed, the sum bright enough to pick out green from the tops of the canopy. Bright enough to send the swarms hunting within the darkness deep under roots and stalks, not out here.
Cersi’s moons.
She’d heard of them; she’d never imagined being out in truenight to see them with her own eyes. “What did you call them?” she asked. “The ‘Makers’?”
“Some believe everything on Cersi was made by beings who now reside within those orbs. The Makers. They say we see their lights because the Makers never cease their labors to make this world perfect for Tikitik.”
“What about the Om’ray?” Aryl demanded without thinking, then shut her mouth.
The Tikitik was a silhouette; it might have been one of her kind— save for its height, the depth of its voice, and the lack of a head between its shoulders. As well as not, Aryl thought firmly, being
real.
“Those who populate the moons with powerful beings consider the Om’ray no better than the Oud. A flaw.”
She shivered, though the air wasn’t cold and the osst shared its heat. Taisal should be here, not her. This wasn’t a conversation for an unChosen. She suspected the only reason for Traveler’s frankness was exactly that. She wasn’t important. He could indulge his version of curiosity by getting her reaction.
Aryl scowled at the Makers in the sky, knowing one thing for sure. The Om’ray weren’t a “flaw.” “We trade with you,” she said, pleased at the calmness of her voice. “We harvest the dresel you need. There’s no harm in us.”
“The dresel you supply is nothing. We gather a thousand times more for ourselves. What—” Traveler continued when she sat silent and stunned, “— did you think your contributions were significant?”
Her grip on the post was painfully tight. “Then why did you take most of the Harvest?” she asked finally, her voice unfamiliar to her ears. “We’re starving. Some of us will die— some already have!” Bern, the rest on Passage . . . for nothing?
A bark. “I am gratified.”
Aryl stared at its dark form. “Because we’re dying?”
“Be at ease, Apart-from-All. I am gratified because I recognized your value from the beginning. Now you have told me something I need to know. Thank you.”
“You didn’t know we were starving?” Aryl wanted to hit the smug creature. “Why?”
“Much like Om’ray exist in Clans, my people are divided into factions. By ideas, not place. There is a faction that looks to the moons for guidance. Others who mourn our past or fear the future. Most care only for what is important for the survival of our groves and our kind, season by season. The Yena live within the influence of three different ideologies: one faction continues to honor the Agreement; one wishes to avoid that duty, but dares not; and one . . . from you I learn that this one does so dare, doubtless inspired by the arrival of the strangers.”
Not curiosity. By the moons’ light, at the edge of the Lake of Fire, she, Aryl Sarc, was being given information vital for all of her kind. Factions? Strangers? Feeling woefully inadequate, she licked her dry lips and tried to think like her mother. What would the Speaker ask? “Which— which faction are you?”
“Each has its Thought Travelers, like myself, who move between to gather and share information. This is how Tikitik decide what to avoid— to stay away from any course likely to be wrong. Thought Travelers are neutral and act only to better understand a situation. I have an opinion, of course.”
“An opinion.”
“The Agreement was made for a reason. Our races are together, here, for that reason. Until we know what that is, my opinion is that only a fool would break it. And you?”
“Me?” Aryl hesitated. “What about me?”
“Do you honor the Agreement that arranged the world as it is?”
It didn’t seem a safe question. Not that silence was an option. She took advantage of her osst’s loud series of pained grunts, something the rest were now doing as if to keep better track of one another in the dim light, and tried to
reach
Taisal.
Nothing.
When the creatures quieted, Traveler repeated his question. “Do you honor the Agreement?”
“Yes,” Aryl said carefully. About to say “as do all Yena,” she thought of Haxel and substituted the more truthful, “Our Council makes such decisions. Most of us worry about survival, too.” She ran her hand up and down the leather wrapping. “Can you help us?” she dared ask. “Can you tell your Council what’s happening? That the Yena have been put in danger?” It would all be worthwhile, she thought with abrupt, fierce hope. All of it. Even Bern. “We need more dresel; more glows and cells.”
“There is no Tikitik Council,” it replied. “I tell other factions what I learn, not what each or all should do about it. Om’ray are resourceful. Yena will survive.”
Bitterly disappointed, she almost didn’t answer. But it wasn’t this Tikitik’s fault. By feeding her for days, it had unwittingly provided more for those at home. She sighed. “We will try.”
“If you succeed tonight, I’ll send what I can with you. It will be what we have left. I can’t do more.”
Back? She’d be going home? Aryl hadn’t realized how sure she’d been that this was a one-way trip, that she was already as good as dead, until relief made her dizzy. And supplies? About to thank the Tikitik for its offer— any supplies would help— the rest of what it said sank in. “Succeed at what?”
“You will solve this puzzle. You will learn if the strangers did interfere with a Harvest. Such an act is offensive to all Tikitik. The faction who tolerates their presence here will no longer.”
As well fly over the lake, she thought. “I don’t understand. How can I do that?”
“Search their belongings for a device like the one you drew. I require this confirmation. I am sure—” it said with a bark, “— you will find it, Apart-from-All. Be sure to take nourishment.”
Aryl had never felt less like sucking blood from an osst. Or anything else, for that matter. “The strangers are here?” She looked up at stars and darkness. How would she spot their flying machine?
“Look to the right of the Makers, low on the horizon.”
She did, finally spotting a group of white-and-blue stars, twinkling like the rest. Or were they? “Glows?” she hazarded, realizing they were in front of the clouds.
“Yes. The strangers dared settle on the Lake of Fire. We’ll be there by the time the sun returns from its visit with the Grona Om’ray. Shall we watch for it, Apart-from-All? Discover how it sneaks past Yena every night before dawn?”
It made fun of her. From an Om’ray, such teasing would be an attempt to lighten her spirits. From Thought Traveler, she decided gloomily, it was because she’d revealed herself to be ignorant, like those it disdained for making up incredible stories to explain what they couldn’t. “If you know,” she challenged, “tell me.”
“Ah. This isn’t reading, Apart-from-All. You couldn’t comprehend.”
Aryl frowned. “I’m not stupid.”
“I don’t think you are. Describe the shape of the world.”
Automatically, Aryl
reached
to locate her kind. She nodded to herself in satisfaction. “Amna,” she pointed, “then Rayna with Vyna beyond, Grona, Tuana, Yena, and Pana. With,” she added magnanimously, given her newfound experience, “the sky above. Amna,” this in case it lacked her sense of distance, “is beyond your Lake of Fire.”
“And beyond Amna?”
Churning darkness
... Aryl forced it away. “Beyond Amna? Nothing.”
“Interesting. I wish you could travel with me, Apart-from-All, so I could see your reaction when you learn otherwise.”
Otherwise? It tried to trick her. She deliberately ignored this, having no intention of spending more time with any Tikitik. “How do you think the sun returns to Amna each morning?”
“Perhaps it turns off its light, to sneak past us in the dark.”
“I’m not a child!”
“I meant no insult.” A pause. “Om’ray are never lost. We know this from those on Passage. You are never lost, because to you the world is not a physical landscape, but a living one. I envy you that perception, Apart-from-All, but I can’t feel it— just as you can’t feel my perception of this world, its sun, those moons and stars. I can’t help you understand. I can’t describe other worlds or their suns to you. Be content with yours. Its sun and mine will be up all too soon. Rest if you can.”