Her stomach lurched at the concept, and Aryl turned her attention to seeing who spoke.
She dared crawl into the new shadow. Once there, she found herself looking at the underside of a silvery metal platform, curved yet not all that strange—unless she considered that it was floating in air.
Aryl pulled the gauze from her face and head, dislodging a few biters who’d hung on in hope. The metal of the bottom wasn’t smooth. She longed to touch it, but it was too high above her. She counted six open tubes, evenly spaced, and noted a series of long bumps sloped from one end to the other. Between the bumps were small clear domes with moving parts within—proof, if she needed any, that the device spying on the Harvest had been made by the same hands.
If they had hands.
The voices had continued their utterings. From the changing volume, they were now closer to the trunk than she was. Aryl cautiously rose to her feet, poised to hurry back to Joyn at any sign she’d been discovered. But she had to see.
The second vine she tested took her weight. Aryl climbed hand over hand until she reached the swell of the branch. Its bark was too smooth to grip, but an empty stinger nest offered support for one bare foot.
Hopefully empty.
Her toes found their hold and she pushed upward, slowly. Slowly. She had to slide her head and shoulders through rootlets, then twist to avoid coming too close to a round dark hole that probably housed a nesting brofer or two. They wouldn’t bite unless disturbed. Hopefully, she repeated to herself.
At last she could see the rest of the flying machine.
Like a platform, the upper surface was open to the sky, but this wasn’t designed for standing or walking. There were seats, two of them, and an area behind those with some disappointingly ordinary boxes.
Though they weren’t, as far as Aryl could tell, made of wood or metal, but of something slick and white.
A sharp crack made her ease back down until she peered through twigs. The voices were returning to their craft. The giant branch vibrated, as if to the footsteps of something much heavier than an Om’ray. Something familiar passed by—her bag, swinging in the grip of . . .
Somehow, Aryl didn’t move or let out a sound.
Her bag was suspended from the dainty tips of an immense black claw—easily the size of Joyn. She knew better than to attract the attention of anything with that kind of armament. The claw, and her bag, continued past to the flying machine; the branch continued to complain until she worried it might snap.
She couldn’t make out more of the creature. Its back was a huge dome of gleaming black, completely blocking her view.
The owner of the second voice was approaching. Aryl held her breath, wondering what kind it would be.
A boot appeared in front of her nose. A black boot that might have been leather, with fastenings of metal. Her eyes traveled up a loose tube of brown fabric, finely woven, then stopped, riveted by four fingers and a thumb that carefully held a small object.
Her fich.
Held by a hand twin to hers.
Another boot and leg moved by. Then she was staring at the back of an Om’ray.
Someone on Passage? Aryl’s foot pushed against the nest as she hurried to climb up. At the same time, she instinctively reached to discover who this could be, wearing such clothes, keeping such company . . .
Nothing.
To her inner sense, the Om’ray standing above her didn’t exist.
The wrongness made Aryl dizzy, and she grabbed desperately to keep from falling. The rustle attracted attention at last. The not-real Om’ray turned and looked in her direction. The giant black creature left the flying machine with disturbing agility, its pair of claws snapping in the air as if seeking her throat.
The resulting violent sway of the branch drew a cry of protest from the other and knocked Aryl loose.
She plummeted.
Her hand shot out and wrapped around the vine she’d climbed before; her other hand joined it and she half-slid down to the safety of the branch below. Then, she was running.
Behind her, voices rumbled and spoke in urgent tones.
Not one word made sense.
Joyn asked no questions. Ready the instant Aryl reappeared, he launched himself into her arms, settling against her chest. She couldn’t carry him for long, but she didn’t think of detaching him here.
Not when that—that abomination was still close.
FEAR.
She didn’t protest, quite sure her own emotions were under no better control. But her movements had to be, and Aryl finally slowed just enough to plan the best path through the nekis to the old rastis and down.
Could the flying machine follow?
A question she couldn’t answer.
Her back and legs were already burning. Aryl looked at the black-haired head nestled against her chest. “Joyn,” she said reluctantly. “We have to go quickly from here. Can you do that for me? Be fast?”
A flash of proud assurance. He let go at once, his blue eyes bright. “I’m too fast,” the child boasted. “My mother says so.”
“I’m sure she does.” Aryl’s hands wanted to shake as she reattached the line between them. “Don’t go too fast for me, please. You know I’m old.” She glanced up through the canopy. No sign of the machine.
No voices either.
They went down, Aryl keeping the pace to Joyn’s ability. Down was harder on them both. She used the line to lower him where she could, carried him where the best handholds were too far apart for a child. It wasn’t the way home—not directly. She couldn’t risk being followed there.
All the while, she fought to understand and failed.
Only the dead were silent—even the Lost had a presence that could be sensed, minds to receive instruction. But the silent Om’ray hadn’t been dead. He had walked, spoken, been curious about her fich.
All while not being real.
When at last convinced they weren’t pursued, Aryl stopped to let them both catch their breath. They were, she judged, a tenth’s hard climb from home.
She glanced at Joyn, sitting at her feet, and revised her estimate. His eyes were half closed, and he gave little hiccups of misery. Two tenths—maybe more. Worse, the air was ominously heavy. The afternoon rains would arrive long before they were safe.
Aryl considered the problem. Rimis Uruus, Joyn’s mother, would know exactly where he was. They were to be back soon. She’d worry, perhaps sense her child’s agitation despite the distance. At any moment, if she hadn’t already, she’d follow her bond to her son.
So Rimis and whoever came with her would meet them halfway or better. There was safety from some threats in numbers; to others, they presented a more appetizing target.
“Let’s go.” Aryl rubbed the child between his thin shoulders. “Here—I saved you a bit of cake.” It was hers, but he’d need it more. She was right. Joyn pushed it into his mouth with both hands, gesturing his thanks as he chewed. “Drink. Not too much.” When he handed back the flask, she took a long swallow, then left it hanging. There’d be rain to drink soon, or they’d be beyond thirst.
Either way, extra weight was their enemy. She’d learned that lesson retrieving the pods. Aryl continued divesting herself of what she could do without. Her boots from her belt. Her longknife—after sober consideration—joined them. As Joyn watched, wide-eyed, she shed her waterproof over-jerkin and its hood, though she left the gauze wrap on her arms and legs. Some bites could end their journey and, thinking of that, Aryl left the thorns in her leg. If she pulled them free, they’d bleed and attract worse trouble.
“I can take off my clothes, too.” He was already pulling at his belt fastening.
“You need yours,” she told him. “Tough old skin, remember?”
Joyn gave her that by now familiar doubting look, but stopped. If they were caught in the rains—when they were, Aryl corrected, tasting the air—he’d chill too quickly without the waterproof layer.