If she knew the marks the Tikitik used, she could put words, here, safe from prying minds. But only those on Council were given that knowledge, to maintain clan records of greater import than the flight of what was, after all, a harvest pest.
She shook her head and concentrated. The glows outside sent slanted beams of light across the ceiling. Truenight was close.
The last pane she filled while absently chewing a strip of dried dresel. She’d regained an appetite, if no interest in finding a proper meal. She toyed with fantastic designs. Wings made of baskets, of rastis fronds, of panes tied together, of wood and rope. She inked a pod dangling beneath each, a pod which, in her mind, wasn’t a pod at all.
“Aryl. Aryl Sarc.”
At the summons from outside a window, Aryl grabbed her panes, leaving the one of the device on the table. “Coming!” she called, rushing in the opposite direction.
Where to hide them? Her room was hopelessly tidy, trunks and mats secured in this season when rastis might bend without warning. She dumped the panes on her bed and tried to lift the mattress, but it had been fastened through the base to the floor. Gathering her drawings again, she ran to Costa’s room, pushing through its curtain.
“Aryl!”
Only her cousin, Seru Parth, could instill one word with that much drama. “You want me dressed, don’t you?” Aryl protested over her shoulder.
Here were hiding places beyond count, so long as moisture didn’t wash away her ink. Avoiding tables draped with greenery, Aryl rearranged a row of unused pots near a back wall panel, then tucked her panes in the space behind. It wasn’t perfect, but in a room full of distractions it would do.
Distractions such as the heavy scent of flowers, and overripe fruit, and the drying black goo Costa valued so highly for his plants that he’d regularly risked the Lay’s inhabitants to pull the stuff from water-soaked buttresses.
Where he belonged, where he should be in her mind . . . Aryl found herself there, facing only that unreal, churning waste. The Dark, her mother had called it, knowing it, too. She pulled away.
A wysp trilled. There was no time left. As she headed for the door, Aryl scrubbed moisture from her eyes, only afterward thinking to check her fingers for ink. At least she was already dressed, her hair neatly bound, her arms and legs wrapped against night biters. On top, she wore her second-best knee-length tunic, the one her mother liked. The cut was old-fashioned, and its yellow thread made her look a child. Still, tonight being thought young might stop hard questions.
She lifted the gauze cowl from around her shoulders to loosely cover her head and ears. Any biters aimed at her face she would swat herself, with great satisfaction. And there would be some. She didn’t need the faint whine and beat against the gauze panels to know. Most of those who lived in the canopy’s uppermost level moved down for safety while the M’hir blew. Unfortunately, they were then drawn to Yena by the glows.
Another bitter gift. Was there any place without the M’hir? Aryl tucked the drawing of the device under one arm and snorted. If there was, she assured herself, it would have its own problems and things after Om’ray blood.
“Finally,” Seru exclaimed. “What did you do? Bathe?”
Aryl made sure the door turned fully closed. “Why the hurry? Are they here?”
Her cousin wrinkled her upturned nose. “The best seats will be gone if we aren’t first. You know that.”
By “best seats,” Seru meant where they could see the eligible unChosen, and be seen. This preoccupation of those who would be Choosers was encouraged by their elders and the subject of lively mocking by those too young to care. Aryl had teased Costa at the last M’hir; this one, she’d planned to savor having Bern look only at her.
“We don’t want to be obvious,” she told her cousin.
Seru frowned and sent a faint questing thought. Sensing it, Aryl offered a layer of cheerful anticipation. A smile lit her cousin’s face. “You’re right, Aryl. We’ll be oh-so-mysterious. I know just the spot. C’mon!”
Burying her shame, easily from Seru if not herself, Aryl let her cousin lead the way. The Power was uneven in the Parths; they produced few Adepts and no healers or scouts. It wasn’t right to use their weakness against them; Power existed for the benefit of the entire clan, for all Om’ray.
She’d make it up to Seru, another time. It was only that she couldn’t face him. Not this soon and not there. Especially not with the Tikitik and secrets to be kept.
They walked the bridge to the meeting hall and joined the line of others waiting to climb the ladders dropped from its broad deck. Glowbeads wrapped the ropes, a decoration that illuminated the rungs and climbers and, more importantly, protected the area below from truenight’s hunters. Thorn-laced vines, normally encouraged to grow beneath Yena buildings, had been tied back to allow safe passage.
Aryl had secured the pane to her back, careful to keep the face of the drawing hidden. With any luck, her mother wouldn’t ask for it. She moved forward a step with the others, smiling a welcome to various relatives. Her best effort, now she was here, seemed little better than a child’s scribbling, her memories of the device meaningless.
Seru was looking around with interest, waving to friends. “I don’t see Bern,” she announced. “Where is he?” This in a too-loud whisper. Seru knew full well why her cousin always won at seek. Though she kept the secret, she wasn’t above borrowing that skill.
Aryl flinched; Seru didn’t notice. “He’s always late,” she managed. Involuntarily, her deeper sense reached to those nearby, tasting their names and emotions.
The result made her misstep and bump into one of the Chosen. Stammering an apology, Aryl shook her head and pulled back.
Despite the smiles and nods, she was surrounded by fear.
Why?
Her hands found and grasped the guide ropes. Like the rest of the Yena, she descended facing outward, her feet sure on the wide rungs, her pace determined by those ahead on the ladder. After one quick look into nothing, she lowered her eyes to watch her knees and Seru’s head.
Truenight. The grove’s shadows had fused to utter black. Other hunters grew bold now, including those that swarmed from the waters of the Lay to seek the unwary. Only once a M’hir, after the Harvest, did the Yena willingly leave their homes and well-lit bridges to descend this late, without the sun. They took with them bundles, lowered by pulley and chain beside the ladders—the Tikitik’s tithe of fresh dresel and sprouts. Aryl glanced left, then right.
She saw only one, two ladders over. One chain, one bundle.
Was this why she’d sensed fear? She frowned, confused. Surely there was no blame to the Om’ray, who’d died trying to collect the pods.
They moved down, the sound of creaking rope and footfalls from twenty ladders louder than breathing. Only those who sheltered in the Cloisters were excused: the Lost, the infirm, the ancient. Babies and crawlers were secured in carriers. Their total lack of mental control—there was nothing as agonizing as the brute HUNGER of a newborn—was shielded from other Om’ray by their parents. For the moment, their big eyes were bright and alert through the fine gauze of their hoods, their expressions content. Most smiled. Like all Om’ray, even the youngest took comfort being together, in moving as one.
But not safety. Aryl remembered Om’ray falling and her hands clenched on the ladder rope, though she didn’t stop.
The ladders ended at another, much different platform. This was solid, as if rooted to the ground beneath the water. Young Om’ray exclaimed over the odd feel of it, staggered, and pretended to be dizzy. Their parents kept them close.