Riders of the Storm (22 page)

“E
NRIS?”

His name died on her lips. Aryl sat up and pushed free of the softness that covered her body. He wasn't here. She shook her head. The remnant of a dream, she decided. Not the useful kind.

As for here…where was she?

Oh, she knew where she was relative to Sona and Grona, although their remoteness made her inner sense uneasy. She had only the haziest memory of their final steps, but Marcus hadn't brought her far from the Cloisters. Aryl swung her legs over the side of what was a bed, solid and raised on a platform, moving in silence despite the snores from the other side of the room. Room?

Daylight streamed through an abundance of too-small windows: narrow rectangles set head-high in the walls that angled into the smooth domed ceiling, a pair on one of two closed doors. Everything else—walls, ceiling, doors, and furnishings—was of a dull white material. She'd seen such before. The strangers used it in their more permanent structures.

The place was a mess. Every possible wall space supported shelves cluttered with devices, tools, and clear jars of what appeared to be dirt. Counters ran beneath, crowded with boxes. The boxes had buttons and controls; some had screens displaying patterns of flickering light. The floor was a maze of the white crates the strangers used to carry supplies in their aircar, most empty and on their sides. Either the Human had been here a long while, or he'd had help who unpacked in a hurry.

Here for a rest, was he? Hardly.

The Human—a lump under fluffy blankets—slept on a second bed platform. There was a third suspended above it. She looked up. Another above hers. Two more farther along, these folded against the wall.

Alone, was he? For now, perhaps.

Aryl stood, finding herself in her still-damp tunic and leg wraps. Her boots and belt—and the Human's—lay on the floor with his coat, carelessly dropped. Her knife…there it was. On one of the counters, sharp point to the wall. Not so careless.

She went to the door with windows and looked out, relieved to see stunted nekis stalks and a too-neat path between them. The Cloisters was that way.

The other door led to another pleasant surprise. It opened into a 'fresher—the one stranger technology she'd gladly add to her life.

Sorely tempted, Aryl looked back at the Human. What she could see appeared asleep. Besides—when would she have another chance?

She stepped inside the stall and fastened the door, shedding her filthy clothes with relief. Her hairnet came apart as she tugged it from her hair, hair thoroughly tangled and, from the feel, mud-encrusted. Shouldn't it have been cleaned by the waterfall? Water…her pockets! Aryl grabbed her tunic to check. Her Grona fire starter was gone, but the headdress was still safely tucked in its pocket, if filthy. The rokly had swollen into an unappetizing mass, coated with dirt. She scooped it out and dropped it on the floor.

The Speaker's Pendant thudded against her chest, cold and heavy, as she straightened. So it hadn't been a dream. She left it around her neck.

Aryl tapped a square in the wall, and warm, fragrant foam sprayed her from every side, head to toe. She gathered handfuls and rubbed it on her clothing. It couldn't hurt. Foam collected on the lump of swollen rokly, but didn't wash it away. The device wasn't perfect, she thought, amused.

The soft wind of heated air dispersed the foam from her skin and hair, and most, if not all, from her clothes.

Refreshed and alert, Aryl dressed, picking clumps of dried foam from her tunic. Her leg wraps had fared best, being almost white again.

She lifted the pendant in both hands to examine it, clean hair brushing her cheekbones. It gleamed like a leaf after the rains, markings no longer obscured by dirt. They weren't like those on Sona's wooden beams, or on Enris' blade. They weren't like any other writing or drawing she'd seen—or dreamed—here. As she'd expected, Sona's pendant was the same as those worn by her mother and Grona's Speaker, as the one fastened to the cloth band of the Tikitik's Speaker. That was the point of the pendants. They identified the wearer as a Speaker.

What was she, an unChosen, doing with such a thing?

Only a Clan's appointed Speaker was, by the Agreement, allowed to talk to his or her counterpart from either of the other races. Aryl had no idea how other races chose theirs. For Om'ray, few could converse comfortably with what they sensed as an object, not a person. Of those who could, fewer were willing to accept the risk. The Speaker assumed responsibility for whatever was understood or not. Speakers sometimes died for his, her, or its mistakes. That was the Agreement, too.

Although, Aryl thought with some impatience, the other races persisted in talking to her, without a pendant or her consent, as if rules didn't apply to them.

Was that why the Oud had given her this? Did it know she'd talked to Tikitik? To the strangers? Was this to get her out of trouble—or into more?

More, she decided, and tucked the pendant inside her tunic before leaving the 'fresher.

Snores greeted her. Aryl almost envied the Human his trust in walls. Almost. She collected her knife and belt—hair falling in her eyes—slipped on her damp boots—hair in her mouth—and put on the Human's pretend-Grona coat. It was dirty but dry, as the real garment wouldn't have been. As for her hair? A quick search of a countertop supplied a length of threadlike metal. She twisted it around the annoying locks and pulled them into a painfully tight knot at the base of her neck. There. Out of the way.

A length fell back into her eye. Aryl ignored it.

Stranger-doors could be locked. When she pressed her palm flat against the square plate beside the door, she was relieved to have it open, sliding to one side instead of turning around its center. Too wide, but she supposed the gap was necessary. Strangers came in a variety of races; she'd met one much larger than a Human.

Aryl stepped out, closing the door behind her. As she did, its surface transformed from white to…she lifted her hand, astonished to find herself facing the pale gray-streaked stalk of a nekis, one of several. There were more in the distance.

Image or drawing?

She brushed her fingertips over the door and couldn't tell.

Aryl turned to face an oval clearing of packed dirt, free of stone if not footprints. They appeared all the same: the Human's. The clearing and path were free of roots or cut stalks. Impressive, given how densely nekis grew all around, their roots writhing up through the ground.

Broken cloud overlaid the mist, but the sun's light came through. Midmorning, she guessed, displeased to have slept so much of the day. On the thought, she tied another knot along her rope. The interior of the building had been warm. The outside air had a bite to it; she was glad of the Human's coat. As she walked away from the building, she held out her hands. Despite feeling foolish, she had no desire to walk into another illusion.

The thought made her look back. From here, the image was almost perfect. A hasty glance would miss the building entirely, despite its size. Marcus didn't rely on his Om'ray-like clothing alone. More “policy”?

Aryl spotted a second area of not-quite-right nekis. Another building. When she investigated, she was disappointed to find its door locked.

Secrets.

Enough. Anything the strangers would lock away wasn't for Om'ray. Time she was gone. She could reach Sona before firstnight, if she moved quickly. She wanted her own kind.

Something made Aryl look back before she entered the shadow of the path. Strange. From here, the buildings—their illusions—met. For no reason…or to hide something behind them from anyone approaching from the Cloisters?

She hesitated. What did it matter? This was the strangers' camp—Triad business. She should leave, now. Before Marcus woke up.

She'd never know…

“One look,” she promised herself.

Putting the locked—and hopefully empty—building between herself and the one where the Human—also hopefully—still snored, Aryl traced its disguised wall with her fingertips, keeping close. The waterfall's background drone, the wind rustling the twig tips of the nekis made more sound than her steps.

She came around the back and gasped, flattening herself against the wall.

The Oud paid no attention.

Too far away to detect her—or didn't they care? Nothing hid her. Nothing grew between—it had been removed, she realized with dismay, along with any growth on the towering rock above. Plumes of spray from the waterfall filled the sky toward the Cloisters, hiding the mountain. To the other side of the Oud, the cliff folded inward, as if to hide itself. This was the valley's end.

And the Oud had been busy here.

Beginning only steps in front of her—and the strangers' buildings—the dirt was churned and treacherously soft. No, not all. Her eyes narrowed. Oud ground vehicles had left paired tracks; where they'd been, they packed the dirt into hard lines. Most paralleled the cliff, leading from where the Oud worked to the mouth of their tunnel. She'd seen its like at Grona: an immense slanted opening framed in wood. This one had been thrust up through the edge of the living grove, leaving stalks splintered and dead to either side.

Aryl counted five of the creatures at the base of the cliff. What were they after? There were dark pits—holes—in the cliff face above the Oud. Were they Watchers, like Yena's, whose immense pipes were blown by the M'hir Wind each year to sound a warning? She couldn't be sure.

Below, the bulky Oud and their machines kicked up so much debris she couldn't see past them, creating a roar and rumble like the waterfall's.

They were moving rock. A great deal of rock. Digging into the cliff itself.

She hadn't realized Oud could do that.

It didn't matter. The cliff was above ground. Above ground belonged to Sona's Om'ray, not the Oud. She was their Speaker—appointed by the Oud, at any rate.

Aryl pulled the pendant out and made sure it was in plain sight—not that Oud had eyes. She would go to the creatures and demand to know what they were doing out of their tunnel. It was her duty.

She took a deep breath…

Pounding feet made her spin about, knife out and ready. The Human almost collided with her. Only her quickness saved him from impaling himself.

“Fool,” she exclaimed, shaking as she put the knife away.

Marcus flinched but didn't retreat. His eyelids were swollen and purpled, as was most of his face; his eyes were wild. He hadn't stopped to put on his boots. “Aryl—”

“You're too late,” she interrupted. “I've seen what's going on here.” She jerked her head toward the Oud.

He glanced toward the cliff, then back to her, looking confused. “Aryl not run away again?”

Is that what he'd thought? Aryl flushed. Not her finest moment, dashing off into truenight. No credit to her they weren't both dead. She owed him her life.

She didn't owe him any part of Sona.

“You told me you came here for a rest, Marcus Bowman,” she accused. “You lied!”

His expression darkened. “Not lie. Not! Oud already here. Invite us many time. Push. Rude. Want full Triad
assess
site.” He shook his head violently. “No proof. No
surveyindicators
. We not come. Oud ask again. This time different. I can't do my work. So I say yes. I come. Curious. Unhappy. Understand? Me only, set up
survey
camp, determine if real find or empty hole. Make Oud happy. Me, away from others. Peace. Truth, Aryl,” this with a heavy sigh, as if he didn't expect her belief. “Oud want explore ruins. They interest in Hoveny Concentrix. This place no Tikitik stop them.”

Oh, she believed him. Aryl instinctively tightened her shields to keep in her reaction. The Tikitik kept the Oud from exploring? The Oud went to the strangers for help to do just that?

Was the Human trying to terrify her?

“Have they found something?” she managed to ask, surprised her voice sounded normal.

“Oud think so.” Marcus leaned on the wall of not-nekis and rubbed the bottom of one foot, grimacing as he did. She guessed he didn't run barefoot often. “Not let me look yet,” he said with a resigned shrug.

Which helped explain, she realized, why the too-curious Human had been poking around the Sona Cloisters. He'd been bored.

He peered at her through his swollen eyelids. “Aryl want breakfast? Sombay?” From his hoarse tone, he did.

“I have to go. My people are waiting—” For what? Answers?
Who appointed you Speaker for Sona Clan? Who said there was a Sona Clan? What if we want to leave? What if the Oud refuse to share water? What if the Tikitik object to the Oud's “explorations” and blame us? How dare strangers make camp in Sona? What do they want? Didn't you promise Marcus Bowman would never come near us again?

“Aryl not eat first?”

“Maybe I should,” she sighed.

 

Aryl sat on the ground and crossed her legs. Being low kept her out of the damp, chill breeze that swayed the nekis, but she wasn't about to admit that. “We can eat here,” she suggested.

“Here?” Marcus looked horrified. “Aryl come inside,” he insisted, leaning against the side of the door's opening. “Please. Don't sit on dirt.”

Not her first choice, to go inside his building, surrounded by all that gave the Human an advantage, but the bruises on his face were her fault. He'd saved her life again. How he'd followed her through the darkness was a mystery; she assumed some gadget or device gave him an advantage. What mattered was that he'd jumped into the waterfall after her, risking his own life. Ridiculous.

Heartwarming.

The waterfall may have spat them both out, but Marcus, battered and scared, had protected her from the Oud. He'd made her breathe again, a trick she'd like to learn. She could no longer doubt him.

Everyone else. Them she doubted. What he was here to do. That she doubted.