Taisal took the pane and passed it to the Tikitik without a glance at its surface. “This is a representation of the device. Do you recognize it?” She’d apparently decided to avoid strangers and worlds altogether.
Aryl agreed wholeheartedly. She eased back, hoping to be unnoticed.
The small homely pane looked wrong in the Tikitik’s hands. Aryl swallowed a protest as the creature raised it to its face. To have something from her hands being groped by those gray—worms? Her mother gave her a sharp look, and Aryl tightened her shields to keep in her thoughts.
The creature used its eyes to examine the drawing, that was all, tipping the pane from side to side as if seeking the best light. It was so normal a scrutiny that Aryl relaxed, very slightly.
“Who made this? You?” Four eyes aimed at her. “You were there. What else did you see?”
Aryl wanted to sink into the wood. No one but the appointed Speaker could address a Tikitik. Clearly, the rule didn’t hold in reverse, which wasn’t fair. She looked to Taisal for guidance and received another warning frown.
“This shows the device,” her mother repeated, avoiding the issue of the artist too. “It was observed to move against the M’hir, to hover in place. When wastryls collided with it, there was a release of light, fire, and noise, like a lightning strike. We don’t know if it was by accident or—”
“Not an accident,” the Tikitik interrupted, eyes back to Taisal. “This disrupted the Harvest, causing us hardship. Making you less.” It bobbed its head once, then added, “We will endure. You may not. Do you have a death dispute with the strangers?”
Not stupid, Aryl decided. Insane. From the swell of outrage pressing against her shields, she didn’t think she was the only Om’ray reaching that conclusion.
Taisal clapped her hands. Those lowering bundles to the platform froze, the pulleys and chains swinging gently with their loads. “It is against the Agreement, Speaker,” she said over the faint creaks, “to use terms without common meaning.”
The other Tikitik had been untying gourds from their mounts and passing them to waiting Om’ray on the dock. They halted, too, hissing to themselves.
“What do you need defined?” their Speaker asked. “I can simplify. Is this,” it lifted the pane, “trouble of your making?”
“Of course not!” As her words echoed across the water, Taisal made a conciliatory gesture Om’ray would understand, if not the Tikitik. “How could it be?” she reasoned. “You talk of strangers. Yena has seen only two such in the last handful of M’hirs, Om’ray on lawful Passage. You talk of another world.” Here her voice showed strain. “We know only this world.” Her hands lifted to indicate those behind her, then dropped to her sides. “You have what evidence there is of a device not of our making, a device that has cost too many Om’ray lives already. It’s your puzzle to solve, Speaker, not ours.”
Drawing conclusions from part of this, at least, the Tikitik tucked Aryl’s drawing inside its chest band, to join the fragment. It bobbed its head twice, a signal that sent the others back to work. Taisal hesitated, then nodded to the Om’ray. As the sounds of effort resumed—the slide of chain, the dropping of bundles and gourds, heavy breathing—Aryl felt the tension ease.
She took advantage of the moment to move away from Taisal and the Tikitik, one step. Two. When neither paid attention, she turned and almost ran to her seat.
“You’re shaking,” Bern whispered as she settled into place.
“You would be, too,” she retorted as quietly. “I don’t know how my mother can stand there like that.”
They’d be finished soon. Couldn’t be soon enough, in Aryl’s opinion, an impatience felt by all around her. Once the exchange was complete, the Om’ray would ascend to the safety of their homes. They could forget these not-there creatures existed until the next M’hir.
Which suddenly seemed impossibly distant. There were two hundred and seventy-seven Yena left, between the Cloisters and those here. “Did you hear? Half the dresel is all we’ll have,” she whispered to Bern, afraid to send. “We’ll starve.”
She wasn’t sure what starving to death would be like; she’d rather not find out.
“Of course we won’t. Council will have a plan. For all we know,” his breath tickled her ear, “they’ve hidden supplies against just such a day.”
Aryl kept her doubts to herself. Fresh dresel rotted within days. After each Harvest, the Om’ray pressed their share into flatcakes, dried over heat and kept in sealed casks. To be eaten, the cakes were remoistened and baked—Aryl’s favorite treat was baked dresel with sweet sap—or more usually ground to a powder and combined with other foods as a spice.
Tikitik wouldn’t touch dried dresel, considering it ruined. There wouldn’t be any left anyway. As always, the Yena had feasted while they waited for the Watchers to signal the M’hir, using up the last supplies before Harvest. It was tradition, to make way for fresh new stores. Which now seemed a very bad idea, to Aryl’s thinking—though in their defense, there had always been more dresel harvested than Yena could ever use, more than enough for the Tikitik as well.
Council would meet tonight, Aryl knew, trying to shake off her fear. Their combined wisdom was beyond that of mere unChosen. Bern was right. They would know what to do. They knew everything.
They didn’t know about her, something deep inside countered. They didn’t know about the Dark the M’hir had shown her.
“Aryl.” Bern’s shoulder pressed against hers. “Cheer up. We’ll be all right.”
Heart-kin, she sent, grateful for his dependable warmth, and he smiled down at her in a way no one else ever had. The guilt she carried faded like morning mist. They belonged together, Aryl knew. Whatever was to come, they’d face it together.
And when she was a Chooser, Bern Teerac would be her Choice.
Chapter 8
ARYL AWOKE THE NEXT DAY to a bedlam of footsteps and voices. She jumped from the bed and rushed to the window panel, pulling aside its curtain.
The bridges were bustling with Om’ray, but only those who, to her inner sense, were connected by unseen bonds, some to one another, others to those left in homes. The Chosen.
Adults were always, in Aryl’s opinion, in a hurry to do the incomprehensible. She yawned, rubbing her eyes.
They were burdened, she noticed curiously. Some carried wooden chests with ornate carvings, awkward to manage on the more narrow bridges. Family heirlooms? Others had bags or objects wrapped in cloth. She couldn’t guess. Whatever they carried, they were taking it to the meeting hall.
After a quick wash, Aryl pulled on her tunic and shoved her hair back in its net. She wanted breakfast and answers, not necessarily in that order.
Her mother would know.
Her mother, it turned out, had left for the Cloisters. Meanwhile, her mother’s sister, Myris Sarc, and her Chosen, Ael sud Sarc, arrived to take Aryl’s home apart. They claimed consent but wouldn’t explain. So Aryl sat at one end of the Sarc table, scowling so fiercely her forehead hurt, and took her time chewing the last bite of the tiny portion of cold breakfast she’d been allowed.
“You could help instead of glaring,” Ael suggested after a while. Like many Kessa’ats, he was dark of hair and slight. He was an excellent climber—only a still-healing ankle had kept him from this M’hir’s Harvest. Myris was a younger version of Taisal, fair and given, normally, to irrepressible giggles. Aryl adored them both.
Until now.
She scowled harder.
She watched as her aunt and uncle opened every cupboard and pulled out the contents, piling these with care on the table until she had to lean to one side to keep an eye on what the pair did next. They pulled down the storage slings, dumping their contents with less care, as if running out of time or patience. Piles began to grow, on the counter, before the window panels.