Reap the Wild Wind (21 page)

“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

A
RYL 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.
More than dark. There was no light at all. Was she in that
other place
?
No. This was nothing more than the absence of light. Being in the
other place
was like being in the M’hir— to stay still, to stay yourself, you had to hold on. She took a breath, reassured by the sound of air moving in and out of her body.
Alive. In the dark. She tested her body with more care. Something held her arms against her body. Not painful, but snug. Her legs were slightly apart as if she stood naturally, but immobile. She could rock her head forward and back, but her body . . . her body . . . a scream tried to force its way out.
Calm down! she told herself. Think. Her body wouldn’t move, though she could take deep breaths.
And those breaths . . . Aryl closed her mouth and sniffed, then gagged. “I know that smell,” she whispered. Her voice echoed, as if there was space overhead. The smell was what mattered. Damp wood. Rot. Water.
The Lay Swamp. Why would the Tikitik . . . ?
They’d kidnapped her! “Let me go!” Aryl shouted. “Let me go!” The echoes were harsh and punished her ears, but she didn’t stop. “You’ve no right to keep me here! Let me go!”
She was blinded by a circle of light and lifted her face to meet a rush of fresher air. Her triumph lasted as long as it took something like hooks to grab the corners of her mouth and force it open.
Something
was pushed into her mouth, then the hooks, light, and air were gone.
About to spit, a wonderful, familiar taste changed her mind. Fresh dresel, sweet and ripe and moist. She chewed slowly, with relish, and licked her lips when done.
Not killing her, she told herself, faintly surprised.
Aryl closed her eyes and sought her inner sense,
reaching
. No others were close; she was relieved at first. They hadn’t taken Joyn or the others.
But no others were close at all.
The cluster of Om’ray that must be Yena was appallingly dim and distant. She could barely tell it from that of Pana or Tuana. When she tried, she couldn’t sense
who
anyone was.
Had the Tikitik taken her to the edge of the world?
She concentrated, pouring all her Power into a frantic sending.
Mother . . . I’m here . . . Mother . . . !
And reached no one. The perfect time to discover her limit, Aryl scolded herself weakly.
There was another way.
Without giving herself time to hesitate or doubt, she threw open her thoughts to the
other,
seeking the feel of Taisal’s clear, ordered thoughts within its wild current, doing her best to remember her mother’s face.
It wasn’t as easy as before. The inner
darkness
threatened her, pulled at her. Desperate, she refused to stop, feeling the drain as though blood poured from her body.
Here.
With the word, an easing of effort, as though their meeting in that Dark formed a bridge. Across it poured a torrent of worry, anger, fear . . .
Mother!
Aryl drowned in emotion: Taisal’s, her own. All she could think for a moment was that she wasn’t alone— no matter how far they’d taken her— she wasn’t alone.
Where are you, Daughter? I can’t find you.
Sudden, overwhelming dread.
Are you still within the world?
A question too close to Aryl’s initial fear for comfort.
I’m all right, Mother
, she hastened to send.
I’ve been unconscious— I don’t know how long. When I woke— Pana’s as far. Tuana. But I can barely sense Amna from here.
She fought panic.
Or home.
It has been two days.
A burst of images and sensations, as if Taisal sought to tell her too much at once. Or did their strange connection allow more than words and emotion through? Did it grant access to memory, too?
For Aryl might have been there at the interruption of a Council meeting . . . might have seen Ael’s face as he gasped the news of her kidnapping. She might have been Taisal, demanding the right to see where it happened . . . insisting on leaving at first light . . . overriding every argument . . .
She might have shared the exhausted pain of muscles no longer used to hard climbing, the desolation at its end . . . made the decision herself to continue despite protests from her companions . . . been determined to follow Haxel, for the First Scout had never left her captors’ trail, leaving markers behind . . .
Aryl might have come face-to-face with the weary, returning First Scout, frustrated to lose the trail in the waters of the Lay, and now sincerely furious to be responsible for Yena’s Speaker and others so close to truenight . . . watched lengthening shadows while curled within a makeshift shelter high in a nekis, with only strings of glows for protection . . .
The images stopped there. Either her mother had found a way to stop them spilling free, or Aryl had pulled away, shocked by what she’d learned.
Her mother had spent truenight in the open?
You shouldn’t be here,
she sent, startled by her own anger.
What if the Tikitik Speaker went to Yena? Who would speak to it?
Her mother sent an image of the Speaker’s Pendant, hanging free in front of what had to be a scout’s thick tunic.
If it wants conversation, let it find me. Let it explain why the Tikitik have taken my daughter!
The fury was matched by determination. Taisal di Sarc might be away from Yena’s protection, but Aryl sensed no fear.
That was fine. She felt more than enough for them both.
You must go home.
Not without you!
Her mother’s sudden desperation disturbed the
other,
weakening their link.
I can’t lose you, too!
Aryl fought to keep them connected. She projected confidence, hid her fear.
Don’t worry.
She sent the taste of fresh dresel, careful to avoid thoughts of being pinned in the dark.
They’re taking care of me. I’m safe. I’ll get home.
The link firmed as Taisal calmed, but only slightly.
Come home. Now. The way you sent Bern.
Aryl opened her eyes and stared at the real darkness.
You can’t mean that.
I do. Come home! I know how you’ve reached me, where we are. You control the
Dark
, Aryl. Use your gift!
The urgency to escape, to be home, ripped through her like pain. Aryl tasted salt on her lips and blinked away the rest of her tears.
Even if I knew how— even if I dared,
she sent at last,
I can’t. Where I am— it’s someplace impossible to leave. If I make myself disappear, the Tikitik will know it must be by Power. The mug will break.
Aryl thought her mother gone then, so faint did her presence become.
Then, their connection was restored.
Restored, but with a difference. Taisal’s anxiety for her was gone, replaced by cool satisfaction.
My trust was not misplaced, Daughter.
A test?
Aryl found if she bent her head forward as far as it would go, she could rest her forehead against something hard, that crumbled slightly but held.
Is that why you climbed after me, Mother?
she asked, feeling something inside crumble too.
Did you risk truenight to save me— or to stop me saving myself?
If she’d thought she’d felt Taisal’s determination before, that emotion was nothing to the wall of will that surged across their connection.
What makes you think those are different?

* * *

Many an otherwise peaceful night’s sleep had been disturbed by the incessant
chewchewchew
of the various crawlers that ate their way through wood. They didn’t appear to care if they were snacking on a living rastis or the floor of a house, though the Yena certainly minded the distinction. Hunting them out after the rains was a task for all.
Having wept herself to sleep, Aryl woke to that familiar annoyance. It took her a befuddled moment to realize she wasn’t home, had slept standing up, and the sound came from something in front of her face.
She was being chewed? “Help! Hel—”
Light burst against her eyes. Squinting through the tiniest slit of her eyelids, Aryl saw it came through a steadily enlarging hole. A hole in . . . she squinted harder, eyes tearing . . . wood?
It was so ordinary a material that she sagged in relief. She hadn’t wanted to admit, even to herself, that she’d harbored a nightmare of being inside one of the Tikitik’s great beasts.
More light, but her eyes were quickly adapting. She was inside something, Aryl grasped with amazement. But not a beast.
She was
inside
a rastis.
“Hello?”
Whatever widened the gap didn’t reply. Aryl fell silent, wondering what was next. Should she open her mouth? She was in favor of eating; just not the hooks.
The opening grew larger than before, its edges falling away. Release? Rescue? Aryl’s entire body throbbed with hope.
Then, what was opening the hole came into view.
“Help!!!!! Help!!!!” she screamed. “Please! Help me!”
It was a creeper, its eyes gleaming at her as it used its sharp mouthparts to bite away her protection. Another appeared overhead, upside down, long black feelers tapping at the wood as if assessing its partner’s progress. Together, they kept at their task. Soon, the hole would be wide enough for their bodies.
After that, she’d start to die. Creepers cut into living flesh with those terrible jaws, making an entryway for the hordes of hungry offspring who rode their parent’s back. Trapped like this, she was a banquet.
An Adept could have
pushed
them away.
Aryl didn’t know how.
She only knew she wanted those things
gone
. She sobbed, so terrified she could hardly breathe. A feeler brushed her forehead . . . another tapped her right eyelid closed.
Self-preservation won. Aryl tried to concentrate . . . to send them to the
other place.
She’d seen them attack a nesting aspird, knew how quickly they moved, she could hear their now-frantic chewing to reach her. She couldn’t think through her fear, not even to send herself away.
A loud hiss sent the creepers scurrying. A shadow crossed the hole as something, someone, outside looked in. “Are you damaged, Om’ray?”
Aryl blurted, “No thanks to you!” Which made, she decided in the next instant, no sense at all, since obviously the Tikitik had saved her. “I’m not hurt,” she told it, not quite ready to be grateful either. “Please. Let me out.”
“You leave tomorrow. Tonight you must remain where you are safe from all danger.”
Had it forgotten the creepers? Maybe Tikitik didn’t consider being eaten alive as posing danger to an Om’ray. Her head, already throbbing, hurt even more. “I don’t like being in here.”
“You leave tomorrow. Tonight you must remain—”
She leaned her forehead against the crumbling edge. “’Where I am safe from all danger,”’ she finished numbly. The creatures were predictable— if impossible.
“To ensure your safety, I must restore this chamber. Do you wish nourishment first?”
More dresel? She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Yes, please.”
Once its shadow left the opening, Aryl’s right eye could see outside. She blinked, eager for any clue to where she was, beyond a simple grove of young rastis.
But this was no simple grove. She blinked again and tilted her head from side to side to try and see more.
Within her narrow arc of vision were the lower stalks of six rastis, rising on slender buttress roots. At this stage, they had no spools of great leafy fronds, but bore all their green growth atop the crown. The rest of the stalk was normally smooth and sleek, no wider than four Chosen Om’ray would surround with their joined hands and arms.
Except these stalks were different. Costa would have loved to see this, Aryl thought, studying what she could. The lower part of each expanded outward, like a round gall on a damaged branch, but this growth was smooth and regular, its dimensions matched to the Tikitik who moved between the plants. The surface of each bulge bore intricate designs, either carved or painted with ink, Aryl couldn’t tell.
What had the Tikitik called it? A chamber.
Each chamber had a door. Or rather, wood had been removed from a tall, narrow oval on the outside of each bulge and replaced with a blue material. Aryl rolled her eye around to check the edges of the small hole the creepers had left. She could make out small bits of wood, mixed with some dull blue substance. She could testify it was hard.
The chamber directly across from her wasn’t fully sealed, having a large round opening near the middle of its “door.” She watched, puzzled at first, as a Tikitik approached with a large bowl. Then a cluster of familiar gray protuberances appeared in the opening, wriggling like eager fingers.
They imprisoned their own kind? She shuddered.
The outside Tikitik scooped its fingers into the bowl’s contents and proceeded to offer the one inside what looked like mouthfuls of fresh dresel. Aryl licked her lips. After three such offerings, it put the bowl aside and began to use its own mouth protuberances to pat new material into the opening in the rastis. It worked quickly and efficiently. She could have sworn she heard it hissing contentedly to itself. In short order, the opening was completely sealed. The Tikitik collected its bowl and moved to the next rastis.
An eye filled Aryl’s view, then pulled away. She stifled a shriek, somehow managing words instead. “What do you want with me?” She thought that came out remarkably well, under the circumstances.
“I’ve brought you nourishment.”
She tilted her head back in panic. “Wait! I can
umphf
—” The hooks, which turned out to be Tikitik fingers, ended any discussion. Aryl let herself be fed, receiving two chokingly large— and utterly delicious— mouthfuls for her trouble.
As expected, the Tikitik began resealing her hole, spitting blue and bits of wood, its gray mouth-fingers working quickly to pat those in place. Too quickly, for the number of questions Aryl had. “Wait,” she begged. “I need to know—”
To her surprise, it stopped and drew back. “What do you need to know?”
Everything, she wanted to wail, including what to say to be freed. Instead, she asked the first thing she thought it might answer. “Who are in the other chambers? Why are they imprisoned like this?”
A small eye filled what remained of the hole, as if the question made the Tikitik curious about her. “Only the Sacred Mothers are worthy of the rastis’ life gift. They await birth under our care.” A pause and the eye retreated again. She could see it shift uncertainly on its cone. “You are not worthy, of course, nor one of ours, nor in any way I can tell pregnant. I don’t know why you deserve this gift.”
Most of this meant nothing to Aryl, but she grasped the last part. “I don’t. Deserve it. You could,” she suggested, “let me out.”
“I will keep you safe until they come for you tomorrow. A chamber is the only way I know. Om’ray are,” another pause, “as tender-fleshed as newborns. You will rest. I will watch.”
With a series of spits and soft busy pats, it sealed Aryl and her questions in the dark.