The ground became more pebble than dirt, those pebbles familiar despite the best efforts of the Oud to overturn them all. Belatedly, she realized she was walking across another of the ditches, but this was much wider and curved. Shallow, she thought, though that was difficult to gauge after the creature had plowed its way back and forth and, from the disturbance, in circles.
If she imagined the space full of water…for an instant, Aryl could see what had been here before…
The Cloisters rose like a blossom before a still pool, its lights reflected on itself so that it glistened in welcoming splendor against the dark stone of the cliff. Sweeping groves of nekis and other plants, fragrant and full, rose behind and to the side. Paired paths of stone, white and clean, curled around the water and soared over arched bridges to link the building to the road from Sona. The road was filled with laughing figures, some carrying baskets, others bearing oillights high on poles. More Om’ray than Tuana or even Amna could claim. So many, there was a second settlement behind her, across this made-lake, where the elderly could take their ease close to care, and those waiting to give birth could be watched.
The waterfall had its own lake, wide and churned to perilous froth, spilling and tumbling and babbling where it overflowed down the valley, contained by the river channel, celebrated by Sona. There should be a festival to mark the end of ice and cold, that day when fields and gardens received their first gift of flood and seeds began to grow…
Aryl came back to herself with a jerk of dismay. She’d moved forward; she didn’t remember the steps. The M’hir! It was smotheringly close, pulling at her, demanding her attention. She refused and shoved it aside, an easier effort this time.
Her slip into it had been easier, too. Was her skill growing, or was it consuming her?
What mattered was here and now, she scolded herself. Firstnight was coming. Water and wood weren’t problems, but she’d left her supplies—oh, so cleverly—on the other side of the last outcrop and her coat somewhere in the grove, for what good its soaked mass would be. The Oud had said, “Wait.” She had to believe it had meant to stay here as long as she could.
And she was being watched.
Ambush hunters were common in the canopy. As Aryl continued toward the Cloisters, she kept her distance from likely cover, watched for any trace. The flutter of web or hair on a branch. The remnants of digested bone or skin.
Nothing.
The hairs on her neck rose as she walked over the buried lower rail and platform of the Cloisters. The digging of the Oud had left a wide ramp of dirt and stone over the upper rail on this side. Elsewhere, that rail curved upward, too smooth to climb. Aryl took the ramp and found more dirt and stone. The Oud had filled in the upper platform as well, for what reason she couldn’t guess.
The windows arched ahead of her were too dust-smeared to offer a reflection. Wrong, wrong, wrong. They should be clean. There should be life.
Despite her dread, Aryl lifted her hand eagerly as she approached and laid it on the window, expecting…what? Cool, hard, solid. Nothing more. She tried rubbing dirt away with her palm. There was light within, too faint to reveal more than hints of a wall and floor inside.
She went to the door next to the window. Familiar—the same multicolored metal, same shape. It would turn, thus. This could be Yena, if she weren’t standing on Oud leavings. She knocked on the door, hearing only the dull thud of her fist. How did it open? Adepts had the secret. It was something an Om’ray could do. Frustrated, Aryl studied the door and its frame, looking for any clues.
What she found were scuffs in the newly disturbed ground at its base.
Leading away.
She followed, pretending to examine each window arch and doorway. The ground—the Oud’s pile—descended until her feet touched the metal floor of the upper platform.
Darker here. The platform rail normally admitted light, but the Oud had thrown dirt against its outer surface. Stupid creature. The dimness made it possible to see more through the windows. She gazed with longing at pale walls and floors, the unique lighting that ran at the junction of wall and ceiling. There were no furnishings, no objects in sight. An unreachable, vacant perfection.
She would open its doors, Aryl vowed to herself. It wasn’t merely a symbol of a Clan’s existence—the Cloisters promised shelter and safety for her people even from the Oud.
After she learned who or what was trying to get there first.
The platform was coated in fine dust, another result of the Oud’s diligence; the waterfall’s spray didn’t reach this far to mottle it. Lines of paired steps made a beaten path. Aryl grinned without humor. She didn’t need Haxel’s training to read these tracks. Multiple trips, the most recent crossing the rest.
Aryl bent to take a closer look. No beast or Oud. She’d seen a Tikitik’s long-toed foot. These tracks had been made by a boot—an Om’ray boot.
She lowered her shields and reached at once, finding the exiles and the distant solitary glow that was Enris, no Om’ray closer.
These were fresh tracks.
Aryl frowned. Only one kind of being on Cersi had a foot like an Om’ray, while being as not-real and invisible to her inner sense as an Oud or Tikitik.
He wouldn’t, she told herself, shaken. Marcus Bowman had promised to stay away—to keep his people away. Besides, with the stranger-technology at his disposal—aircars, flying eyes, distance viewers, who could guess what else?—why wander around in Om’ray boots?
Alone, too. Each pair of tracks was identical.
The most recent led to an arrangement of wood pieces, arranged as a stair against the rail. Since the rail was only waist-high, Aryl didn’t see the point. She jumped lightly to the rail top, crouching as she landed to present a smaller target. Beyond was the start of the nekis grove.
Through which had been cut a nice, neat path, straight as a beam.
She almost laughed. Had the wanderer wanted to be conspicuous?
No taking that path. Not because it was a blatantly obvious site for a trap—she trusted her own ability—but the Oud hadn’t returned. Might never, she realized, but she couldn’t go out of sight of this open area until sure.
There was, however, another kind of ambush. Aryl stood on the rail, making a show of fighting for her balance. She took one step along it, then missed the next and fell through the air.
“Ooof!” she let out as she landed on her back, body twisted in a position she hoped looked painful, though it wasn’t.
Her eyes had to be closed for this to work. Easy enough. She’d picked a spot free of sharp pebbles. Remarkably comfortable. Not that she planned to sleep, but it had been a long day. And truenight. And day before that.
She chewed her tongue for distraction.
The waterfall’s deep vibration traveled through her bones. Its damp breeze stole warmth from her coatless body and left an acrid taste on her tongue and lips. Aryl didn’t move, barely breathed. She’d always won Fall/Dead. Her playmates would leave in search of dresel cakes long before she tired of the game.
The sensation of being watched never left her. She sought to grasp how or what she felt.
Elusive. A scent more than a taste. Her inner sense responded, but it was like trying to catch a flitter with a dresel hook. The effort was too quick, too slow…or was it too violent? That was it. Whatever she touched disappeared if she reached for it. If she let her inner self still, be less attentive, the sensation returned.
Snap! A branch. Crunchcrunch. Boots on pebbles. Bad as the Tuana. The footsteps grew hesitant. She didn’t move.
They stopped short.