“Safe,” Marcus answered, as if too exhausted to do more than repeat the word. “Both are.”
He’d fallen in, too? Then how—
The support behind her back shifted. “Goodgoodgoodgood. Both safe.”
Aryl found herself beside the Human before realizing she’d moved, staring up at the Oud.
It wasn’t wet, was her first coherent thought. Of course it wasn’t, her next. It didn’t like water. If this was the same Oud. “How?” she blurted.
“Filtrationsystem,” Marcus babbled. “Auto.”
“Make sense!”
The Oud remained reared, but silent. The Human sighed. “Metal screen below. Catch what fall in. Keep out big objects. Understand? Catch us. Rise. Dump us here.”
Too much sense. Aryl pressed against him, suddenly finding the Human less frightening. The Oud had diverted the river from Sona. Put their machines in it. Had they destroyed this place to take its water? Why?
The Oud’s limbs waved in unison. “Alive now? Goodgoodgood.”
Incomprehensible creature. “Of course I’m alive,” she began.
“You no breathe,” Marcus whispered urgently in her ear. “Stupid Oud. Thought you dead. I stop it take you underground. Make it let me fix.”
Fix? Aryl turned to look at him. “I wasn’t breathing?” she asked uncertainly.
His lips trembled, blue with cold, but his eyes were fierce. “Aryl fine now. Stupid Oud not know humanoid physio—”
“Alive! Goodgoodgood!” the Oud interrupted. Its limbs moved with dazzling speed, conveying a small dark object from under its body. “Take take. Hurry!”
Afraid to disobey, Aryl rose to her feet. Marcus came with her, his arm firm around her shoulders. She wasn’t sure which of them supported the other, but she was grateful.
“Take!”
She held out both hands, and it dropped the object, a dusty cloth pouch, into them.
“Open!”
Hard to glare at something without a face, but she did her best. “Tell me what’s inside first.”
“Us!”
Which made no sense, other than suggest this was yesterday’s Oud.
“Curious,” Marcus whispered.
Aryl knew her body, knew it close to failing, knew she couldn’t—not for her people’s sake. Transferring the pouch to one hand, she slipped the fingers of the other between the Human’s and pressed their palms together, taking comfort and warmth when she dared take nothing more. Not so close to the Oud. But even through her shields, she could taste Marcus’ emotions. Determination. Courage. Loyalty. A healthy dose of fear.
She wasn’t alone.
Aryl smiled her mother’s smile at the Oud. “I’ll open it if you promise to give water back to Sona’s river.”
The limbs stopped their constant fidgeting. “Open first.”
Fair enough. She freed her hand—Marcus resisting for an instant—and flipped open the pouch. And stared.
“Us,” the Oud insisted.
“What is?” Marcus whispered.
Aryl eased the Speaker’s Pendant from the fabric. It looked the same as the one Taisal wore; it should, they were all the same, whether Om’ray, Oud, or Tikitik. Dirt-encrusted. Buried among bones, perhaps, until Sona echoed with Om’ray voices once more and the Oud—by the Agreement—required a Speaker.
If she put this around her neck, would that make Sona a Clan again?
If she didn’t, the Oud would be within their rights to ignore their very existence. They could reshape this valley at whim. And probably would. Her people could never outrun the destruction.
Aryl put it over her head. The metal links were cold on her neck and the pendant left streaks of brown dirt on her sodden stranger-coat. She stood as tall as she could without shaking. “Send your Speaker to Sona,” she told the Oud. “We have much to discuss.”
“Yesyesyesyes.” With each exuberant word, it backed itself into the ground, spraying them both with dirt and pebbles. “GoodGoodGoodGood! Soon.”
Then it was gone.
“Marcus,” she said—or thought she said. Everything was growing dim. “Marcus?”
“Here.” A shoulder pushed under her arm. “Here. Need rest, Aryl. Come.”
He wasn’t wrong. Left to herself, she would have gladly curled into a ball on the stony ground and slept right there, but he insisted on moving.
Aryl did her best to stay upright and move her feet. He staggered when she did, making her chuckle. “Silly Human.”
“Aryl fell first.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” she pleaded, her cheeks warm. Then, with dreadful suspicion. “Don’t take me to other Om’ray. Don’t talk to them. Promise me, Marcus. Please.”
“Too far,” he said grimly. Practical, if not a promise. “My camp. Secret.”
Secret. She didn’t want any more secrets. About anything.
But as she stumbled between nekis that were too short, too thin, thrifty with bud, the M’hir swooped close. All she had to do was close her eyes to see what had been here before…
Blankets on the stone…cushions scattered overtop like leaves…children nestled like bright summer flowers…they used fine-tipped brushes to write their names on polished flats of wood…to write words that made each other laugh…to write whatever they wanted…
Words…or were they only lines and curves and dots on wood…
Aryl pushed herself out of the dream, letting herself sag into arms that didn’t let her fall.
Interlude
ENRIS GROANED AND BROUGHT HIS arm up to shield his eyes. He squinted. How did the sun get up there so fast? It should be truenight. There should be…rocks? He sat so quickly his head spun. “I’m not dead!” he proclaimed.
“Were you expecting to be?”
Enris twisted to face the voice, one hand supporting himself on the pebbles. Ditch. He remembered. He’d fallen into one of Sona’s ditches.
And he was facing the last being he’d expect to find here.
The Tikitik squatted comfortably, its knees above its head—which was easy, since its head hung below its shoulders on a long curved neck. All four of the creature’s eyes were on him, the tiny front pair on their movable cones, as well as the large pair near the back of what passed for its face. The wormlike protuberances where its mouth should be writhed slowly. Cloth marked with symbols circled both wrists and ankles.
Gray wrists and ankles, the color of the pebbles. Its skin of overlapping bony plates was gray, too. Only the short spines running up the outside of each arm and the eyes were the black he remembered. A different kind of Tikitik? He’d never heard of such a thing. Enris found a more dignified position. “Being dead was a reasonable outcome of last ’night,” he observed.
“Because of them?” A long, too-thin arm gestured toward Vyna.
Enris looked, then stared.
There had to be thirty rocks of various sizes, piled on one another, all too close. He scooted backward quickly, bumping into his pack.
“They cannot come nearer, Om’ray.” The Tikitik barked its laugh. “I thought you knew you slept in a safe place.”
“Safe…how is this safe?”
“The Sona built well.”
Sona? The only thing “built” here was the remains of this ditch. Could that be what it meant? The rock hunters had indeed stopped before touching the bed of same-sized pebbles. If so, he’d avoided being crushed and consumed by a couple of steps, no more.
And a fall. Enris took stock, the Tikitik seeming content to sit and watch. His head hurt. He dragged fingers over his forehead and found a lump, but no wound. One elbow twanged painfully, but it moved freely. Nothing broken.
He’d had the kind of good fortune that came once in a lifetime, if he didn’t count present company. What was the Tikitik doing here—and why with him? They couldn’t be trusted; to his inner sense, it wasn’t there at all. He’d learned to ignore that particular discomfort.