His hands opened and she rubbed her sore arms. “Why keep me from your thoughts till now? Avoid me. Why? What have I done? Live?” Louder, almost petulant. “That’s not my fault, Aryl Sarc. It’s—”
“Hush!” this time backed by a flick of Power.
“Ow! Aryl—”
She touched his arm, apology and a final plea for quiet. “Bern, please. This isn’t the place or time. Trust me. The Adept said—”
“Your mother.” Harsh, but thankfully a matching whisper. “Did you know she’s letting them believe it’s something I did to myself? Did she tell you she threatened me with Council Sanction? It’s true. I’ll be exiled if I so much as lower my shields and think about what happened where someone else might ‘hear.’ ”
“No!” The drawing she carried— had Taisal ever meant to use it, Aryl wondered bitterly, or had this been her plan all along? “I won’t let her blame you for what I did. You know I won’t.”
“How did you do it?”
Did she even know? “It doesn’t matter,” she told him. “I’ll never do it again. Just forget it, Bern.”
His arm went around her shoulders, then; he rested his chin lightly on her head. She felt him sigh. “Heart-kin. I’m very glad I wasn’t dead, believe me, and will be very happy not to be exiled, but it’s not that simple. You can’t forget something like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because—”
A shriek pierced the night, drawn-out and moist as if something suffered and died. Another.
They startled apart, both looking out to the water. Murmurs from those on the platform mingled with the echoes of the shrieks.
The Tikitik.
“What matters now,” Aryl said quickly, staring into his shadowed face, “is keeping this from the Tikitik. That makes it simple. If you’re asked— say you struck your head when you fell, that you don’t remember anything more.” With all the urgency she felt, she sent, Words, heart-kin. Tikitik use words. They can’t sense the truth.
Adepts can. Council will.
“That’s my problem,” she countered aloud, trusting her voice to sound more confident than she felt. “Bern, trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“You didn’t, did you? Sweet heart-kin.” He bent and kissed her, a brush of dry cool lips against hers. “Thank you.”
Aryl felt herself blush. It might not be the first kiss of her dreams, but it was, nonetheless, a kiss.
And truenight was young.
Chapter 6
ONLY THE SPEAKER COULD BE on the platform when the Tikitik arrived. Aryl and Bern weren’t the only ones hurrying to climb to seats as a final shriek reverberated over the water.
Like candles extinguished by a breath, the floating eyes disappeared. They reappeared at a greater distance. Curious, with caution.
The first thing Aryl did once seated was put her drawing on her lap, facedown. The pane was small enough she hoped no one would notice, though Bern gave it a questioning glance before doing what everyone else was doing— watching for those who approached.
Aryl’s attention was caught by her mother, standing alone where the central arm of the platform began. In profile, Taisal di Sarc looked calm and confident, the image of a Speaker. Everyone relied on her for their safety. Having seen her collapsed on the floor in those same robes, Aryl abruptly wondered where Taisal could turn for protection. Custom held the Speaker inviolate and blameless, but there had been Speakers who failed Tikitik expectations in the past. All Council had done was appoint another, quickly.
The Council: if she leaned recklessly forward, she would see that row of six seated above and behind Taisal, one from each Yena family: Sarc, Teerac, Parth, Kessa’at, Vendan, Uruus. Although all were in the robes of Adepts, white and stiff with thread, only two were of that order, Sian d’sud Vendan and Tikva di Uruus. Council seats went to those of greatest age and experience within a family, not Power.
Unlike the rest, their heads were bare to the night, but Aryl knew from her mother’s preparations that their hair was liberally anointed with a rare oil to discourage biters. The dignity of Council would hardly be served by them flailing about to protect themselves from clouds of small annoyances. It didn’t work as well as somgelt toxin, but helped.
The Speaker’s Pendant, heavy and narrow, rested between Taisal’s small breasts. Having heard from playmates that Tikitik couldn’t tell each other apart, let alone Om’ray, a young Aryl had guessed they used the ornament to know who her mother was. Taisal had smiled at her, saying only that it was easy to underestimate those who looked different. She’d let Aryl touch the pendant. Its markings weren’t like those the Tikitik wove on Om’ray door panels; the metal itself was equally foreign, pale and green as if a leaf had hardened. It was the oldest object among the Yena, of forgotten origin.
Now, Aryl knew the pendant was more important than the individual wearing it. No meeting could take place between any of Cersi’s three races without the pendant of each Speaker present and displayed. There were, she’d noticed, a great many such incomprehensible rules, minded more by Council than ordinary Om’ray.
To be fair, when not in their robes and wearing implacable expressions, those on Council were, in Aryl’s experience, ordinary enough. Old and inclined to make pompous announcements, smell funny, and pat her on the head, but that was to be expected. That had been her opinion before this M’hir and the Harvest. Before she’d done what she’d done. Now, the six looked dangerous, a threat to her and to Bern if the Tikitik weren’t.
They’d probably always been dangerous, Aryl decided morosely, her fingers restless on the pane— they wanted to slip between Bern’s for comfort, and she refused. Was this growing up? Realizing what their kind of power could do? Sanction. Exile. They’d been words before. Now they were real.
“There. There they are.” The whispers came from all around them. No one dared mindspeech; no one gambled they knew everything about the Tikitik.
She could see them now, three narrow forms taking shape at the limit of the glows. An angled limb. A curve of neck. A broad foot plunged into the water; a final movement that sent ripples outward. The watery rings captured light before they wrapped around the platform’s varied edges and crossed to darkness.
Aryl focused on breathing through her nose. There were cries from children, quietly hushed. Someone nearby gave a nervous laugh. Another coughed. The benches creaked on their ropes.
The Tikitik waited. They were aware of the profound confusion their physical presence caused Om’ray; it was unlikely they understood it. Though intelligent and capable of speech, to Aryl’s deeper sense they were not-there. It was like watching a drawing come to life, or having a table answer a question. Impossible and disturbing. You couldn’t prepare, Aryl knew. Only work your mind around to belief.
It took a moment for the Om’ray to settle. Once they did, the Speaker took a step closer to the platform edge. “We see you,” she announced, the words clear and loud.
Even as echoes came back, the Tikitik were moving.
Eyes winked out, leaving a swathe of dark water to precede them. Respect and sense both. There was only one sure mode of travel through the Lay Swamp, and the Tikitik owned it.
And rode it. Their esask mounts rocked forward on six thin, armored legs long enough to find secure footing during flood. Although they were the largest inhabitants of the Lay Swamp, their bodies were narrow— tall and long rather than wide— allowing them to easily pass between the dense columns of buttress and trunk.
The upper half of those bodies was covered in shaggy hair, dyed white and red in more of the Tikitik’s inexplicable patterns. The lower half was protected by black overlapping plates. The head was carried low on a twice curved neck, and constantly in motion, swinging side to side to check for danger. That head was ably equipped, boasting four large eyes, paired open nostrils, and an upstanding brush of hairs running from neck to snout that could, Aryl had been told, somehow sense movement.
Whil
e esask could move silently, these lifted and drove their broad feet into the water, splashing a warning to would-be predators. A warning they’d heed, for esask were hunters, too, with twin rows of needle-sharp teeth. Once they spotted prey, beneath or on the surface, it rarely escaped.
These had full pouches sagging the first neck curve, implying they shouldn’t be hungry. Aryl still felt uneasy as they came closer and closer. The concept of an animal servant was difficult, let alone trusting something that would normally eat you. Costa’s seeds and clippings were the closest any Yena came to bending other life to their will. Had the esask agreed to their servitude? Made some trade with the Tikitik? Since they made no sound, and she sensed nothing from their minds, it was hard to imagine how that could be.
The things were huge. As they stopped beside the platform’s arms, she leaned back in order to see their riders. The two esask on the left bore clusters of Tikitik. She couldn’t tell how many of the black creatures clung to each other, but guessed three on each. Their beasts were festooned with the body-sized gourds the others used instead of bags or baskets, tied on with woven ropes. Some of the gourds would contain power cells and glows; others, metal objects: blades, chain, rings, fasteners; while a few, hopefully, would be heavy with the sweet, fragrant oba juice Om’ray prized and Tikitik provided at long intervals. All would be emptied and refilled with fresh dresel and sprouts.
Aryl winced. There were a great many gourds.
The esask to the right carried a solitary rider. Aryl couldn’t tell if this was the same individual who had come last M’hir— suddenly embarrassed to realize this was the first visit where she hadn’t cared more about whispering to her friends about unChosen— but it didn’t matter. This would be her mother’s counterpart, the one who would speak.
Not that she would see its mouth. Aryl unconsciously leaned into the solid comfort of Bern’s side as she stared at the strange being.
The Tikitik rode astride, its pair of long, thin legs a match to those of its mount. From a distance, there were similarities to an Om’ray’s form as well, but only from a distance. There were two arms attached to a body, but the body was concave and gaunt, its surface covered in small, knobbed plates instead of skin. The arms were too flexible and bore short spines from wrist to shoulder. The shoulders, though flat and broad, met at a too-long neck that curved forward and down so the head was held in front of the chest.
Aryl’s stomach protested.
The head was triangular, widest at the back, and framed by two pairs of eyes that reflected cold white disks from the glowlight. Each eye sat at the tip of a cone of flesh. The hind pair were large and aimed forward; the front pair were tiny, their cones kept constantly in motion as if a Tikitik worried about its surroundings at all times. To make it worse, in Aryl’s opinion, the small eyes moved independently of one another unless the Tikitik was interested. Then, all four would lock into a forward stare.
The mouth was obscured by fleshy, fingerlike protuberances, pale gray and of unknown function. Tikitik could hear, but no Om’ray knew what passed for Tikitik ears. Or nose, for that matter. It wasn’t because their bodies were hidden from view. They wore no clothing, though they wrapped their wrists and ankles in cloth patterned with more of their symbols, and used belts to carry longknives like those they traded to the Om’ray.
Their Speaker wore its pendant attached to a broad swathe of plain cloth that went from right shoulder to left hip, ending in long tasseled braids that swept down the side of its mount. Aryl couldn’t tell, at this distance, if its pendant matched the one around her mother’s neck; she had no desire for a closer look.
“We see you,” Taisal said again. She managed to gaze up at her counterpart without losing her dignity, even though beast and rider towered the height of three Om’ray over her small form. Aryl felt a sudden fierce pride.
The Tikitik bobbed its head, twice, a sharp motion involving the joint at the neck, not the shoulder. Taisal raised her hand slightly, the signal for those carrying the bundle of dresel to approach. The two Om’ray eyed the esask warily, but the beast did nothing more than widen its nostrils. They put down their burden, opened it to show the purple lumps of flesh within, and backed away.
There should have been a steady stream of more with bundles, accompanied by those with empty baskets to take away the contents of the gourds. There should have been Om’ray waiting to transfer the dresel into the gourds.
Instead, there was a moment of awkward, outward silence, while to Aryl’s inner sense, Om’ray tension made it hard to breathe.
The Tikitik grouped together made hissing sounds. The Speaker’s head bobbed again, once, and they quieted.
Then it spoke, the words and voice shockingly normal. “There is less, Yena Speaker.”
“There are less of us,” Taisal replied.
It seemed to notice the gathered Om’ray for the first time, swinging its head slowly as if counting. “How are these observations related?” it asked when done. “Has an independent faction taken the Harvest to establish themselves elsewhere?”
This brought an unhappy murmur from some of those assembled. Aryl didn’t say anything, but then, she had no idea what the creature meant. She suspected it was stupid.
“There was an accident. Caused by others.” Taisal beckoned a second time to bring the First Scout to her side. Tall and white-haired, her features hidden behind gauze, Haxel held a curved piece of something that wasn’t metal or wood in her gloved hands. Aryl leaned forward for a better look, but her neighbors had the same idea and blocked her view.
Before she could object, everyone sat back as if startled.
Easy to understand why. Against all custom, the Tikitik Speaker had dismounted. Water rained from the plates of its esask as the beast rose from its crouch. “What is this?” the Tikitik demanded, taking too-quick strides to loom over Taisal. “What is this?” again, as if she were deaf, but it didn’t reach for the piece, only stood and looked at it with all eyes.
Haxel had taken a half step back, but not her mother. Slim and straight, Taisal stood within arm’s reach of the tall creature. “This is part of a flying device that exploded in the midst of the Harvest. Seventeen Om’ray died then. Three more—”
“Making you less,” it interrupted.
Stupid and rude, Aryl decided, frowning.
“Yes. We—”
The Tikitik bobbed its head twice, then turned its eyes to stare at Taisal. Lit now by glows from two sides, Aryl could see its knobby patches of skin were actually concentric rings of very small, even bumps, the whole having a fine texture almost like coarse cloth. Ugly cloth.
“Where is the rest of the Harvest?”
Anxiety flashed from so many minds at once that Aryl shivered violently. She felt Bern’s hand on her back, then, warm and strong. Through the touch, he sent reassurance.
Which might have worked better if she hadn’t sensed his fear, too.
Taisal gestured to the single bundle. “That’s all there is.”
The Tikitik Speaker didn’t bother to look. Aryl took slow breaths, waiting with the others. “No,” it said at last. “That is all you have brought.” The pronouncement drew more hisses from the other Tikitik. “We require more. You will bring what you have stored, now.”
For the first time, Aryl heard an edge to her mother’s voice. “We’re entitled to keep a supply to last us until next M’hir.”
The Tikitik uttered a soft guttural bark, a sound echoed more loudly by its fellows. Aryl feared it was a laugh. “You are less,” the creature observed, “thus need less, while our needs remain unchanged. Keep one third. Bring us the rest. Now. Or we will leave. What is your choice, Speaker?”
More murmurs from the Om’ray; words of unease slipping from mind to mind like a chill gust of rain. One third wouldn’t be enough . . . not until the next M’hir . . . they’d starve . . . Aryl’s fingers clenched the sides of pane.
Taisal’s fingers were carefully positioned at her sides. She offered
no threat to the Tikitik. How could she? Aryl thought desperately. Her mother’s white-gowned figure was dwarfed by the black creature. Taisal’s Power could likely push it into the swamp but not influence the empty space that was its mind. She couldn’t make them free the gourds from the esask. Without their contents?
The Tikitik were no fools. Each M’hir they brought sufficient power cells to last the Yena, with care, only until the next Harvest.
Without power cells, water pumps would fail, food couldn’t be cooked, the night chill would penetrate. What mattered most, however, was light. Glows needed to be powered as well, before homes and bridges turned dark.
And deadly, Aryl thought, now thoroughly frightened. There were things that hunted the canopy during truenight, things only kept from the Yena by light.
“For everything you’ve brought, we will share half the fresh material from our stores,” Taisal answered, stressing the word “share.”
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