The eyes looked him over from head to toe and back. They weren’t impressed.
He drew himself straight. “I am Enris Mendolar, of—” could he claim a Clan? “Tuana,” he said firmly, daring his Oud to correct him. “Who are you?”
“Enris,” with renewed, if calculating interest in the eyes. “Tyler Henshaw. Triad First. Help us, you?”
“To do what?”
He wasn’t answered. Tyler-stranger looked to where the stranger flying machine had landed, needing no flat strip at all, its roof folding back inside itself. This display of superior technology wasn’t reassuring. Enris wondered what the Oud thought of it.
Along with many things—starting with how the Oud knew these beings and ending with why he was here at all.
He watched as others stepped from the machine, their clothing similar to that of the Tyler-stranger. Those wearing clothing, Enris noted. Two were of the Om’ray-but-not type. The third was feathered instead of dressed, and looked like a flitter who’d learned to walk on two legs and carry tools. They spoke as they approached, as if what they had to say was too important to wait.
What they had to say was gibberish. As well try to understand the conversation of iglies, Enris thought, dismayed.
“These words?” Low and quiet, for his ears only. He’d forgotten about the Oud. “Same hold-voice?”
He listened more intently. Were these the words he’d somehow “heard” from the device? Difficult. The strangers were agitated, their words quick and urgent sounding; they swarmed around Tyler-stranger, faces anxious—the ones Enris could read—and he answered in kind.
“Not the same,” Enris judged aloud, though how could this be? There was this world and its words. He could accept, with an effort, that the tapping of the Oud conveyed something between them. And that strangers might sound like Oud.
But unknown words?
He couldn’t deny what he was hearing.
Was the world not what the Om’ray knew?
Tyler-stranger broke away from the others. “What do?” he shouted.
Enris winced. Never a good idea around Oud.
Sure enough, his Oud reared violently, banging against its flying machine. The others, still inside, began tapping furiously.
Enris held up his hands. “Don’t shout at it,” he warned, keeping his voice as gentle as he could.
Tyler-stranger, who’d stopped dead in his tracks when the Oud reacted, nodded. “Sorry, am,” he said, more calmly. In all likelihood, Enris thought, the stranger was more used to the Oud than he, needing only the reminder. “Help, Enris. Find other you.”
The wording was awkward; some of the meaning clear. They wanted him to find another Om’ray. The Oud must have told the strangers he could. What wasn’t clear? “Why?” he demanded.
“Truenight,” said his Oud, folding down to a more relaxed height. Its black limbs fluttered.
“Aircar down,” added Tyler-stranger, pointing along the mountain. “Comlink, broken.”
“Aircar” must be their flying machine. Enris didn’t know what a “comlink” might be, though a likely guess was a voice device like the Oud’s. As for why an Om’ray would be in one of the strangers’ aircars? He shook his head in grim amusement. Who’d just flown with Oud?
What was truenight like here? Cold, damp? Was it dangerous? He didn’t know. Would he do worse if he located this Om’ray for them, or if he left him alone?
The Om’ray-not strangers were frowning at him. The flitter-stranger had hard mouthparts it could snap together, and did. Likely, Enris thought, expressing the same feeling. They were worried and impatient for his help.
The same question.
Why?
Chapter 25
A SLEEP, THE HUMAN RESEMBLED an untidy pile of laundry. A foot protruded, like a discarded boot. Otherwise, the only difference was that this pile snored. The chance to relax against the curled inner wall of the Watcher had been all the encouragement necessary. Marcus had burrowed into his own clothes like a brofer into its nest, succumbing to exhaustion in moments.
Aryl closed her eyes, but not to sleep. She reached, this time refusing to be denied. MOTHER!
Taisal was there, their link solid. Here.
Yena’s in danger! Aryl sent. Tikitik attacked the strangers—the strangers fought back and killed them. Images flashed from her mind to her mother’s: the vine trap, the appalling skill of the Tikitik in the canopy, flames and death.
The darkness turned deadly cold. What have you done?
Not: are you safe, Daughter?
Aryl didn’t care, worried more about holding their connection despite Taisal’s fury. Her mother—the Speaker—had to accept her warning. You must protect Yena.
Against what? Your companion? This stranger?
My—? Taisal had seen more than the past in her mind. Aryl tightened her shields. He isn’t the threat.
He? Taisal’s outrage was a storm, crashing through the other, stirring it into a maelstrom. It is not he. It is not real. Kill it! Kill it now!
Aryl found herself on her feet, knowing she was about to snap Marcus’ neck. It would be easy . . .
NO! She staggered back.
Easy . . . save Yena . . . SMOTHER IT!
NO! She pressed her back against the Watcher’s wall, stared down at the helpless figure. NO!
Push it out . . . make it FALL!
NO! Aryl didn’t know where she found the strength to resist her mother’s will. All she knew was that her mother tried to force her body to obey and she would not allow it.
The instant that pressure eased, Aryl threw more memories like weapons at her mother: the words of Thought Traveler . . . the Tikitiks’ pursuit . . . the chamber and the swarms . . .
The link between them suddenly faltered, as if Taisal tried to flee; quickly Aryl reinforced it, gripping her mother’s mind with hers. If the Tikitik come to Yena, don’t trust them, she pleaded. Don’t believe them. You are the Speaker, Mother. You must protect us.
The other churned and seethed, their link a slender bridge over utter madness. Taisal’s mindvoice came as a whisper.
What have you done?
Then silence.
“More?”
The Human grimaced. “No, please.” He handed back the pouch of dried dresel. “Awful, is.”
More for her, then. Aryl took a careful pinch to put on her tongue, then sealed the pouch and tucked it inside her stranger-shirt with her knot of blanket. She’d lost the piece of metal and her fich. There’d been supplies in the Watchers’ inner sanctum—flasks of water, dresel, dried fruit and meat, rope—but no fresh clothing. “Yours is awful,” she countered. When she’d wakened him to share her meal—when she’d finally calmed enough to want to eat—Marcus had offered a handful of what he called emergencyrations. Wood tasted better.
He laughed. They had that in common, though Aryl remained disconcerted by the familiar sound coming from such emptiness.
They were in the middle Watcher. There were doors underneath each, an important access since wastryls liked to nest in the mouths. Aryl had pushed a pile of twigs out and over the cliff. The smooth interior of each Watcher had to be cleaned before the M’hir.
They should put gauze over the opening, she told herself restlessly. It kept out biters—it might discourage something larger. A suggestion she’d bring to Council.