If she took that straightforward route, she’d be walking over the platform and dock—and be visible from the waters of the Lay below. She had time yet, Aryl decided, to take another way home.
Taisal di Sarc had never remarked on her daughter’s constant climbing, except to insist on a tidy and prompt appearance at supper; Costa, well, he’d had her pick plants for him he couldn’t reach on his own. But the Teeracs, Aryl remembered vividly, had taken a dim view of their eldest son, as they put it, chasing that Sarc scamp through the canopy when he should have been learning to braid rope like his kin.
To be fair, she hadn’t been the problem; Bern didn’t like braiding rope.
Or anything else that involved sitting still for five breaths, unless it was to eat. His parents had been forced to make Bern promise not to walk the bridge from their house until he did his share of the work.
He’d braided for a full day and his parents had been cautiously happy. They were less amused when they discovered this diligence had produced a rope ladder that Aryl secured to a branch over their home so Bern could leave without breaking his word.
They’d eventually given up. Bern had eventually become dutiful enough to braid every day, at least until Aryl climbed down the ladder to wave through his window. A ladder that still waited, wrapped in toxin-soaked cloth.
As she left the bridge and climbed the rastis itself, Aryl half smiled. Even Bern’s parents had grudgingly admitted they were perfect for each other.
Had been perfect.
Feeling empty, Aryl moved as quietly as she could with the nets. She crossed between rastis by balancing on their overlapped fronds. A child’s trick, not without risk. Old fronds could crack at their base from the main stalk, young ones were supple and bent unpredictably under the weight of an adult-sized Om’ray. Especially—she staggered once and caught herself—one carrying an extra burden. But she couldn’t be seen from below and there were more reasons than a daring Om’ray for a frond to sway, including the M’hir.
Firstnight had arrived, the sunlight now diffuse and rapidly losing to lengthening shadows. As she climbed, well above the Yena rooftops, spots of warm yellow light peeked through openings between the fronds. Their glow turned the world upside down, as if she walked with her feet to the sky. She fought the disorienting sensation as much as the gloom. This path was as familiar as the floor of her bedroom.
Of course, now she had a new one, Aryl told herself, forced to slow her steps to keep her direction as everything turned dim and strange.
She started as something soft and unseen brushed her face. A nightflier. Harmless, but something had flushed it from its perch.
She didn’t want to know what.
Truenight was almost upon her by the time Aryl reached the ladder. With feverish haste, she tore off its wrappings and tossed them aside. The braided rope had held Bern; she had to trust it could support her plus her load. There wouldn’t be time to lower the pods first.
The steady splashes from the Lay below gave warning—the hunters were out and on the rise, tracking by scent and heat. She could hear their stealthy, clattering movement on every side, claws digging in as they climbed, muted clicks as they shoved one another for best advantage. No screams rent the air yet. They would soon. These hunters killed by eating their prey, swarming in such numbers they fought each other for room to bite.
No swarm would eat her, Aryl vowed. She pushed the ladder over the branch, starting to descend before it finished unrolling. The weight of the nets made her unbalanced, threw the ladder into a swing. She didn’t falter, hands and feet flying from grip to grip. She not only had to get herself down, she had to make sure this ladder wasn’t left as a road for what pursued.
She let go at the third last rung, landing on her toes, unable to believe she’d made it. Shrugging off the nets, she grabbed the retriever cord twisting in the air beside the ladder. With both hands, leaning her whole body into the pull, she drew the ladder back up to its resting place. Release and pull. Release and pull. Om’ray ladders were meant to be removed; Bern had known his craft, however much he detested it. One more. There.
Out of habit, Aryl bundled the loose cord and tossed it over that very convenient frond above the Teeracs’ roof. She spotted a cluster of Om’ray running in her direction and raised a weary hand in salute.
She didn’t move at once. Her body wasn’t inclined to do anything beyond taking deep, shuddering gasps, now that she was safe.
Safe. Her mouth twisted. Here, on this bridge in the midst of well-lit and protected homes, encompassed by the inner warmth of her kind, she could close her eyes without fear and breathe, imagine cleaning the sweat and dust from her skin and hair, plan supper. Sink into sleep.
While Bern and the others remained out there, alone.
They’d each huddle over a glow for truenight, their bodies wedged between branches as high as they could climb. They wouldn’t dare sleep until dawn, though the Lay’s hunters rarely ventured into the sparse open growth of the upper canopy. There were other dangers, things that flew over the rastis crowns by starlight, hunting the hunters. Things that wouldn’t mind plucking a careless Om’ray from his perch.
Council had sent them on Passage; she’d felt their grief. The Tikitik had made it impossible to do otherwise; she couldn’t blame them for needing dresel, too.
Whoever sent that device to spy on their Harvest, she thought, that’s who was responsible. Aryl felt a sudden fierce anger, deeper than any she’d felt before.
It lacked only a face.
She picked up the nets and went to meet her welcomers.
Chapter 12
“SIX PODS. ALL BY YOURSELF.”
Aryl nodded, again, doing her best not to slouch. The pods in question had been taken immediately, their precious dresel to be dried and stored—most within the security of the Cloisters. She, on the other hand, had made it only these few steps from the sorting table toward the meeting hall door. The door through which she had to pass to go home. Her skin itched from bites and thorns, her muscles ached with fatigue, but none of these were as taxing, she discovered, as trying to keep her temper.
Evra and Barit sud Teerac, Bern’s parents, made no such effort. They blocked her exit, their angry voices collecting more than a few looks of disapproval from those working here. It wasn’t Om’ray to confront one another. It wasn’t Om’ray to shout either.
They’d lost their only son. Aryl found a little more patience.
“Did you steal these from Bern?” Evra demanded, again. “Leave him to starve?”
So much for patience. She straightened with a jerk. “I told you—I found them—”
“Don’t lie!!!! You followed him!” thundered Barit. He raised the net in his callused hand and shook it in her face. “We made this for Bern. Did you think we wouldn’t recognize it?”
At this, Haxel Vendan broke away from the discussion she was having with two of her weary scouts to stride over to them. When the First Scout scowled, it twisted the deep puckered scar that ran from her left brow to the corner of her wide mouth, a reminder that she was one of the few Om’ray to survive a stitler trap. She was scowling now. “What’s going on here?”
“Aryl’s obsession with our son!” Usually placid, Barit’s face was flushed and his mouth worked between the words. “She put his Passage at risk—”
“She’s no Chooser,” Evra broke in, her contempt slamming against Aryl’s shields. “She’ll never be. Look at her. Pretending to be adult, as if this is some new game. Any proper Om’ray would have matured by now.” At the appalled hush around her, she paled, but stumbled on. “Everyone knows it. Being the Speaker’s daughter doesn’t give her the right to destroy our son’s chance for happiness.”