“Cersi, yes.” A claw brushed by her to point at the panel. The device was now moving sideways, sending images of more underwater buildings, each complex, strange, and flawless. “First, them. Seek, we. What was.”
“Cersi, Vy, Ray, Tua, Ye, Pa, Am.” Marcus tapped the panel. “Words, theirs.”
The existence of other worlds, places that might be real despite having no Om’ray, was suddenly the easiest part to believe. A lake—she looked out over the vastness of the Lake of Fire to remind herself—a lake that hadn’t always been? Aryl groped her way around the concept. It was true that the waters of the Lay rose and fell with the seasons. Puddles formed and dried with each rain. She found she could imagine, though with difficulty, a lake this vast not always being here.
As for the buildings—anyone so foolish as to build on the ground risked losing their homes to flood, not to mention the swarms within. Yena knew better. So she could imagine such a disaster befalling these buildings.
Thought Traveler had talked of “before.” Was this what it had meant?
Aryl could imagine all this. But that these strangers could know words used by whoever had lived down there, be they Tikitik, Oud, or Om’ray? And that those words resembled the names of Om’ray clans?
Her skepticism must have shown in a way Marcus could read. “Hoveny Concentrix,” he said to her, saying the new words slowly and clearly. “Know this?”
“No.”
“Hoveny old, their worlds—” he indicated Janex and Pilip, “—old, many worlds. Triads, seekers are.” His inability to communicate more fully frustrated him. She could see it in his face.
That was fine; what little she grasped frustrated her. She felt as if she tried to see something hidden behind too many leaves. Aryl pointed to the image. “Hoveny made this?”
“Proof, no,” this from Pilip. Its fingers tapped against one another. “Hope, maybe.”
Marcus scowled, launching into something long and passionate in their words. Aryl didn’t have to understand to know he defended a position against the Trant. She looked to Janex, who’d been silent longer than usual.
The Carasian’s eyes settled on her. “Come Cersi, hope is.” A pause. “Many Triads seek. Many worlds, hope is. Proof?” Clawtips closed, the barest distance from touching. “So. Words, few. Buildings, less. Hoveny Concentrix, important is. Seekers long, we.”
Why? Aryl wanted to know. Who had these Hoveny been? People like the strangers—people like herself?
Why were they gone?
They’d probably broken an Agreement of their own, she decided grimly. It seemed all too easy to do.
These were matters for Adepts. She’d go home and gratefully give it to her mother and the Council. Costa’s plants would need watering by now. These strangers were interesting but obviously harmless. Let them stare into the water for the rest of their lives.
She was done.
“Take me back,” Aryl ordered, pointing to shore.
Aryl sat at the top of the strangers’ metal tower, back against a support, and kicked her feet back and forth, back and forth. She couldn’t wait to argue with people who could argue back.
Not that the strangers couldn’t communicate. Oh, they understood exactly what she’d wanted—to be returned to shore and the waiting Tikitik. They didn’t care. They had more questions for her. Many more.
When it became plain she was their captive—well fed and treated—but a captive nonetheless, Aryl had left the pointless debate to climb their tower.
From here, the strangers’ floating camp was a small cube of white beneath her. She’d ignored their shouts and pleas; none of them could, it seemed, climb after her. They’d sent their device—or its twin—to spy on her. Though tempted to stick out her tongue, Aryl ignored it, too. They’d taken it away, doubtless to seek more interesting images.
She admired the view. From this vantage, the Lake of Fire stretched in all directions. Behind the gathering cloud—it would rain soon—the sun was on its way to Grona. The flat land of the Oud, stretching across Pana and Tuana, disturbed her, so she faced Yena, imagining herself closer than she was.
One moment the air was heavy, but dry; the next, it filled with rain. She’d never get used to the suddenness of it, Aryl thought. She pulled the loose shirt over her head, drew her knees inside the same shelter. No reason to climb down. She’d been wet before; there were no biters. Lightning was the only risk, and there was no sign of it, or thunder.
She needed time away from their questions and contradictions.
Time, she admitted to herself, to recover her balance, badly shaken by their claims of other worlds and long forgotten races. She’d let herself grow comfortable with them; in return, they’d threatened the foundations of her understanding.
Aryl let her inner sense expand outward, reestablishing the world she knew as real. No need for machine “eyes.” No need for searching or questions. That which was Om’ray surrounded her—was her. She relaxed, having found her place.
She dared reach farther. Yena was a tight glow; all were home and safe. There were a few solitary sparks toward Amna and Pana—newly on Passage, she thought, feeling for those lonely travelers. She’d never think of them as strangers again. No Om’ray could be. Not like the three below.
They were trouble. What they’d found was worse. Aryl didn’t need the wisdom of Council to know that. The Tikitik gave their dead to the Lake of Fire; they used it to punish their failures. They were concerned—or whatever word applied—by the presence of the strangers here. Enough to enlist her to learn more.
The Oud’s new towers? No coincidence. Their teaching these strangers real words was a deliberate act. They had an interest here as well.
Making her wonder what the Tikitik and Oud knew about what lay below the surface.
Her hair dripped; the shirt had soaked through. Resigned to such minor discomfort, Aryl locked her legs around the rounded metal beam. A Yena could sleep thus. She should stay up here until she starved to death, she thought morosely. Leave the strangers a corpse dangling overhead to remind them not to meddle in the affairs of her world.
She gave a bitter laugh. The only problem with that plan? Unless it possessed incredible eyesight, Thought Traveler wouldn’t know it was her corpse. The Tikitik would continue to believe his Yena “scout” wasn’t coming back for some other, more sinister reason.
And the strangers wouldn’t take her back. Even if she could swim, Aryl shuddered, she wouldn’t dare—not in these waters.
Which left her sitting atop their mysterious tower. Its purpose eluded her. They didn’t need it as a lookout. It was topped with a small ball of the white material they were so fond of using. She’d dismissed the tempting notion of trying to pull it off; it was never wise to disturb a nest when you didn’t know what might be home.
The other was something else she chose not to disturb. Taisal had shown she could reach her at will. Until Aryl had something worth saying, she was happier out of that ominous darkness.
Something moved through the rain.
Aryl lunged to her feet, putting the tower’s struts between herself and the approaching dark shape. It was larger than she was, larger than the strangers’ flying machine, and made no sound other than the tinny pound of rain against it. She relaxed slightly at that, realizing the rain must be striking an artificial surface, not a living one, then tensed as whatever it was moved closer and closer.
It touched the tower, metal claws grabbing a crossbeam to hold it in place. She blinked away rain, trying to see it better. Was this Oud?