“She saved my life,” Aryl offered.
“Special,” he repeated, seeming unsurprised.
They were both quiet. Abruptly, the Human yawned, another disquieting similarity. “Sleep now?”
“I—” About to agree, Aryl closed her mouth and stood, motioning him to stay still.
Something had just changed.
The Om’ray she’d sensed earlier had moved. No, not moved, she realized as she reached to better locate him. He was in motion toward her, but too quickly and . . . from above?
With sudden comprehension, if not understanding, she scanned the darkening sky for an aircar. “We’ll sleep later,” she told Marcus.
Then she smiled. “I think help’s found us.”
His name was Enris Mendolar, of Tuana. He was filthy, wore bloodstained rags, and rebuffed her one attempt to speak mind to mind. She couldn’t tell the color of his thick hair through the dirt. Stretched out on the opposite seat of the aircar, having fulfilled his task of bringing rescue to hover right in front of the Watcher’s mouth—much to Marcus’ joy—he was now snoring. Loudly.
Aryl couldn’t claim to be any cleaner, wearing her version of the strangers’ clothing—liberally stained with whatever had oozed from the Carasian’s head—and was too tired to care. Enris was Om’ray, real and solid, and by his existence pushed the strangers aside. Not much older, she decided, studying the face beneath the dirt. A heavier build than any Yena, with big hands and wide shoulders that probably moved things better than they climbed. He looked to have gone hungry and without sleep. Bruises and scabs showed through rents in his clothing.
He was Kiric’s brother.
She knew, having tasted his identity. To Aryl, there was a resonance between close kin, a similar flavor to their presence. She wondered vaguely if Enris knew what had happened to Kiric, or if she was supposed to tell him.
Not that she should speak to a stranger, without Chosen Yena present.
Aryl giggled.
His eyes opened at the sound. They were dark brown, wide-set, and presently more than a little dazed. “Wha—”
“Sorry. I was thinking of my grandmother’s caution—about talking to strangers.”
His lips quirked in a smile. It reopened a small cut and he caught the drop of blood with a finger, then wiped it on his pants. “Took her good advice to heart, I see?” This with a deliberate flash of distrust past his otherwise tight shields.
Aryl bristled. “You’re flying with Humans, too.”
He didn’t apologize, but looked more awake. “ ‘Humans?’ Is that what they call themselves?”
“The ones who look like us, but aren’t? Yes. There are others.” She sagged a little. “Too many others.”
“Why are they here?” he demanded. Before she could open her mouth to answer, he went on, each question sharper, louder. “What do they want? Where do they come from? Wh—”
“Aryl?” Marcus looked up from his slouch in the rearmost seat. She’d thought him asleep, too. He nodded his head at Enris, his expression unreadable. “Loud, him.”
“Human,” Enris said, the word an accusation. The two locked stares for a moment, then the Om’ray sank back in his seat, throwing his arm over his face.
Marcus glanced at her. “There soon.” As if she’d find that reassuring.
As if words from a Human, an Om’ray-who-wasn’t stranger, could matter more to her than the perfectly reasonable passion of her own kind.
Confused, Aryl closed her eyes on them both.
Their flight was over so quickly, Aryl wondered if she and Marcus could have walked to this camp of the strangers after all. Though she might have dozed for part.
Enris had that grumpy look she remembered from Costa in the mornings. He’d managed only enough sleep to be truly exhausted, she decided. Hopefully, he’d be easier to talk to once rested.
The other strangers took Marcus away, exclaiming in their not-real words. The Humans patted his back and arms with their hands, as if needing to touch him. The others—a blur of feather, scale, and odd shapes—added their voices to the din. She and Enris might have been forgotten, but one Human stayed by the aircar to take them in charge. Aryl recognized her. The not-Chosen, not-Om’ray female with dead hair.
Luckily, Enris was too tired to pay attention. Or else he was unlike other eligible unChosen of Aryl’s experience, who would, she was sure, have been struck dumb by such a living contradiction.
“Wash. Rest,” this Human said to them with a smile. “Come.”
Truenight, already upon the rest of the mountain, was held at bay here. Aryl was relieved by the sensible lighting as they followed the Human from the aircar. Stalks with too-bright glows at their tips marked the edge of the long, sharp ledge they used for their machines. She’d taken a quick assessing look over the side. Climbable, just. Which meant dangerous after dark.
Their goal was a second, higher ledge, up a short cliff that presented no challenge, especially where it sloped at one end. Aryl tried to notice such details, remember them, though the contrast between intense light and black shadow made it difficult. More glow stalks marched up a wide ramp carved into the rock; so did they.
Enris limped, favoring his right leg and side. Aryl factored that into her—it wasn’t a plan, she admitted, more the preparation for one. If the chance came to escape the strangers, she wouldn’t leave him here; his limp meant certain paths open to her were out of the question. That was all.
Maybe he’d heal overnight.
Look.
Aryl raised her eyes from the junction of ramp to upper ledge, seeking what Enris wanted her to see.
The mountain had been eaten away here, its outer flesh of stone stripped to reveal giant bones. Aryl gasped. Familiar bones. She’d seen the same massive shapes, the same building designs through the eyes of the machine. But those lay under the deep waters of the Lake of Fire. These were exposed to the air.
And accessible.
Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t care what technology the strangers had, it must take time to dig so much stone. She remembered the urgent excitement of the visitor strangers—was it only yesterday?—enough to draw Marcus and his companions from their own place. There had to be something else, something new.
A change.
“Come, please.” This from their guide. Aryl gestured apology for stopping to stare, not that the Human would understand it, and started walking again. Their goal was a cluster of three buildings, each a copy of the one on the lake platform. Marcus and his group were ahead, entering the centermost. How had the strangers brought all this? she wondered.
The curves and angles erupting from the cliff loomed overhead as they approached. Darkness enclosed them from the other side, erasing the world they knew. The strangers had claimed this much of Cersi for their own, Aryl decided, and shivered.
Their guide walked faster, as if eager to rejoin her companions. “You’ve seen this before,” Enris said, his voice quiet and quick.
“Not this.” Aryl kept her voice low, too, though she would have preferred the security of mindspeech. “The strangers have another place, on the Lake of Fire. It floats above ruins like these.”
“Ruins?” They passed through a bar of shadow, masking his face, but Aryl heard his surprise. “These were buried in the mountain, but they aren’t ruins. Do you see any marks of age, any damage?”
She looked to the side, tilting her head to better see up the cliff. He was right. The structures being freed were perfect, without crack or weathering. “How can that be? They are old,” she whispered. “Marcus—the Human—said so. And the Tikitik talk of a ‘Before.’ Who made these? Oud?”
Enris shook his head. “I know more of the Oud than I care to—this isn’t their work.” He staggered, catching himself with a heavy hand on her shoulder.