Reap the Wild Wind

by Czerneda, Julie E

  In this way, slow and careful, she climbed around and up the trunk. She kept to the shadows and, when she reached the branch below the one where they’d stood to launch the fiches, she laid herself on it. Pacing each move with a pause, keeping those moves random, she crawled forward. Biters feasted on her feet and ankles. At least, she thought wryly as she crushed a familiar plant beneath her, she’d already fired this thickle’s stock of weapons.

  The shadow’s edge, where the sunlight first reached this branch and prompted a cluster of bud-tipped twigs, was her destination. From there, she should have a view of the sky, without being exposed herself. Aryl eased her hand forward.

  The shadow grew.

  Instantly, Aryl flattened against the wood. Her hand crept to the hilt of the longknife at her side and she tensed.

  Instead of the fierce cry of a hunter, she heard something else.

  Voices.

  Chapter 16

  VOICES? ARYL SLOWLY TURNED her head to look up, straining to see past the obstructing branch and the plants growing along its sides.

  Two voices. One low and steady, that reminded her of Cetto’s deep tone. The other was lower still. Every so often there’d be another sound, as if pieces of metal clicked together.

  Something was wrong with those speaking. The cadence of sound, its complexity, suggested words. But the result was gibberish, as if flitters tried to repeat odd syllables of overheard speech.

  The Tikitik communicated something to one another with incomprehensible hisses, she thought, entranced. Were these almost-but-not familiar sounds words of another kind?

  The Tikitik— Aryl’s whirling thoughts kept coming back to them, the only non-Om’ray she’d met. Their Speaker had claimed the device belonged to strangers from another world.

  What other world?

  Her stomach lurched at the concept, and Aryl turned her attention to seeing who spoke.

  She dared crawl into the new shadow. Once there, she found herself looking at the underside of a silvery metal platform, curved yet not all that strange— unless she considered that it was floating in air.

  Aryl pulled the gauze from her face and head, dislodging a few biters who’d hung on in hope. The metal of the bottom wasn’t smooth. She longed to touch it, but it was too high above her. She counted six open tubes, evenly spaced, and noted a series of long bumps sloped from one end to the other. Between the bumps were small clear domes with moving parts within— proof, if she needed any, that the device spying on the Harvest had been made by the same hands.

  If they had hands.

  The voices had continued their utterings. From the changing volume, they were now closer to the trunk than she was. Aryl cautiously rose to her feet, poised to hurry back to Joyn at any sign she’d been discovered. But she had to see.

  The second vine she tested took her weight. Aryl climbed hand over hand until she reached the swell of the branch. Its bark was too smooth to grip, but an empty stinger nest offered support for one bare foot.

  Hopefully empty.

  Her toes found their hold and she pushed upward, slowly. Slowly. She had to slide her head and shoulders through rootlets, then twist to avoid coming too close to a round dark hole that probably housed a nesting brofer or two. They wouldn’t bite unless disturbed. Hopefully, she repeated to herself.

  At last she could see the rest of the flying machine.

  Like a platform, the upper surface was open to the sky, but this wasn’t designed for standing or walking. There were seats, two of them, and an area behind those with some disappointingly ordinary boxes.

  Though they weren’t, as far as Aryl could tell, made of wood or metal, but of something slick and white.

  A sharp crack made her ease back down until she peered through twigs. The voices were returning to their craft. The giant branch vibrated, as if to the footsteps of something much heavier than an Om’ray. Something familiar passed by— her bag, swinging in the grip of . . .

  Somehow, Aryl didn’t move or let out a sound.

  Her bag was suspended from the dainty tips of an immense black claw— easily the size of Joyn. She knew better than to attract the attention of anything with that kind of armament. The claw, and her bag, continued past to the flying machine; the branch continued to complain until she worried it might snap.

  She couldn’t make out more of the creature. Its back was a huge dome of gleaming black, completely blocking her view.

  The owner of the second voice was approaching. Aryl held her breath, wondering what kind it would be.

  A boot appeared in front of her nose. A black boot that might have been leather, with fastenings of metal. Her eyes traveled up a loose tube of brown fabric, finely woven, then stopped, riveted by four fingers and a thumb that carefully held a small object.

  Her fich.

  Held by a hand twin to hers.

  Another boot and leg moved by. Then she was staring at the back of an Om’ray.

  Someone on Passage? Aryl’s foot pushed against the nest as she hurried to climb up. At the same time, she instinctively reached to discover who this could be, wearing such clothes, keeping such company . . .

  Nothing.

  To her inner sense, the Om’ray standing above her didn’t exist.

  The wrongness made Aryl dizzy, and she grabbed desperately to keep from falling. The rustle attracted attention at last. The not-real Om’ray turned and looked in her direction. The giant black creature left the flying machine with disturbing agility, its pair of claws snapping in the air as if seeking her throat.

  The resulting violent sway of the branch drew a cry of protest from the other and knocked Aryl loose.

  She plummeted.

  Her hand shot out and wrapped around the vine she’d climbed before; her other hand joined it and she half-slid down to the safety of the branch below. Then, she was running.

  Behind her, voices rumbled and spoke in urgent tones.

  Not one word made sense.

  * * *

  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 littl
e 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.