Reap the Wild Wind (20 page)

* * *

Joyn asked no questions. Ready the instant Aryl reappeared, he launched himself into her arms, settling against her chest. She couldn’t carry him for long, but she didn’t think of detaching him here.
Not when that— that abomination was still close.
FEAR
.
She didn’t protest, quite sure her own emotions were under no better control. But her movements had to be, and Aryl finally slowed just enough to plan the best path through the nekis to the old rastis and down.
Could the flying machine follow?
A question she couldn’t answer.
Her back and legs were already burning. Aryl looked at the black-haired head nestled against her chest. “Joyn,” she said reluctantly. “We have to go quickly from here. Can you do that for me? Be fast?”
A flash of proud assurance. He let go at once, his blue eyes bright. “I’m too fast,” the child boasted. “My mother says so.”
“I’m sure she does.” Aryl’s hands wanted to shake as she reattached the line between them. “Don’t go too fast for me, please. You know I’m old.” She glanced up through the canopy. No sign of the machine.
No voices either.
They went down, Aryl keeping the pace to Joyn’s ability. Down was harder on them both. She used the line to lower him where she could, carried him where the best handholds were too far apart for a child. It wasn’t the way home— not directly. She couldn’t risk being followed there.
All the while, she fought to understand and failed.
Only the dead were silent— even the Lost had a presence that could be
sensed
, minds to receive instruction. But the silent Om’ray hadn’t been dead. He had walked, spoken, been curious about her fich.
All while not being real.
When at last convinced they weren’t pursued, Aryl stopped to let them both catch their breath. They were, she judged, a tenth’s hard climb from home.
She glanced at Joyn, sitting at her feet, and revised her estimate. His eyes were half closed, and he gave little hiccups of misery. Two tenths— maybe more. Worse, the air was ominously heavy. The afternoon rains would arrive long before they were safe.
Aryl considered the problem. Rimis Uruus, Joyn’s mother, would know exactly where he was. They were to be back soon. She’d worry, perhaps
sense
her child’s agitation despite the distance. At any moment, if she hadn’t already, she’d follow her bond to her son.
So Rimis and whoever came with her would meet them halfway or better. There was safety from some threats in numbers; to others, they presented a more appetizing target.
“Let’s go.” Aryl rubbed the child between his thin shoulders. “Here— I saved you a bit of cake.” It was hers, but he’d need it more. She was right. Joyn pushed it into his mouth with both hands, gesturing his thanks as he chewed. “Drink. Not too much.” When he handed back the flask, she took a long swallow, then left it hanging. There’d be rain to drink soon, or they’d be beyond thirst.
Either way, extra weight was their enemy. She’d learned that lesson retrieving the pods. Aryl continued divesting herself of what she could do without. Her boots from her belt. Her longknife— after sober consideration— joined them. As Joyn watched, wide-eyed, she shed her waterproof over-jerkin and its hood, though she left the gauze wrap on her arms and legs. Some bites could end their journey and, thinking of that, Aryl left the thorns in her leg. If she pulled them free, they’d bleed and attract worse trouble.
“I can take off my clothes, too.” He was already pulling at his belt fastening.
“You need yours,” she told him. “Tough old skin, remember?”
Joyn gave her that by now familiar doubting look, but stopped. If they were caught in the rains— when they were, Aryl corrected, tasting the air— he’d chill too quickly without the waterproof layer.
They began to move again. This time, Aryl sought the straightest route. Fortunately, they were now at the level where the largest branches leaned and crisscrossed into roadways for nimble Om’ray feet. The problem lay in what else liked such easy paths.
Stitler traps were the greatest threat. Several times they were forced to retrace their steps and go around patches with that ominous glisten of mucus. Strips of dried skin and wisps of flitter wing bore mute witness to the appetite hiding in shadow.
Aryl made note of each. If they made it back, she’d tell Haxel. The scouts didn’t tolerate stitlers in Yena territory, but the creatures took full advantage of the rains’ lessened patrols to sneak closer.
Joyn’s steps grew slower and less sure. Sooner than she’d hoped, he staggered and would have fallen but for her hands under his arms. The sense of exhaustion the contact sent through her made her want to drop down and sleep for days, too. She crouched to let his small arms wrap around her neck, then helped him put his legs around her waist. He sighed and burrowed his head into the hollow of her neck, half-asleep already.
Afraid to trust his grip, Aryl wound the line that had connected them around them both and knotted it. It would help if he lost his hold.
It was easier going at first. Aryl moved at her own pace, no longer confined to paths suited to a child. Joyn’s warmth fought the chill starting to go through her; as the first tentative drops of rain fell, his clothing shielded the front of her body. His trust— that renewed strength she didn’t know she had.
But he was a solid weight, sapping her energy and shifting her balance. As Aryl climbed, she added this now-nightmarish journey to her list of grievances against those in the flying machine.
Whatever they were. She could only hope one day they’d have to—
Mother! HERE HERE HERE!!!!
Aryl almost slipped at the power of that sending. “Hush,” she whispered urgently, lips against Joyn’s hair. “She knows.” But she lowered her shields, hoping Rimis really was close.
Closer, not close. And lower. Aryl frowned as she understood. Rimis must be frantic to reach Joyn. They were taking the summer bridges, faster, yes, but dangerously close to the now-high waters of the Lay. Council forbade their use during the rains and had scouts remove the ladders.
None of which counted against the bond demanding these two be back together.
As if to make her life perfect, the rain chose that moment to go from gentle downpour to deluge, erasing most of the world.

* * *

“Wh— here are we?”
“Dry, for now,” Aryl told the sleepy child. She strode to the edge of their shelter.
Tooks
were rare; only their giant upturned leaves could withstand this flood from the sky. They’d been lucky. She’d known one was somewhere near, but found it by virtue of blindly blundering into its shelter.
Shivering, she waved to discourage the mass of biters who’d taken refuge with them, and tried to make out anything through the lines of rain.
“My mother!” This with outrage as Joyn came fully awake. “She’s not coming!”
“I know,” Aryl said. She’d sensed their rescuers’ retreat. “It’s not safe in this, Joyn. They’ve found shelter, too.” She hoped. Without
reaching
more deeply— and failing her promise— she couldn’t contact them to be sure.
I have to go! I HAVE TO GO!!
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Aryl caught the child as he lunged to his feet and tried to run past. “Are you a baby, to crawl off a bridge after a toy? Look outside. Look!” as he struggled weakly, then gave up. “We don’t have a choice, Joyn. We wait out the worst of it. So must Rimis.”
He leaned against her. “I’m eight.”
Aryl couldn’t tell if this was to impress her or explain. She put her arms around Joyn anyway and held him tight.

* * *

Aryl opened her eyes, at first gradually, then abruptly awake. Her first conscious thought was fear. The canopy was no place to take a nap. Falling asleep here was a sure way to be a meal for something else. She hadn’t meant to sleep. Hadn’t dared . . .
Her second thought was that they weren’t alone.
The rain above must have ended. Sunbeams sparkled through the slow, steady drip from leaves and fronds.
They sparkled improbably along the knobby circles that served the Tikitik as skin.
Joyn!
The child woke in her grasp; warned by Aryl’s sending, he did no more than open his eyes and tense.
Three of the creatures stood looking at them. Though much taller than Aryl at the shoulder, their heads hung below the edge of the leaf. She stared at what passed for their faces. Their eyes weren’t all locked on her. The smaller front pairs kept watch, darting in random directions on their cones of flesh to survey their surroundings.
In the hush, she could hear the sound this made, moist and sharp, like raw flesh being tugged from a bone.
Their larger hind eyes were fixed on her. They appeared to be waiting for something.
Aryl staggered to her feet, helping Joyn rise as well. Her leg was asleep and protested, the other starting to swell painfully around each embedded spine. “We see you,” she said, guessing what they expected from her. Om’ray were supposed to take time to grasp the reality of others. After the creatures from the flying machine, she thought, these no longer seemed as improbable.
The finger-things around the mouth of the centermost creature writhed for a moment, as if tasting the air. Aryl put her hands on Joyn’s shoulders. Then, all four of that Tikitik’s eyes focused on her. “Yes. You are the witness. Come with us.”
“No!” Aryl protested. She backed a step, pulling Joyn with her. She deliberately set him behind her and repeated more politely, but as adamantly, “No. We’re on our way home. To Yena.”
Its head bobbed twice. “Yes. You are the witness. That is not in dispute. We require you. Come.”
“What do you want with us?”
Silence for a moment. Then, “You are to come. Not the youngling.”
Leave Joyn alone in the canopy? For a heartbeat, Aryl let her Power touch the
other place,
desperate enough to consider sending him through the Dark . . . where? Her thoughts scattered.
Just as well, she realized, calming down. There would be nothing worse for all Om’ray than demonstrating that Talent to Tikitik. Then she remembered her mother, bargaining with the Speaker. The creatures weren’t completely unreasonable. Hadn’t Cetto thought to trade with them?
“Let me take him home first,” Aryl pleaded. “Then I’ll go with you.” Once back at Yena she could let Taisal take over. And would.
That double nod. She was beginning to fear it had nothing to do with agreement.
“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

“ ‘B
EST 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.”