“You may not!” the creature continued, its voice shrill and loud. “You may not! Fire is dangerous! Burning is Forbidden! The Yena agreed never to use fire!”
“We didn’t agree to sit in our homes and die.” Taisal spoke quietly, but with emphasis. “If we run out of power, we’ll do what we must. Do we understand one another, Speaker?”
Slowly, as if grudgingly, the Tikitik lowered its head. Aryl let out the breath she hadn’t remembered holding and relaxed her death’s grip on the pane. “One half of your stores,” it said, “for one half of what we brought.”
“Of our choosing,” Taisal countered quickly.
The Tikitik raised the tip of one of its three long fingers. “Of your choosing,” it agreed, “in return for that.” The tip bent to indicate the piece from the flying machine. “We share an interest in the cause of our mutual problem.”
“Done. Fetch the dresel.”
Taisal didn’t confer with the Council seated behind her, not in any way Aryl could see or sense. The Speaker’s authority, here and now, was unquestioned. Perhaps, Aryl thought, their leaders were preoccupied with the future and how they would manage. She certainly hoped someone was thinking about that. Her stomach growled.
Several Om’ray immediately ran up the ladders, heading for the warehouses. Taisal took their evidence from the First Scout, passing it to the Tikitik. The creature raised the fragment of the device to the fleshy protuberances where its mouth should be. They wiggled and fussed over the pitted curve like busy fingers.
It was, Aryl decided, the most disgusting thing she’d ever seen. The inspection, if that’s what it was, was thankfully brief. “This belongs to the strangers,” the Tikitik announced, tucking the piece within the band that crossed its chest. It stuck out at a funny angle, but Aryl didn’t laugh.
Strangers?
She wasn’t the only one taken aback. The word passed from mind to mind, laced with confusion. Even Taisal looked puzzled. A stranger was an unChosen from another Clan. The only way a stranger could arrive was by Passage; he remained a stranger only until Choice. There was no other meaning, not to Om’ray.
Who were “strangers” to the Tikitik?
Interlude
JORG SUD MENDALOR RAN A finger along a benchtop, then scrutinized its tip with great care, his thick gray brows almost meeting with the effort. “Well done, Enris,” he pronounced at last, giving his best apron a tug to align it properly. “I’d say we’re ready.”
The younger Om’ray hid a smile. His father didn’t mean the not so dust free though tidy surface or the racks of well-oiled tools. But neither of them would mention the strategic relocation of the bench itself. Jorg was aware of his son’s abilities; it was he and Enris’ mother, Ridersel Mendolar, who had stressed the importance of keeping them private. Tuana’s Council was tolerant of new Talent, if kept from the Oud.
At that thought, Enris lost his good humor. He opened the nearest side window and gazed out at the street. Shopkeepers had lifted their awnings, but only a trickle of customers hurried between. Few ventured out when a Visitation was imminent. “She’s going to try something,” he growled. “You know it as well as I.”
“Naryn?” Jorg came to stand beside him. “Don’t worry. She’ll behave.”
Enris couldn’t remember when he’d first seen over his father’s head, but now the other’s mass of curling silver-gray reached no higher than his shoulder. Jorg’s own shoulders, though strong, were curved from seasons of work, his neck permanently bent. He felt a surge of protectiveness as well as pride. His father was the best metalworker the Tuana had ever had, known as much for his kind heart and generosity as the beauty of his creations. He would, no one doubted, become a valued member of Council when Enris’ grandmother passed on.
Just thinking of Council made Enris frown. “They can make all the edicts they want. She’ll disobey. Council can’t control her.”
His father chuckled. “Which would be why Naryn and her friends were invited to the Cloisters for the day.”
“How—” Enris answered his own question. “Council offers those scatterbrains a chance to become Adepts.”
“Oh, they might pass tests of Power.” At Enris’ offended huff, Jorg patted him on the back. “They’ll never have your control, so don’t worry. You’re far more likely to—”
No, he sent, horror coloring the denial. “I work with these,” he said aloud, holding up his callused hands.
Jorg patted Enris again, firmly. “And well you do.” It was his turn to glance out the window. “If they come today at all, it won’t be till sunset. Would you like to help me with a casting? There’s a bit of a trick with this one. I could use your knack with puzzles.”
“You’re trying to stop me worrying, aren’t you?” Enris complained as he followed his father to the vat.
Jorg took up the partly finished mold, examining its reversed shaping of a gear-to-be. His eyes were bright with mischief as he glanced over it at his son. “Is that possible?”
Enris started to protest, then the corner of his lips twitched upward. “Show me the problem, and I’ll let you know.”
Chapter 7
THE TIKITIK SPEAKER SEEMED TO grasp that it had confounded the Om’ray Speaker, if not how. “The material,” it declared, “is from another world. It must have come with the strangers.”
Someone snickered. Bern was shaking his head. There was, of course, no such thing. The world, as everyone could feel from birth, was defined by the seven Om’ray Clans. There was nothing beyond them. How could there be? If you could somehow move farther than that connection could reach, you would be nowhere at all.
But Aryl thought of the Dark. She could sense its churning without effort. It was where she’d somehow pushed Bern to move him to safety, where she’d felt drawn in her grief. Her mother denied it was a place yet admitted it was real. Bern had described it as if he’d seen it for himself.
Was this what the Tikitik meant? Another world beyond this one—unseen but within reach of Power. Could something not-there to her inner sense feel it, too? She felt on the cusp of grasping something vital ...
“Aryl Sarc.”
Bern nudged her and she started, only then realizing she’d heard her name. “What—?”
“Are you asleep? The Speaker wants you. Hurry!” Sure enough, Taisal was beckoning impatiently.
Cheeks warm, Aryl hopped down from the bench, careful not to drop the pane. That would be all she’d need.
Her steps slowed involuntarily as she entered the long crossed shadows cast by the Tikitik. The creature towered overhead like a nightmare. It watched her approach with that disturbing all-eyes’ focus, and Aryl forced her own gaze to the planking underfoot. She walked forward until she could see the hem of her mother’s gown, then stopped.
She smelled something musty, like a blanket left too long in a chest, and yet sweet, like the juice from one of Costa’s plants. The combination roused memories of her grandmother’s tiny figure, huddled deep and motionless within faded cushions. An Adept had come each morning for the full five days of a fist before pronouncing the body an empty shell and ready for disposal in the Lay beneath the Sarc grove. Until then, he’d claimed something of Unnel Sarc’s Power lingered, as though by outlasting her Chosen, she’d locked her mind’s grip on the world.
Dresel laced this scent as well. Aryl slid her eyes sideways. The Tikitik had blunt claws on the ends of its long toes.
“The drawing?”
Aryl jerked to attention and met her mother’s almost imperceptible frown. “Yes, Speaker. Here it is.”