Reap the Wild Wind (32 page)

* * *

The long, dark machine raced and bounced along the empty field, going faster and faster and faster until, abruptly, a final bounce left the ground behind. Enris watched openmouthed as the machine tipped and swerved its way through the air, straightening out just as the clouds swallowed it.
Not encouraging.
Another waited for them, its top half open in an invitation he would have declined if he could. Being surrounded by Oud who rattled and reared menacingly didn’t make that likely. There’d been a crowd waiting with the flying machines; from what little Enris could read of the creatures, these were opposed to either his presence or his Oud’s. Or both.
His Oud, either because it was superior to the others or oblivious to their posturing, didn’t react at all, moving to the machine. By that, Enris judged himself safer in its shadow, although wary of sudden moves on its part.
He was startled by a loud voice, very different from the low husky tones of Oud. He couldn’t make out the first words, other than that they were urgent and harsh. The rest were drowned out as the dozens of Oud around them tapped to themselves. It had sounded Om’ray, but wasn’t. He sensed no one else near.
“Stranger calls,” his Oud said, moving forward with its body half reared. It was an awkward position, from the way the creature lurched, but apparently it must talk to him before they reached the side of the machine. “What means? Badbadbadbad. Om’ray best.”
What “stranger?”
His Oud gestured with three black limbs to the side of the machine. Enris tossed his bag in, jumped to catch the edge. His rib did nothing more than grumble— only bruised, then, though the rest of his body argued against moving at all. It wasn’t worth tempting his Oud to do it for him. Most of his bruises were new.
His arms were in the best shape of all, and he pulled himself up and over without too much effort. Over, and into a featureless metal box that reminded him of the inside of the melting vat.
The voice again. The “stranger.” It came from the front of the machine. Enris jumped and grabbed the top of the barrier between, pulling his head and shoulders up, gaining support from an elbow.
The front of the machine was larger. It had to be, to house two Oud plus his. The floor, what he could see of it, was covered in what looked like levers and taps and other control-type objects. It was from there the voice was emanating.
No wonder he couldn’t sense the Om’ray who spoke, Enris thought, fascinated. No wonder his Oud had understood the device it had found— or stolen. The creatures had technology to carry a voice over distance.
The voice had continued, “— lost!”
“Where is?” his Oud replied.
“
Site Two
.”
What did that mean? Enris wondered.
“We come.” This with a heavy nudge to the Oud next to it.
Enris let himself drop back down. Just in time, for Oud outside the machine began laying curved metal sheets over the top— a roof, he saw, each piece sliding into the one before.
He was really going to fly, he realized. In the air. In this thing.
How bad could it be?

* * *

Flying was more terrifying than he could have imagined, with the added joy that Oud didn’t feel the need for padding or light. Enris sat on the metal floor of what was basically a box now too low to stand in, left to interpret agonizing vibration and random noise as best he could.
The sitting part, that was good. Very good. After a while, when nothing worse happened than a sudden short drop that sent his teeth through his tongue, he put his pack under his head and stretched out flat. That was better.
Nothing he could do about knowing where he was, Enris thought queasily. Though he tried to ignore it, his inner sense informed him exactly how far above other Om’ray he was, not to mention how quickly he was moving away from Tuana.
Eventually, on the reasonable assumption Oud were no more interested in crashing than he was, Enris slipped into, if not sleep, a state of blissful uncaring.
He didn’t know how long it was before the vibration and noise shot to the point of pain, the machine doing its best to slide him from side to side. Forgetting the low ceiling, Enris stood to brace himself, managing to bump his head, hard. He cried out, but didn’t bother asking questions. If they were falling from the sky, he’d know soon enough.
The machine steadied, though tipped toward the front. Going down was inevitable, he reminded himself, hoping the Oud were better at this than they were at getting into the air in the first place.
A jerk threw Enris against the back of his box, driving most of the breath from his lungs, followed by a regular thumping sound.
Blissful silence. Maybe they were all dead, he half-joked to himself in the dark.
“Come!” his Oud commanded as the roof panels were tossed aside, letting in light and raindrops. Enris lifted his face to both as he eased to his feet, then looked around as he climbed from the Oud machine.
Solid ground, he decided, felt wonderful.
Ground that tilted mere steps in front of him, falling into a black abyss?
Enris stepped back from that edge, no longer sure how wonderful this was. Or where . . .
Shared images of streams and rock came to him then, helping to settle the vast sloping gray into perspective. Mountains. He was on a mountain, or at least the side of one. The sun was setting behind him, rain clouds hastening truenight, but there was still plenty of light. The Oud machine had landed on a long flat strip that looked to have been recently cut from the rock. He didn’t want to consider the skill required not to slam into the mammoth cliff that rose up from the strip to the clouds.
The strip wasn’t the only cut. Another, the height of two Om’ray above him, dug deep into the heart of the mountain. Part of it was flat, with unfamiliar white structures, like small buildings, surrounding a tower of metal. Part met where the rock had washed away on its own, exposing . . . what?
Enris wiped the rain from his face, trying to understand what he saw. An immense curved something was stuck into the mountain, or rather erupted from it. Other, smaller curves showed to either side, their shapes emphasized by long shadows. A straight piece aimed outward from the top, ended in midair with another at right angles. None of it, from here, appeared damaged or broken. Lost, he judged. Forgotten.
Now found.
“Who is?”
Enris turned in the direction of the voice, expecting it to come from the machine. Instead, he found himself facing an unknown Om’ray in strange clothing. Relieved, he
reached
for the other’s mind.
To find nothing.
What had Naryn done to him? He tried again, opening his perception as wide as he dared, this close to Oud.
There
. Enris glanced to his right. He could see nothing past the rain-shrouded slope, but he knew one Om’ray was that way, alone. Beyond was the glow of Yena and Grona. Here? He stared at the creature wearing the flesh of his kind, and shuddered. What was this?
“See? Om’ray.” His Oud reared up beside him, seemingly unaffected. “Find.” This with confidence.
Because it knew what was going on, Enris realized. This must be what it had called a “stranger.” And there were more. Others moved on the upper ledge. There was even, he stared, another machine coming down from the sky, different from the Oud’s, flying without wings or sound.
“How?”
The demand snapped Enris’ attention back to the stranger. If he ignored, for the moment, his contrary inner sense, he might have thought this an older Chosen. Worry lines creased the high forehead and edged the light, almost blue eyes. A scar, old and puckered, crossed one dark cheek. There was personal power here, though not any Power he could feel. And pain.
The eyes looked him over from head to toe and back. They weren’t impressed.
He drew himself straight. “I am Enris Mendolar, of—” could he claim a Clan? “Tuana,” he said firmly, daring his Oud to correct him. “Who are you?”
“Enris,” with renewed, if calculating interest in the eyes. “Tyler Henshaw. Triad First. Help us, you?”
“To do what?”
He wasn’t answered. Tyler-stranger looked to where the stranger flying machine had landed, needing no flat strip at all, its roof folding back inside itself. This display of superior technology wasn’t reassuring. Enris wondered what the Oud thought of it.
Along with many things— starting with how the Oud knew these beings and ending with why he was here at all.
He watched as others stepped from the machine, their clothing similar to that of the Tyler-stranger. Those wearing clothing, Enris noted. Two were of the Om’ray-but-not type. The third was feathered instead of dressed, and looked like a flitter who’d learned to walk on two legs and carry tools. They spoke as they approached, as if what they had to say was too important to wait.
What they had to say was gibberish. As well try to understand the conversation of iglies, Enris thought, dismayed.
“These words?” Low and quiet, for his ears only. He’d forgotten about the Oud. “Same hold-voice?”
He listened more intently. Were these the words he’d somehow “heard” from the device? Difficult. The strangers were agitated, their words quick and urgent sounding; they swarmed around Tyler-stranger, faces anxious— the ones Enris could read— and he answered in kind.
“Not the same,” Enris judged aloud, though how could this be? There was this world and its words. He could accept, with an effort, that the tapping of the Oud conveyed something between them. And that strangers might sound like Oud.
But unknown words?
He couldn’t deny what he was hearing.
Was the world not what the Om’ray knew?
Tyler-stranger broke away from the others. “What do?” he shouted.
Enris winced. Never a good idea around Oud.
Sure enough, his Oud reared violently, banging against its flying machine. The others, still inside, began tapping furiously.
Enris held up his hands. “Don’t shout at it,” he warned, keeping his voice as gentle as he could.
Tyler-stranger, who’d stopped dead in his tracks when the Oud reacted, nodded. “Sorry, am,” he said, more calmly. In all likelihood, Enris thought, the stranger was more used to the Oud than he, needing only the reminder. “Help, Enris. Find other you.”
The wording was awkward; some of the meaning clear. They wanted him to find another Om’ray. The Oud must have told the strangers he could. What wasn’t clear? “Why?” he demanded.
“Truenight,” said his Oud, folding down to a more relaxed height. Its black limbs fluttered.
“
Aircar
down,” added Tyler-stranger, pointing along the mountain. “
Comlink
, broken.”
“Aircar” must be their flying machine. Enris didn’t know what a “comlink” might be, though a likely guess was a voice device like the Oud’s. As for why an Om’ray would be in one of the strangers’ aircars? He shook his head in grim amusement. Who’d just flown with Oud?
What was truenight like here? Cold, damp? Was it dangerous? He didn’t know. Would he do worse if he located this Om’ray for them, or if he left him alone?
The Om’ray-not strangers were frowning at him. The flitter-stranger had hard mouthparts it could snap together, and did. Likely, Enris thought, expressing the same feeling. They were worried and impatient for his help.
The same question.
Why?

Chapter 25

A
SLEEP, THE HUMAN RESEMBLED an untidy pile of laundry. A foot protruded, like a discarded boot. Otherwise, the only difference was that this pile snored. The chance to relax against the curled inner wall of the Watcher had been all the encouragement necessary. Marcus had burrowed into his own clothes like a brofer into its nest, succumbing to exhaustion in moments.
Aryl closed her eyes, but not to sleep. She
reached
, this time refusing to be denied.
MOTHER!
Taisal was there, their link solid.
Here.
Yena’s in danger!
Aryl sent.
Tikitik attacked the strangers— the strangers fought back and killed them.
Images flashed from her mind to her mother’s: the vine trap, the appalling skill of the Tikitik in the canopy, flames and death.
The darkness turned deadly cold.
What have you done?
Not: are you safe, Daughter?
Aryl didn’t care, worried more about holding their connection despite Taisal’s fury. Her mother— the Speaker— had to accept her warning.
You must protect Yena
.
Against what? Your companion? This stranger?
My—?
Taisal had seen more than the past in her mind. Aryl tightened her shields.
He isn’t the threat.
He?
Taisal’s outrage was a storm, crashing through the
other
, stirring it into a maelstrom.
It is not
he.
It is not real. Kill it! Kill it now!
Aryl found herself on her feet, knowing she was about to snap Marcus’ neck. It would be easy . . .
NO!
She staggered back.
Easy . . . save Yena . . . SMOTHER IT!
NO!
She pressed her back against the Watcher’s wall, stared down at the helpless figure.
NO!
Push it out . . . make it FALL!
NO!
Aryl didn’t know where she found the strength to resist her mother’s will. All she knew was that her mother tried to
force
her body to obey and she would not allow it.
The instant that pressure eased, Aryl threw more memories like weapons at her mother: the words of Thought Traveler . . . the Tikitiks’ pursuit . . . the chamber and the swarms . . .
The link between them suddenly faltered, as if Taisal tried to flee; quickly Aryl reinforced it, gripping her mother’s mind with hers.
If the Tikitik come to Yena, don’t trust them,
she pleaded.
Don’t believe them. You are the Speaker, Mother. You must protect us.
The
other
churned and seethed, their link a slender bridge over utter madness. Taisal’s mindvoice came as a whisper.
What have you done?
Then silence.

* * *

“More?”
The Human grimaced. “No, please.” He handed back the pouch of dried dresel. “Awful, is.”
More for her, then. Aryl took a careful pinch to put on her tongue, then sealed the pouch and tucked it inside her stranger-shirt with her knot of blanket. She’d lost the piece of metal and her fich. There’d been supplies in the Watchers’ inner sanctum— flasks of water, dresel, dried fruit and meat, rope— but no fresh clothing. “Yours is awful,” she countered. When she’d wakened him to share her meal— when she’d finally calmed enough to want to eat— Marcus had offered a handful of what he called
emergencyrations
. Wood tasted better.
He laughed. They had that in common, though Aryl remained disconcerted by the familiar sound coming from such emptiness.
They were in the middle Watcher. There were doors underneath each, an important access since wastryls liked to nest in the mouths. Aryl had pushed a pile of twigs out and over the cliff. The smooth interior of each Watcher had to be cleaned before the M’hir.
They should put gauze over the opening, she told herself restlessly. It kept out biters— it might discourage something larger. A suggestion she’d bring to Council.
If she was ever home. If they’d listen. If . . . if her mother hadn’t tried to make her . . .
“Where Yena? Show me?”
For a being with a dead mind, Marcus had an uncanny knack for reading hers, Aryl decided. She went to stand beside him. He gave her a still-tired smile, the skin below his eyes smudged with shadow. He already moved with exaggerated care; she worried how stiff he’d be by the morning.
A breeze, dry and bitter cold, pulled at her hair. The Human had no idea how vulnerable he was, she thought abruptly. No idea how dangerous she was. The violence of her mother’s command still shook her. Had she not been able to resist, his body would be feeding the rocks below.
Aryl couldn’t blame Taisal for fearing the Human. To kill what wasn’t real— it was something hunters did daily. Trying to force her to that act— she shuddered and hugged herself.
“Aryl?”
“You want to know where Yena is,” she said, and looked out.
The rains were late today, or they came late here. The remaining sunlight struggled to reach the groves— already, the vegetation looked more gray and black than green. She raised her hand to point without hesitation. “There. Where are your people? The other strangers?”
Marcus shrugged. “Know not.”
She frowned. “Why don’t you know?”
He regarded her quizzically. “Lost are. Aryl and Marcus, both. Lost.”
“Of course not. We’re here,” she objected, patting the metal side of the Watcher. “Om’ray there.” A quick
reach
and she pointed to Grona, Rayna and Vyna, Amna and Pana, then Tuana, behind them.
Then, unexpectedly, her inner sense found something else. Someone else. “And there,” she said, forgetting who or what she was with. Another Om’ray on the mountain. Who could it be? With sudden hope, she
reached
deeper. But this was no mind she knew, no rescue. An unChosen, doubtless on Passage, perhaps from Grona, though he was well away from the pass. Seru, still waiting for Choice, would be happy.
She wished him luck passing the Tikitik.
“Always know?” Marcus pressed, his voice with an edge.
“Don’t you?”
“Here, know,” he continued, staring at her. He patted the smooth metal tube. “Not been before. How Aryl know?”
Aryl hesitated. If the most ordinary ability caught his attention, what would he think of other Om’ray Talents? She couldn’t know what would be new— possibly Forbidden— to a Human. “I was taught,” she said cautiously. “We all learn about the Watchers, so we can care for them.”
Satisfied by her explanation, or needing to think about it, Marcus eased down to a sit again, his back against the curved wall. He stretched out his legs, hissing as they straightened.
Aryl copied his position, gazing outward.
Truenight was near; it edged the horizon beyond the canopy in dark blue, swallowing more of the sky every time she looked. The rains were moving past, leaving a fresh dampness to the air. The mists hugged the grove and played among the now-abundant rocks on the flat ledge below. More than abundant— they formed a growing pile beneath the hole where she and the Human had entered the cliff, as if able to follow tracks or scent. She gave them a worried look. There was no other exit.
And they couldn’t stay here.
There weren’t enough supplies, even if they shared their “awful” food with one another. His bag had contained objects she’d recognized as coming from Janex, a ring from Pilip, and a flat box he’d tapped with a mournful look, called
vidrecord.
The hand-carried glow was the only useful item, but she didn’t say anything. “We’ll leave in the morning,” she told him. “Try to find your people.”
“Morning,” Marcus echoed in a tired voice. “Thank you, Aryl.” he added.
If he understood gratitude, the way an Om’ray would . . . Aryl crossed her legs and sat up, gazing across the opening of the Watcher at the Human. “I helped you,” she affirmed, trying for simple words, using gestures he should be able to follow despite the dim light. “To thank me . . . you— all strangers— must stay away from Yena. From all Om’ray. From the Tikitik. From the Oud. Away. Do you understand me? There is an Agreement among us. A peace here. Do you understand ‘peace’?”
Marcus’ eyes were bright. He nodded. “First,” he said, confusing her, and “
Commonwealth. Trade Pact.
” At her frown, he held up his hands, spreading the fingers. “Peace we. All we. Carasian, Human, Trant, Tolian. Many, many. All peace. Understand you.” He put his hands over his face, pantomimed looking through his fingers at her. “We hide. Stay hide. Contact no.”
Aryl’s frown deepened. Did he think her a fool? “You’ve been in contact already. Who taught you real words?” she accused.
“Oud,” readily. “Good. Better soon. Hide, Om’ray.”
Could the strangers be that ignorant of the world? What he said next confirmed her worst fears. “Talk machine, understand?
Years
. Talk. Invitation. Seekers, we.” He spoke with great satisfaction, as if coming here was an accomplishment . . .
... instead of a disaster. “The Oud,” Aryl informed him grimly, “don’t rule Cersi. They can’t make their own Agreement with strangers. Do you understand? You put us all in danger. No peace, Marcus. No peace with Humans! Go away!”
He was silent, hopefully thinking. She let him be, too shaken by the audacity of the Oud to know what else to say. Inviting the strangers? No wonder the Tikitik were on edge, suspicious of what was happening. Taisal had been right. The balance of power on Cersi had never included Om’ray; its peace was not their doing. To be caught in some struggle between Oud and Tikitik? Over what . . . a drowned ruin?
Aryl found her voice. “What’s so important under the Lake of Fire? What do you seek, Marcus, that the Oud want found and the Tikitik do not?”
He clasped his knees, resting his chin on top. “No.” Terse and low.
Not: I do not understand.
“ ‘Thank you, Aryl,’ ” she threw back at him. “I deserve an answer, Human. This is my world, not yours.” There, she’d said it. Because she believed it at last. They were too different in every way to have come from the same place. “Tell me what you seek that’s worth all this death!”
Another, longer silence. Then, “Morning. Home, me. Aryl help.”
She made a noise her mother would not have approved. “No. I can’t. I don’t know where your home is.”
The Human looked troubled. “Why? Aryl knows where, Yena, all Om’ray. Why not people mine?”
He thought she could
sense
Humans, too, she realized abruptly. From his side of things, she supposed it made sense. Aryl stood more slowly. “It isn’t like that,” she explained reluctantly. “Om’ray are—” What? Nothing was right anymore. Om’ray weren’t the extent of the physical world. They didn’t speak the only words.
Her universe grew larger at the expense of her own kind.
Aryl studied the Human, his face, his shape, his expressions. Nothing was unfamiliar.
Even the Om’ray form was no longer special.
“I can only feel Om’ray. Those like me,” she admitted. “If you can’t show me where to look for your people, more Humans, I—” she swallowed once, “— I’ll take you home, to Yena.” Past the waiting rocks and Tikitik, to bring her people a walking nightmare her mother most definitely wanted dead.
As plans went, Aryl told herself wearily, it was the worst she’d ever had. She wished she could tell Bern.
“Take me, Yena? Do that?” She’d startled him somehow.
“I can’t leave you here,” she snapped, then gentled her tone. They were both afraid, both sore and well past exhausted, but the Human had his own burden. “I’m sorry about Janex and Pilip.”
“Thank you. Sorry, Pilip. Triad Second. Good. Janex—” Marcus leaned his head back against the Watcher’s curve. His exposed throat worked for a moment. “Special, she,” he managed at last. “Friend, long time.”
“She saved my life,” Aryl offered.
“Special,” he repeated, seeming unsurprised.
They were both quiet. Abruptly, the Human yawned, another disquieting similarity. “Sleep now?”
“I—” About to agree, Aryl closed her mouth and stood, motioning him to stay still.
Something had just changed.
The Om’ray she’d
sensed
earlier had moved. No, not moved, she realized as she
reached
to better locate him. He was in motion toward her, but too quickly and . . . from above?
With sudden comprehension, if not understanding, she scanned the darkening sky for an aircar. “We’ll sleep later,” she told Marcus.
Then she smiled. “I think help’s found us.”