The canopy. From this unique perspective, straight down, it appeared fragile and thin, torn by gaps filled with either the vivid green of dense young growth, greedy for sunlight, or the black consuming flood of the Lay Swamp. It was impossible to see the truth, that the canopy was a strong, safe passageway, lush with its own life. Safe, Aryl reminded herself, for those who understood its nature.
It was where she belonged. Her longing was so great, she touched Marcus on the shoulder, careful to keep her shields tight. When he turned, she pointed outside, then put her hand on her chest. “Home. That’s my home, Marcus. Please. Let me go.”
He dutifully looked out. The side of his face she could see grew pale, as if what he saw frightened him.
“Home,” she insisted. “Take me down.”
Instead, he said something to Janex, who rumbled back what seemed argument. Aryl clenched her hands together, hoping the giant creature could convince its companion where she couldn’t.
Sure enough, Marcus spoke their words to Pilip, who muttered but moved its fingers on the controls. The aircar began to descend!
Aryl didn’t say a word, but her head snapped toward Yena, so much closer than before. She didn’t try to reach for Taisal, not yet. When they stopped at a branch—that’s what they would do, she was sure. Let her be free first, and away from their curiosity.
They dropped to barely below the height of the tallest rastis, but no farther. The aircar resumed its forward motion, now weaving between those giants.
“What are you doing?” She couldn’t help the outburst. To be this close . . . “Stop! Please!”
“Aryl, peace.” Janex laid its large right hand claw on her lap. “Fly low, better you see home. Not go home. We go all. There.” The claw lifted to point ahead, almost to Grona. “Sorry.”
Nothing was straight ahead. Nothing but rock, where mountains stopped the groves. “No,” she whispered.
“Sorry,” the Carasian repeated, taking back its claw.
Marcus put his arm on the back of his seat to twist and face her. “Sorry too, Aryl,” as if he meant it. “Home later. Promise.” As if he could.
Aryl turned to look outside, blinking away tears.
So she was the first to see the figures swarming through the branches of the nekis ahead. They moved faster than Om’ray, differently, staying near the main trunk. There had to be hundreds, she thought. Then, with a shock, she realized who she saw. “Tikitik!” she cried. “Look out!”
The strangers had spotted them, too, now busy talking in their stupid words and paying no attention to her warning. To Aryl’s horror, the aircar slowed and began to descend. The strangers’ curiosity was taking them too close. “No!” she cried.
She grabbed for Pilip, for Marcus. Janex stopped her, saying words, words, more words, holding her in her seat. Aryl wouldn’t listen. She struggled against what felt like a piece of metal across her chest. They were in danger and taking her with them.
“Stupid strangers!” she shouted. “No!”
A web of massive vines, the kind Om’ray used to build bridges that would last M’hirs, slammed over the clear roof. More stretched in front. Caught, the aircar slewed wildly to one side, making the first noise she’d heard from it, a shrill metal on metal complaint. It jerked the other way . . . back again. Aryl clung to Janex’s claw with all her might as Pilip fought to steer them free of the trap.
For that’s what it was. Aryl could see Tikitik running across the vines toward them, balancing as surely as any Om’ray, faster than a nightmare. They might have only knives against the metal machine, but the aircar kept dropping, each plunge sickening and quick. More vines landed on top, pulled taut by the machine’s fight.
Aryl had watched brofers trying to escape webs like this. Watched them try and fail.
Fail and die.
But the strangers weren’t done yet. The roof went from clear to opaque. Aryl jerked her arm away from the side as it grew hot. A vibration rattled her teeth. Then they were moving!
The roof cleared, though now it was streaked with black. The instant Janex let her go, Aryl swept around to look back.
Vines burned in midair. Tikitik fell. Some clung to the scorched remains of branches or the ends of other vines, fighting with one another so that more fell. There was fire.
It was the Harvest . . . the Harvest . . . Aryl shoved her fist into her mouth to keep herself quiet.
It wasn’t the Harvest, but it was.
This time as the strangers sailed away, leaving carnage in their wake . . .
They took her with them.
Chapter 24
SOMETHING WAS ABOUT TO change. Soon. The taste was strong, as when she’d sensed the coming of the M’hir. Whatever it was, she knew it would be bad. Very bad.
Not that this moment was much better, Aryl thought. Marcus and Pilip conferred in anxious tones, the Trant’s twig-fingers now locked on certain controls. The Carasian had begun talking into a tube like the one the flitter-stranger had used, its voice a monotone, repeating the same sounds over and over. Beneath the voices, the aircar whined and groaned, shuddering more and more often.
Aryl provided the only help she could, keeping still and quiet. Janex spared some eyes for her once in a while, but otherwise, she was ignored.
Out the window, through the smudges she realized now were traces of burning, she watched their progress over the canopy. Pilip hadn’t taken them any higher; in fact Aryl judged they were steadily, if slowly, descending. She didn’t take this as hopeful.
The canopy was changing. Yena Om’ray did come this far, to tend the Watchers, or, if on Passage to Grona, to pick their way through the rock cuts between mountain ridges. Climbing the mountains themselves was, Aryl had been told, impossible. A bleak and inhospitable landscape.
The reality she could see past the Human’s head was worse. Huge sloping walls of brown and red-streaked gray rose in front; the closer they approached, the less sky was visible above. Clouds appeared, snagged on the rocks like dresel wings caught on branches.
How tall were mountains? She wondered this for the first time in her life. It explained why the M’hir roared, if this was the barrier it had to overcome first.
The aircar began to climb. Did they have to cross, too?
The shudders and vibrations continued. Aryl thought of her fich, dropping from the sky, thought of falling, thought of . . .
Suddenly, it was calm, silent. Before she could sigh with relief, the aircar tipped forward and plunged toward the ground.
Pilip let out a cry, fingers working frantically. The plunge slowed, but didn’t stop.
Then everything did.
The first thing Aryl noticed was the smell. Not of growing things. Of the dead.
She fought her way to full consciousness; short of that, she realized she was pinned in place, unable to move. She pushed with all the strength fear gave her, gasped, and pushed again. Again.
Her arm was free. A shoulder. She pushed harder, sobbing with effort, and light blinded her as something shifted loose above. She paused, trying to see, then smelled something else. Smoke.
Desperate now, Aryl shoved and squirmed. Her clothes tore. She left skin behind. But finally, she was free of what held her.
Who.
The air was thick with fumes, smoke only part of it, but Aryl could see well enough to know Janex was the weight she’d struggled against. The slick black of its body and claws were scraped, fasteners broken off, but none of that looked serious. Yet its eyes drooped, motionless and dull.
She eased to a shaky stand—the roof, and most of the aircar itself, was missing—and found the reason. A huge shard of metal was wedged into the side of the Carasian’s head, cracks from that terrible wound leaking soft yellow flesh.