Having got her wish, Aryl was suddenly uneasy, a feeling that grew as Marcus led her back to her room. “Sleep,” he urged, once there. “Tomorrow busy.”
He needed the rest more, she judged. She stopped in her doorway. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
The dimmed lighting revealed little of his face. “Aryl safe. Don’t be afraid.” With that, he reached for the panel; she had to step back as the door closed.
When she tried the control panel on her side, it no longer responded. She wasn’t surprised.
Aryl climbed into bed, determined not to worry about Marcus’ “Tomorrow busy.”
Determination didn’t help.
“Aryl.”
No mistaking that deep rumble for any other voice. Aryl cracked one eye open to stare at Janex.
“Aha! Awake!” the Carasian exclaimed joyfully; it seemed anything was cause to celebrate. She opened her other eye, trying not to frown at its enthusiasm. Not the creature’s fault she’d fallen asleep. “Hurry. Eat!”
She shoved the blanket aside and sat up, only then realizing the room was full of an appetizing aroma. One of the creature’s large claws gripped the edge of a tray, a tray bearing a steamy bowl of something yellow and brown, and a cup of sombay.
Tomorrow had arrived. Aryl was overwhelmed by impatience to be gone, to return to the canopy and home. Where she belonged. It was all she could to do muster a gracious gesture of gratitude and say “Thank you.”
The Carasian put the tray on the end of the bed. The small room offered no table or chair, though it did boast a clear window that presently revealed thick mist and nothing more. “Ready soon. We go!”
It turned itself around, managing more by luck than plan to avoid bumping her knees or a wall. Aryl reached for the cup, despite having no appetite.
Janex stopped before the door. “Forgot, me!” It turned again. “For you.” It held out her fich, the one she’d seen Marcus take from the branch. Was it only three days ago? It could be four, she realized, unsure how many truenights she’d spent in the rastis.
Aryl took it, her hand trembling. The homely shape and materials, in this place where everything was strange, stopped her voice in her throat. She looked into those unfathomable eyes, wondering if the creature had any idea how she felt.
“I am sorry,” Janex rumbled, as if it knew very well. Then, “Wish sweet grist Aryl home. Better. Listen not. Triad Third, only,” with a dismissive click of its claws. “I am sorry.”
This scramble of words, some in good order, most not, made too much sense. “Where are they taking me?” she demanded, rising to her feet. “Where?”
“Discovery made,” Janex replied, willing, if unhelpful. Its eyes were busy, moving from side to side at seeming random. “All go. Understand you not. Keep you more. Longer. Do you understand? You go. All go.” Its great head tipped from one side to the other. “Eat.”
With that, the Carasian turned and left her alone.
Dressing was a matter of pulling on the stranger-pants they’d given her—she’d slept in the new shirt—and putting on her new boots. Aryl avoided looking at the tray. The once-appetizing smell turned her stomach.
She understood what mattered. The strangers were keeping her, for whatever reason. Marcus’ promise of “go tomorrow?” They were taking her with them, rather than leave her here.
Which meant taking her away from their locks and building.
On that thought, Aryl tied the loose ends of her too-large shirt around her waist, tucking the fich inside. She retrieved the curved metal implement from the tray, pushing that within the waist of the pants. When she couldn’t break the cup, she left it. Was this all she had?
No. Putting the tray on the floor, she removed the blanket from the bed. Using her teeth, she worried a small opening along one edge; from that beginning, she could rip the fabric. When she was done, she had five long thin strips and two shorter and wider.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, humming under her breath, she braided the longer strips. The result she used to secure the tightly folded remainder of the blanket around her middle. Next she took one of the shorter strips, laying it flat beside her. The cup became a scoop, to dole the driest parts of her breakfast onto the material. She rolled that, tying it in a knot. Into her shirt it went.
Last, but not least, Aryl took the final short strip and used it to bind her hair out of her way.
She had no idea what the strangers would make of her preparations, but she’d done what she could with what she had. First Scout Haxel, she thought wryly, would approve.
Now, to hope for opportunity to escape.
Aryl had dreamed of flying. The model pressing into her ribs had been her first bold step beyond dreams. Now, in the strangers’ aircar, as they called it, she knew herself a fool.
The aircar entered the sky as she’d leap from branch to branch, the embodiment of assured, confident speed. It sped forward under its own mysterious power. The morning mists curled away from its clear, hard roof as if acknowledging a master. Pilip was at the controls, its twig-fingers almost casual.
Aryl had no idea how any of it worked, except that this machine could ignore everything she’d so laboriously learned with her fiches. Her plan to save the unChosen? Her dreams of giant fiches, able to carry Om’ray safely over danger?
Pathetic, she decided glumly.
This aircar carried the four of them. Janex’s bulk filled most of the space behind the front paired seats where Marcus and Pilip sat, looking forward. She was squeezed into a makeshift arrangement of blanket and box beside the Carasian. Behind them were, she decided, too many boxes for a short trip.
The other, larger machine had left first, taking more boxes and the new strangers. She hadn’t spoken to them, though they’d stared at one another. The flitter-stranger couldn’t form proper words at all with its hard mouth. A second voice came out of a white tube it held in front of its face, overlapping its utterances with a sound more like those made by the Humans. It didn’t trust her. Aryl was sure of that much, given the way one of its huge eyes stayed fixed on her if she was near, no matter what else was happening.
The scale-stranger—who reminded her of Myris though its face was nothing like her mother’s sister’s or any face she knew, for that matter—hadn’t looked at her at all. What this meant, Aryl couldn’t guess, yet it moved and spoke its incomprehensible words with a gentle grace she found appealing.
The other two were more Humans. One was like Marcus, though larger and quicker in his speech. The other was like a Chosen Om’ray in having mature, feminine curves to her body and face, but her black hair barely covered her ears. Worse, it hung as dead as a Lost’s. From her alert expressions, she wasn’t mind-damaged. Did Humans deliberately disfigure their Chosen? Aryl found her disturbing.
She’d seen enough of them together to know that, while they’d argued as much as conversed, all deferred to Marcus for decisions. A relief in one way, Aryl thought, since she’d tasted his goodwill toward her. A little too much goodwill. Even now, he looked over his shoulder at her and smiled encouragingly. She made herself smile back.
Such attention worried her. No Om’ray wanted to be of interest to those in charge. Obey and respect Council and the Adepts, of course. Come to their special attention, no. Aryl had learned that lesson. Already, Marcus’ interest had tangled her life, possibly beyond repair. She could only hope he wouldn’t become interested in the rest of Yena as well.
Janex snicked a claw near her ear. “Goodgoodgood. Lake gone,” it proclaimed. “Too young for pool, me.” This drew a laugh from Marcus.
While the comment made no sense, when Aryl looked out she discovered that mists no longer obscured what lay below. For the moment, she forgot her worries, content to see her world from the sky. The Carasian was right. They’d left the Lake of Fire. If she looked back, she could see its flat gray appearance and just make out the strangers’ floating place. The shore itself was already hidden behind towering stalks.