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 Counciclass="underline" 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.
While 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.