Aryl took a steadying breath, fighting the urge to turn and climb. Not that she could; every ladder was filled by those coming down. She hated this place. She’d tried to explain to Costa, M’hirs before, how she felt crushed by the weight of the grove above, how she felt imprisoned by the limits of light, sickened by the cold, damp rot that clung to the very air near the Lay Swamp. He’d teased her about loving the sun and air above.
He hadn’t, she thought sadly, been wrong.
The platform’s shape echoed the deck of the meeting hall directly above, though wider to allow the ladders to be anchored at their base. Its wooden surface had been repaired and cleaned beforehand. Today, during daylight, the ever-present slime had been scraped with metal rasps to make the footing secure. No one wanted to slip into the water, too close at hand.
That water was further spanned by three long, narrow extensions from the platform, like flat arms reaching out. Each arm was traced by ropes of glows. That light reflected in the water, not from ripples but from eyes—eyes as far as Aryl could see, disks of white and red and yellow, some paired, some clustered, some alone.
None moved or approached any closer. She heard distant splashes, as if more were coming or busy with easier prey, but knew they weren’t a threat tonight. The respectful distance meant the scouts had poured toxin made from somgelt into the water. They would have soaked the edges of the platforms with it, too. As if in proof, small corpses rolled and bumped against the wood, their bellies bloated and white. The larger, more dangerous hunters would avoid the taste until it wore or washed away. Fortunately, the M’hir meant no rain, for now.
She slapped at a biter and drew her hood farther over her face.
“Move, Aryl. You’re blocking the others.” Seru’s urging was hushed; she seemed to respond to the tension everywhere. The Chosen were coming down the ladders and in a hurry—impatient, Aryl decided, as well as anxious. The Council and their Speaker, her mother, would be last.
To the right was less crowded; the two headed that way, moving around the massive buttresses that rose up through the platform to support the rastis itself. The flattened outer sides of those roots had been draped with fabric laced with toxin; in front of the fabric hung thick benches supported by rope. Most were full of Om’ray, sitting cross-legged to give their neighbors below more space. Seru glanced up and stopped abruptly. “Wila saved us seats!” Without waiting, her cousin climbed from one bench to the next.
Aryl ducked her head and pretended she hadn’t seen. She slipped through the milling crowd, seeking anywhere alone.
As she passed where a buttress arched overhead, a figure stepped from its deep shadow to confront her. Her inner sense knew it was Bern even as her eyes saw a stranger, his normally cheerful face pale and set in grim lines, his hands clenched at his sides. There were red marks—burns—on his cheek and neck.
“What did you do to me?” His voice was wrong, too, high-pitched and hoarse. “Tell me!”
“Hush,” Aryl pleaded, appalled. A quick glance over her shoulder showed no one paying attention, but she slipped into the shadow he’d left, relieved when he followed. “I don’t know,” she told him, quick and quiet. “I don’t!”
“I shouldn’t be alive.” It was an accusation. “You did something. I felt your Power, Aryl!”
“I couldn’t let you fall—” she began.
“So you brought me back to life?”
He was making less than no sense; the glint of eyes was all she could see of his face. “What are you talking about?”
“I died, Aryl,” he said. “I was gone. You—somehow you brought me back.”
“You think you died?” she repeated, stunned. “That’s ridiculous.” Everyone knew what made them Om’ray faded to nothing once the flesh died. Adepts waited for that moment before allowing the husk to be discarded. There was no putting the two back together.
“What else could have happened?” His anguish filled her mind until she feared it would betray them before their voices. “I was in—it was dark . . . moving . . . cold—I wasn’t real—”
Guessing where his mouth was, she put two fingers across his lips. “Listen to me, Bern. You didn’t die. I—yes, it was something I did, but it was a—” she hesitated, loath to use Taisal’s description, even to repeat it, “—a place I pushed you into, trying to keep you safe. Not death. All I could think—” She was aware of his turmoil, of the tension and fear of others, suddenly aware of too much, as if Bern’s closeness weakened her ability to keep what-was-Aryl separate and safe. A wave of guilt, sickening and strong, surged up through her. She tried to contain it, but couldn’t. She heard him gasp.
I wished you safe, she sent, giving up the struggle. You, not the others, not Costa. I wanted you on the bridge and you were. That’s what happened.
Bern’s arms came around her then. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder; he was taller than she remembered. The unChosen finished their growth in spurts. Maybe she’d be taller next.
Aryl. Heart-kin. I’m so sorry. Images of Costa flickered past under the words, of her curled on a sheet looking—looking dead?—then of those falling past him, one after another . . . the shock . . . the grief . . .
Fighting back tears, Aryl shoved Bern’s thoughts from hers. “Enough!” Pulling free wasn’t as easy; he kept staring down at her without moving, his fingers pressed into the flesh of her arms. Did he see her or visions? She took another anxious glance. The crowd was thinning as those left climbed to the benches, but they were still unnoticed. “Bern, you great oaf,” she said gently, quietly. “Let go. I’m not a branch.”
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.